This fan fiction is based on the Rurouni Kenshin manga. Rurouni Kenshin characters are the property of creator Nobohiro Watsuke, Shueisha, Shonen Jump, Sony Entertainment, and VIZ Comics. This is a non-profit work for entertainment purposes only. Permission was not obtained from the above parties.
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Against a Sea of Troubles: Chapter 6 - The Test


by Haku Baikou ::: 02.Feb.2004


The sun shone relentlessly, baking the workers in the field with wave upon wave of unbearably arid heat.  Shinta-chan’s back felt so hot from the sun, it itched.  And his eyes hurt from the glare of golden light so bright it made his eyelids red when he shut his eyes.  

He wanted to stop what he was doing and sit down.  He wanted to go wading in the small stream behind his uncle’s house and perhaps try to catch some frogs.  But now was not the time for play, his cousin had told him.  Now was the time for work.  And as his cousin had said, Shinta-chan was no baby.  He was a big boy and had to do his share of the work if the family was going to harvest enough to make a profit at market.  Still, Shinta-chan couldn’t help but feel a little resentful that his cousin was sitting in the shade of a tree resting while Shinta had worked all morning and missed lunch.  

Shinta immediately felt badly for his moment of bitterness.  His cousin couldn’t help it, of course.  His cousin had explained patiently that he’d hurt his leg years ago, and that working in the fields was not good for his health.  So naturally, Shinta-chan would have to do his cousin’s share of chores in order to make up for the lost labor.  It made sense.  But still, though he would not admit it to his cousin or complain, the work was hard.  And Shinta-chan was bone-tired.

He was grateful to his uncle for taking him in, grateful that his cousin was generous enough to share his room.  And he was proud that he could help, was proud that he was now doing work that his own brothers had never assigned to him due to his young age and small stature.  

But the daily chores were admittedly brutal, and he worried that he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the others.  He grew more and more tired each day he was here, and the muscles in his arms and legs were constantly sore.  He’d only been working for three days, and he already could barely stand it.  He was afraid of failure eventually, and he wasn’t sure what his uncle would do in that event.

It wasn’t just the physical labor that bothered him.  Life on his uncle’s farm was so very different from home.  He missed his brothers’ easy bantering.  He and his brothers had worked hard in the fields, but they’d managed to always maintain a good-natured cheer despite the work.  Otou-san frequently praised Shinta-chan for his efforts.  Okaa-san always brought cold spring water out to them on hot days such as this.  Eldest Brother used to let Shinta take short breaks and run around to stretch out his muscles whenever he got too sore.  And Second Brother came up with jokes and fun stories to while away the time while they worked.    

But Otou-san and Second Brother were gone, Shinta remembered with a slight shiver.  When Shinta returned home, there would no longer be any jokes or stories in the fields ever again.  There would no longer be praise for a job well done.  He would be glad to see Okaa-san and Eldest Brother, of course.  But Home would be forever incomplete.  

It made Shinta-chan unbearably sad, and his child’s mind shied away from the thought, unable to handle the enormity of the loss without support from someone he trusted.  But he had no one to trust here on Uncle’s farm, despite everyone’s generosity in letting him stay.  So he filed the hurt away, put it out of his mind like he would a toy into his toy box.  He would deal with it later when Okaa-san returned.  Okaa-san would make the hurt go away.

“Oi, Shinta-chan,” his cousin called.  “You all right?  The crops aren’t going to plant themselves.”

Shinta winced, abashed by the realization that he’d stopped moving when his thoughts strayed to his loved ones.  He was about to resume his work in earnest when he saw a cart pulling slowly up to Uncle’s house in the distance.

He shaded his eyes with his palm and squinted, trying to see who the visitor was.  Hoping that it was Okaa-san or Eldest Brother, come to finally take him home.  Three days were, after all, a seemingly very long time for a boy of his age.  

But as he slowly made out the distant figure’s features, Shinta bit his lip and felt silent dread growing in his belly.  

It was Jiro-san.  

