READ THIS BEFORE YOU BEGIN THIS CHAPTER

Dear Readers,

I'm sorry that it has taken so long to complete a chapter of this story, but before you begin this chapter I'd like to ask you to begin the story again (that is if you have not already done so).

I visited Japan about 6 months ago (and it did include a stay in Kyoto and a Ryokan) and since then I have been doing extra research for this story and as a consequence adjusted some events to coincide better with the historical timeline. I have also had these pages beta'd and re beta'd to ensure that what you read is… well, better.

Secondly I'd like to thank everyone for their thoughtful reviews and most especially 'The Wandering Pen' whose patience and comments have made this story about 100 times better!

Also to my anonymous reviewer rndom_fan, a late reply but unfortunately, I will not be able oblige your request to see the story written from Kenshin's PoV. I have very deliberate reasons for doing this and I have outlined them at the end of this chapter for you and anyone else who is interested.

DISCLAIMER: All characters, places and situations in this piece of fiction would not be in existence without the genius of Watsuki Nobuhiro. There is no money being made of this piece of imagination

SPOILERS: Major spoilers for the 'Remembrance Arc' – Volume's 19-21.

SYNOPSIS: In the turbulence of the Bakumatsu, a young girl seeks to destroy Choshu's most dangerous assassin.

The Assassin

Chapter 3: Debt

"Take what you want and pay for it, says God"

Spanish Proverb

Genji 1 (1864), Spring

Kyoto

The web has been spun,
What is now can't