Alone.

Shinta looked at Jiro-san’s cart.  There was nobody else sitting in the side seat and nobody in the back of the cart.  No sign of either Okaa-san or Eldest Brother.  

Which, of course, could mean many things, he thought.  It wasn’t necessarily bad, he tried to reassure himself.  But all the same, he suddenly felt very frightened, and his hands began to shake.

“Shinta-chan, I thought I told you—Eh, who’s that?” his cousin Masao asked as he realized someone had arrived at the house.  Masao got up from his spot in the shade and began to walk toward the house.  Shinta followed hesitantly behind.  He watched wordlessly as Uncle came out onto the engawa to greet Jiro-san.  Saw Jiro-san shift uncomfortably and lower his head as he spoke.  

And the feeling of dread grew.

As they neared the engawa, Cousin Masao finally realized that Shinta had followed behind.  “Shinta, go back to—“

“Iya, let him stay,” his Uncle growled in a low voice, noticing the two approaching boys.  “Go do your own work for a change, Masao.”

His cousin’s mouth fell open, and Shinta knew the older boy was about to protest.

“Now!” Uncle barked in a harsh tone that brooked no argument.

His cousin blinked.  Then turned on his heel and sullenly headed back to the fields, throwing Shinta-chan a dirty little glance before leaving.

Uncle stared at Shinta-chan a moment, a deep frown furrowing his brow.  His eyes were as hard as ever, but his demeanor wasn’t quite as stern as it usually was.  “Go with Jiro-san, boy.  He has something to tell you,” he commanded as he turned and went back inside the house, leaving Shinta-chan alone with the old man.

Shinta looked up at his old neighbor.  Jiro-san’s normally sour expression was replaced by one of odd tenderness.  Which scared Shinta-chan more than anything.  He had never seen Jiro-san look so kind.  The effect was unnerving.  

“Jiro-san,” Shinta greeted the old man politely.  “Did Okaa-san send you to fetch me?”

He knew it was rude to ask an elder such a direct question, but the waiting was really getting to be too much for him to bear, and he wanted to go home.

“Shinta-chan…” Jiro-san swallowed, and with a creak of old bones, knelt down in front of the boy.  Jiro-san ran his arthritic fingers gently through Shinta’s hair and cupped the young boy’s cheek lightly in hand.  He smiled sadly.  “You’ve always been a good child.”

Then the old man frowned, his eyes filled with grim resolve as he leaned forward and quietly told Shinta-chan the news that would change the young boy’s life forever.

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


It was raining.  

The room was suffused with a cold dampness that was fitting considering the dream he’d just had.  As with the others, lately, it was terribly vivid, seemingly real, and he was getting to the point where he couldn’t tell if they were dreams or waking visions dragged to the surface of half-sleep in the initial moments of awakening.

Either way, he was greatly relieved when he awoke.  He was glad to know that it would be an entire day before he had to sleep again.  These days, he dreaded sleep above all else, no matter how tired or worn out he was from the day’s events.  The dreams were nearly intolerable, worse than the typical battle nightmares he was more accustomed to.  The wartime nightmares he could fight.  These childhood memories, he could not.

He turned slowly onto his side, careful of his ribs and bandaged arm.  The shoji was partially open, the rain-hazed beach visible beyond the engawa.  He felt sleepy still, but he dared not shut his eyes for fear of the dream returning, resuming where he’d left off.  It was not a moment he cared to relive.  So he kept his eyes resolutely open, watching the approaching figure of his host as the old man neared the house.  

It was returning, his ability to awaken when sensing another presence nearby.  It was a good sign that he was healing, he thought.

“Himura,” Sato-san greeted him as he stepped inside and shook the rain off of his cloak.  “Sorry, I left the door open.  Didn’t realize it was going to rain.  You didn’t get wet, I hope?”

He shook his head.

Sato-san smiled warmly, unaffected by the dreary weather outside.  “Council finished early today.  I had a few things to write, but all fairly minor documents, thank the gods.”

The old scribe hung his cloak across two hooks in the wall, spreading it out so it would dry more quickly.  

“I don’t believe young Akira has mentioned anything of his suspicions about you.  Nobody mentioned Battousai at the meeting this morning, so that’s a good thing, yes?  So you needn’t leave just yet.”

It was odd, seeing Sato-san so cheerful.  He would have thought, with the past day’s events, that Sato-san would avoid him or treat him far more coldly than he was doing at present.  Yesterday, the old man had been so upset by Kenshin’s confession that he’d had to leave the house.  And now, now he behaved as if nothing was wrong.  Practically as if they were friends.  

The friendliness was almost enough to arouse suspicion, to make him think that the old man was being kind in order to lure him into some kind of trap.  It was a disturbing thought.

But more disturbing, was the gut feeling that Sato-san’s friendliness wasn’t hiding any kind of plot at all, that it was most likely guileless.  Genuine.  

Kenshin found it more than a little unsettling.  

“It’s a rather late for lunch, but I haven’t eaten yet, and I know you could use some food,” the old man was saying.  “I didn’t want to wake you too early.  Figured you needed the sleep, considering yesterday.  How do you feel?”

He pushed himself slowly up to a sitting position and was grateful that Sato-san resisted the compulsion to help.  He felt more alert with the brisk air against his skin and was glad of the cold despite the beginnings of a shivering fit.  

“Better,” he answered truthfully.  “Sato-san…. About yesterday—“

“Iya.”  Sato-san held up a hand, stopping him.  “You could have easily lied to me, but you didn’t.  I appreciated your honesty.”

“But—“

“I didn’t sleep a wink last night, you know,” said Sato-san in a tone of voice one would usually reserve for pleasant inanities like conversing about the weather.  “You gave me one of the worst nights I’ve ever had.  I couldn’t sleep for five minutes without having one damned disturbing dream or another.  Thoughts of my son…. ”

Sato-san broke off, and pretended to concentrate on finding a fresh packet of tea.  It was as if he was deliberately trying to hide his pain in order to spare Kenshin’s feelings.  Which was completely ridiculous.

Kenshin frowned, unable to understand why the old man seemed so intent on appearing merry when he’d had such a miserable night.  Sato-san should be yelling at him at the least.  He should be furious.  Should be trying to kill Kenshin.  That would have made sense.  

“But it was worth it, Himura-san,” continued Sato-san more seriously, his voice almost wistful.  “This morning, I feel…. I feel better than I have in a long time.  As if the clouds have lifted, and I’m left with…clarity.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.”  The scholar smiled ruefully.  “Well, no, that’s not entirely true.”

Sato-san threw a piece of wood into the dying hearth and filled a pot with water for boiling.  He seemed to be searching for a way to explain.  Kenshin, unnerved by this incomprehensible behavior, was content to remain silent to allow the older man time to think.

“I think knowing, at last, what happened to Masaki…was a good thing.  I’d wondered for years.  But now the truth has finally been revealed.  And, in a way, I’m thankful for that.  Do you understand?”  The man looked at him expectantly as he grabbed a lid with a piece of cloth and put it on the pot.

Kenshin shook his head.  “You should be angry.”

“Angry?” the old man’s eyebrows lifted.  “Oh, but I was, when I first heard of his death.  You have no idea how angry I was.  Wanted to kill everyone in the world.  But it’s gone now.  I’m not sure how, but it faded away and left only emptiness.  And a yearning to know what happened.”

Sato-san absently ran his hand through his iron-grey hair.

“It’s closure, what you gave me…. I think I needed that.  And I suppose it helps to know the face of my son’s killer,” said the old man slowly without apparent rancor.  He approached and sat down across from Kenshin.  “It helps to know that it’s a gentle face, a kind face—“

What?

“Sato-san, what are you talking about?”  He backed away unconsciously from the man.  Confused as hell as to what the scholar was talking about.  A gentle face?  A kind face?  Him?  

“I was awake all night, Himura,” Sato-san said softly.  The old man hesitated, as if unable to decide whether he should admit something or not.  And when he came to a decision:  “I heard you.  All night.”

Kenshin stared, eyes wide.

“I’d known you had nightmares, Himura.  God knows, you’ve woken me often enough in the last few nights because of them.  You didn’t know that, did you?  That you make quite a bit of noise for such a quiet person.”  A faint wry grin as Sato-san saw his eyes widen even more.  The grin faded as the man continued.  “But I didn’t realize your dreams lasted the whole night through.  I didn’t know how bad they really were.  Do you even remember half of them?”

“Some,” Kenshin admitted.  He didn’t mention that they were getting worse.

“Aah,” said the older man sympathetically.  

“Did I call out many times?”

“More than a few,” the old man admitted.

He swallowed uncomfortably.  “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Himura,” the old man began, strangely sad all of a sudden.  He hesitated as if he could think of nothing to say.  “You’re too hard on yourself, lad.”  It was obvious from his tone of voice, that Noriya-san wasn’t just talking about his apology for the dreams.  

Kenshin frowned, uncomfortable with the man’s kindness and the direction the conversation had taken.  When had the topic turned to himself?  He didn’t like being the subject of talk or attention.  It was something he was unaccustomed to.  Even with Shishou or Tomoe, conversations had rarely been about him.  But in the last few days, it seemed as if all Sato-san and Hideo-san spoke of was Kenshin.  He felt uncomfortably bared, both physically and figuratively.  

So much attention.  Hideo’s declining discomfort in his presence was worrisome enough.  Sato-san’s friendly affection toward him was downright alarming.  

Kenshin wanted nothing more than to hide away, to sink back into a shadowy corner unobserved as he had been through most of the Bakumatsu.  Most of his interactions with people had been fleeting, often violent.  Prolonged contact was something he avoided, for prolonged contact led to relationships.  And if there was one thing he’d learned since his childhood, it was that he didn’t want any more relationships.  Of any kind.  

They always led to pain.  And his heart couldn’t take any more.

The dreams of loved ones were worsening day by day.  He’d had enough sad memories to last a lifetime.  And he didn’t want to add any new ones.  Didn’t want the people he met to become hurt because of him, because of his reputation.  He had many enemies, some that he knew by name, others that he didn’t even know existed.  But they were all there, lurking in shadows and around corners wherever he went.  And Kenshin knew that they would not hesitate to tear through an innocent soul or two to get to him.  

He may not have had the physical strength to leave Sato-san’s house as of yet.  He was still too sick.  But he could at least reject the scholar’s attempts at friendliness.  

So he hardened his heart and willed his voice to coldness, determined to keep the old scribe at bay.  He knew how his eyes would gleam when he did so, how they’d reflect that coldness and send shivers down the old man’s spine.  Battousai was versatile in his methods of attack.  And those methods were not limited to the battlefield.  

“Too hard on myself?  You’re an idealistic fool, Sato-san,” he said softly, voice suffused with contempt.  “You know nothing about me.”

Sato-san blinked at his sudden change in demeanor, but the old man recovered from his surprise quickly.  He frowned slightly.  “That may be.  You’re not the first to call me a fool.  But I beg your pardon, Himura Battousai.  You, my boy, know nothing about me.”

Sato-san reached for him then, and he flinched involuntarily, battle-reflexes bringing his good arm up halfway to fend off a blow that never came.  

His movement startled the old scholar more than his harsh words had.  

“I just want to take a look,” Sato-san murmured, indicating Kenshin’s bandages.  “These need to be changed.”  

The gentle, sure movements of Sato-san’s deft hands matched the soothing tones of his voice as he unwrapped the taut lengths of cloth that bound Kenshin’s arm and chest.  The old man kept one hand firmly at the base of Kenshin’s elbow, supporting the weight of the bad arm as the bandages came free.  

Kenshin tried to resist the kindness, but it was difficult.  It had been a long time since he’d been in the presence of friendly company.  Since he’d left the war, he’d wandered from place to place, working for food and a place to stay, but forming no attachments.  He hadn’t known the feeling of a kind touch since… when was the last time?  He really ought to push Sato-san away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.  Not just yet.

“You heal very quickly, Battousai,” the old man said in approval.  “Anyone ever tell you that?”

Kenshin nodded stiffly, still wary of the contact.  He looked down at his side, oddly fascinated by the jagged, scabbed-over line of the new wound across his lower ribs.  The stitches itched, which he supposed, must be a good sign.  He saw no signs of infection.  No redness, although his entire side consisted of an interesting array of greens, violets, and golds from his shoulder down to his hip, the remnants of the large bruise across his chest that had begun to diffuse itself and slowly heal.  

His collarbone was the main point of discomfort now.  Movement of his arm still made him wince, and he thought he could feel his bones grating against each other each time he tried to move his shoulder.  

He disliked being injured.  Disliked the feeling of hampered movement almost more than he disliked the actual pain.  But considering how he’d felt a few days ago, he thought he was recovering fairly well based on his experiences with wounds in the past.  

Sato-san apparently shared that opinion.  

“I was going to wait a few more days to take out the stitches, but the wound looks good.  I think they can go today.”  Sato-san lightly poked a bit at the stitches here and there, then took a thin knife and began cutting them and pulling them out one by one.  He spoke slowly as he worked.  “And perhaps we can ease up on the bandages.  A sling for the arm, at least during the day, so it’s not quite so constricted.  We’ll bind it tightly only at night since I can’t be sure you won’t accidentally roll onto that side.  How does that sound?”

Kenshin tried to maintain the cold and aloof façade, but it was difficult doing so in light of such good news.  The constriction from the tightly bound cloth really had been maddening.  He couldn’t move.  Couldn’t breathe right with it.  

He briefly wondered if Sato-san was allowing this small bit of comfort to try to win him over:  a morsel of freedom as an overture to friendship.  

He frowned.  Slitted his eyes and remained silent in resistance.

“What, you don’t want it loosened?”  Sato-san smiled slightly.  “Don’t tell me it doesn’t bother you.”

Kenshin suspected the old man had figured out what he was trying to do.  And apparently, Sato-san was confident that he’d win the contest of wills eventually.  The old scholar was better at these mind games than Kenshin could ever be.  Had more experience in dealing with people.  Had the infinite, easy patience of an elder in the presence of a child.  

But Kenshin had an advantage.  Battousai could be ruthless when the need arose.

“I’ve done things you can’t imagine.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I’ve got quite an imagination, lad.”

Kenshin turned his full gaze on Sato-san, cold as he could manage.  And noted with some satisfaction, that the old man seemed nervous despite his efforts at kindness.  

“I killed my wife, Sato-san.”  Spoken flatly, with no hint of the guilt he carried deep in his heart.  It was the only ammunition remaining in his repertoire, and he used it, knowing full well he would hurt himself far more with such a declaration than he would the old scholar.  He pressed onward, his voice remarkably steady.  “Your son’s death was a joke in comparison.  An afterthought, like swatting away an annoying fly.”

He winced as the knife nicked him before Sato-san dropped it.  

Sato-san looked up from his work, his face pale.

Silence, except for the rain.

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


Fumiko clutched the basket of food to herself more tightly as she adjusted her grip on her umbrella.  She suppressed a shiver and shook a wet strand of hair from her eye in annoyance.  Under normal circumstances, she would not have made the trip to her father-in-law’s house in such weather.  But she had promised him she’d visit today, had promised him a chance with that demon he kept in his house.  

She shuddered.  She dreaded meeting Battousai again.  

She’d had nightmares of golden eyes last night.  Although she’d never been near a battlefield, she’d dreamed vividly of Masaki’s death, of Battousai cutting a path through their company.  Of silver blades flashing in the night, arcs of blood spraying against the starry sky.  And she’d watched helplessly as Battousai faced her husband, golden eyes unflinching as he ruthlessly, and efficiently beheaded the man she loved.

The monster had beheaded her husband.  Clinically, methodically, and doubtlessly without a shred of emotion, she thought.  That was how they’d found Masaki’s body.  No wounds at all otherwise.  Not a mark on him.  Just that his head was found yards away, eyes still open in surprise.

Fumiko willed herself not to cry.  It was years ago.  She’d stopped crying years ago, but Battousai’s presence brought it all back as if it happened yesterday.  And along with the pain of loss came the rage, the sense of unfairness and helplessness.  And the desire for vengeance.  

She blinked, forcing her thoughts to something else, something not quite so intense.  She was carefully making her way down the slippery cliff-side path, Noriya’s small house easily visible below.  She concentrated on her footing, focusing on the here and now rather than the horrific images that had haunted her last night.  

She took a deep breath, preparing herself.  She would go to her father-in-law’s house with a clear mind.  Noriya had asked her a favor for the first time since she’d ever known him.  And after all he’d done for her and Isamu, it was the least she could do to try and honor her word to him.  It was difficult though, to suppress the urge to kill Battousai.  Difficult to stop fantasizing about seeing him hang in the town square.  If it had been anyone else who’d asked her to put aside those feelings, she wouldn’t have done it.  Dear old Noriya, however, she couldn’t refuse.  

The house was only a few yards away now, the shoji slightly open.  She could see the warmth of firelight spilling from the doorway and windows, and she relished the thought of sitting at his comfortable hearth, of warming her numb fingers and sipping some tea.  

She set the wet umbrella down on the engawa.  

“Noriya-san,” she called softly before sliding the shoji open.  “Noriya-san, I’ve brought…”

She stopped as the two men inside turned to her in surprise.  Something was wrong.

“Noriya-san?” she asked apprehensively, setting down the basket and sliding the shoji shut.  

Noriya’s face was white as sheet.  But he seemed otherwise unharmed despite his distressed expression.  There was a bloodied knife on the floor, but Battousai was the one who was bleeding.  

Noriya-san swallowed and attempted a rather sickly smile in an attempt to regain his composure.  

“It’s all right, love,” he said, some of his color returning.  “Himura-san and I were just having an interesting little debate.”

“Is that so?”  She looked at her father-in-law, long and hard, not quite believing him despite his reassurances.  “What did he say to you, otou-san?  You look very upset.”

“I am upset,” he answered with a wry smile.  “I just cut a patient while trying to remove his stitches.  Very clumsy of me.  I must be getting old.”

So that’s how it was going to be.  Stubborn old man wasn’t going to tell her what was wrong.  Fumiko frowned.  She could very well guess though.  It didn’t take any brains to figure out that Battousai had probably said something terribly hurtful to the old man, and Noriya, kind-hearted soul that he was, was trying to hide that fact.  

“What did he say to you?” she repeated.

“Nothing, Fumiko-chan,” Noriya answered smoothly, back to his old self.  “He tried to convince me of something, but he didn’t succeed, I’m afraid.”  

Noriya gave Battousai an odd look.  The assassin’s gaze was unreadable as the old man spoke.

“You can’t fool me, Himura-san,” he said, his voice oddly gentle.  “That was a good try.  Almost had me there.  But you can’t convince me of something if your heart’s not in it.  I stand by what I said.  You’re too hard on yourself.”

Battousai looked away.

Noriya sniffed the air experimentally and smile as he eyed Fumiko’s food basket.  “What have we here?” he asked with evident pleasure.  “Fumiko-chan, you spoil me so.”

Fumiko shook her head and gave up.  

Noriya-san did whatever Noriya-san liked, and she’d learned long ago not to bother trying to figure out a situation if Noriya wasn’t in the mood to discuss it further.  So whatever had passed between the assassin and the old scholar would remain a mystery, at least for the time-being.  

She brought the basket to where the two men were sitting, smiling at her father-in-law and pointedly ignoring the assassin who occupied the space across from them.  

Noriya-san expressed his delight as she took out the meal she’d prepared.  She’d made more than enough for all three of them, but she continued to ignore the assassin as she placed his share in front of him.  She couldn’t deal with Battousai at the moment.  She’d lose her appetite if she did, so she kept her attention on her father-in-law, enjoying his company as he chatted contentedly on inconsequential things.

She was thankful for his distracting anecdotes and knew that he was keeping the conversation light for her sake.  Noriya was a brilliant man.  He never did anything without a reason.  And those who knew him best knew that even light, seemingly spur-of-the-moment actions on his part, were often done with a purpose in mind.  Right now, he was keeping her comfortable, knowing that Battousai’s presence disturbed her.  She knew it, and despite her knowledge of it, it still worked.  Fumiko found herself relaxing, the tension in her shoulders easing.  

She noted that Battousai had barely touched his food.  However much he’d disturbed Noriya-san this afternoon, Fumiko noted with some satisfaction that the assassin seemed equally upset himself.  Whatever was causing his discomfort, though, Fumiko had no intention of doing anything to help him.  She couldn’t understand what Noriya-san saw in the young man.

She trusted her father-in-law.  More so than her own parents.  Trusted Noriya and Hideo (whom she thought of as an uncle) to always keep her best interests at heart, to ensure her well-being.  But when it came to the old man’s own well-being, she wasn’t so sure of Noriya-san’s judgment.  He was too kind.  Too trusting of people.  And even though he’d told her that he strongly believed in Battousai’s latent good nature, she still couldn’t quite accept it.  She needed proof, needed to see for herself.  And so, after the meal was done, she decided it was time to voice her request.

“Noriya-san,” she murmured quietly for her father-in-law’s ears alone as she gathered up the dishes.  “I wish to speak with Battousai alone.  Do you think that’s safe?”

Noriya’s eyebrows lifted.  “Aren’t you full of surprises.  Here I thought you’d have nothing to do with him.  You’ve been avoiding him all evening.”

“I’ve been preparing for battle,” she said simply.

The old scholar blinked as understanding dawned on him.  “I hope he passes your test, Fumiko-chan.  Gods help him if he doesn’t,” he said softly.  “Yes, I think it’s safe.  You know that.”

With that, Noriya made a show of stretching and yawning.  He grabbed a thick blanket and a jar of sake and headed for the door.  The rain had stopped sometime during their meal, and if tonight was like any other, Hideo-san would be arriving soon for their daily routine of drinking sake on the pier.  

Fumiko suppressed a knowing smile.  She could almost hear old Hideo complaining about how cold the dock was.  And Noriya would respond with some mild comment on how beautiful the night was.  They’d been doing that for almost twenty years now, the two old men.  

“Come get me if Himura-san needs anything for pain, Fumiko-chan,” her father-in-law said.  He hesitated only a moment before he went outside.  

Fumiko thought it best not to tell him that she had no intention of doing so.

She finished cleaning the dishes and poured herself a cup of hot tea.  She was suddenly afraid, now that she was in the house alone with Battousai.  She knew he was still weak, could still barely walk on his own let alone harm her in any way, but just the idea of being in a room with the infamous hitokiri made her knees weak.  

She kept that fear carefully hidden as she sat down across from the assassin.  She refused to betray any weakness in front of this man.  

“If you’re hoping for an apology, you won’t get it,” she said matter-of-factly.  “If Noriya-san hadn’t come in, I most likely wouldn’t have stopped hitting you.  If I had a weapon in hand, I would have gladly used it.  If I could have killed you, I would have done so.  And enjoyed it.”

The assassin looked at her.  Silent, expressionless.  

“But I made a promise to my father-in-law.  I told him I’d give him three days before I decided whether or not to turn you in to the council.  Did he tell you that?  That he would allow me to have you arrested if you didn’t convince me in that time?”

From the small flicker of surprise in the golden eyes, Fumiko could tell that Noriya had not mentioned this to the hitokiri.  

“So.  He didn’t say anything to you,” she said.  “I’m not surprised.  I suppose he was trying to spare you from worrying.  A trip to the gallows… not a pleasant thing to contemplate, is it.”

“What do you want from me?” the assassin asked quietly.  Fumiko was almost disappointed to detect no hint of any challenge in his tone of voice.

“I want what you can’t give.  I want my husband back.”

The golden eyes lowered, stared fixedly at the ground.  The assassin gave no response.

His silence enraged her.

“Do you have any idea what you took from me?” she asked.  

“Isamu has no memory of his father.  He will never know him.  He’ll never know Masaki’s kind smile, nor his gentle touch, his warm voice.  His father will never show him how to fish, to write his name, to tie a hakama properly.  He’ll never greet his father as he comes home from a hard day’s work.  He’ll never climb onto his father’s lap to hear a bedtime story.  He’ll never have any of these things because of you.  You stole half my son’s childhood away.

“And you stole my future from me.  I have no lord.  I am the keeper of an empty house.  As a woman, I have no purpose in life other than to keep my home and serve my lord.  You’ve taken my purpose away.  You’ve taken him from me.  And you’ve taken any chance of a family with him from me.  We were trying for a daughter, Masaki and I, before he left for war.  We never had any more chances because of you.  No chance of a daughter now.  You’ve even taken that dream away from me.

“Do you even remember your victims?  Do you remember my husband’s face?  I hear you had a wife once.  You had a wife, and you killed her too, so they say.  Do you even know what it means to love?  Did you hurt at all when you killed her?  Or was she just like all the others?  What’s one more death in the face of so many?  

He remained silent, but his face had gone white, as pale as Noriya’s face had been hours before.  Fumiko didn’t know what to make of it exactly, but it was finally a reaction.  Finally, something other than the expressionless mask.  She pushed onward.  

“What, have you nothing to say?  Have you no shame at all?  No regrets?” she asked.  “Tell me something to ease my pain.  Tell me something that will bring meaning to my husband’s death.  Tell me there’s something in you worth saving like my father-in-law believes.  Tell me you’re not playing my father-in-law for a fool, that there’s actually some shred of decency within you like he’s so desperate to believe.  Tell me you have a heart, Battousai.”

The amber eyes looked up at her.  

She almost gasped at what she saw.

“I can’t,” whispered the assassin so softly, she barely heard him.  

She set down her tea, stood slowly and took the basket she’d brought.  

“Then you’re a lost cause,” she said calmly.  “And I’m wasting my time.”

She slid the shoji open and gathered her umbrella.  She turned and regarded the assassin one last time before she closed the door.  He hadn’t moved from his position.  He didn’t look up at her again.

Fumiko slid the shoji shut, her heart pounding and her hands trembling.  She leaned against one of the pillars of the engawa and closed her eyes, shaken.  

For one brief moment, Battousai’s mask had slipped.  

And Fumiko had seen into the assassin’s heart.

My schedule is insane this semester, and it’s not going to let up anytime soon. I usually don’t like to reveal much about myself on-line, but I really do feel obligated to explain why I took so long with this chapter. I’m currently a graduate student in film school. We’re shooting a short film this month, and it’s sucking up time like you wouldn’t believe. I spent 14 hours the other day getting permits and other forms signed and hunting for locations. And the rest of the time we’re shooting. All this is done on the weekends. I have classes on weekdays, often lasting until 10PM. I haven’t even had a chance to do my homework reading assignments for the last two weeks yet. So I hope you folks don’t mind too much if I slow down on this story and take more time between chapters. I’m really sorry, but this fic is lower on my priority list than my schoolwork (as it should be.) I love my classes and my film project, and I want to devote my full attention to it. My apologies for the delays. I will try my best to keep the wait to a minimum. Unlike my other unfinished fic, I have no problems with writer’s block for this one. The chapters come fairly easily. It’s just a matter of finding a sufficient chunk of time to write. Anyways, I’ll do my best. Thanks so much for your understanding.
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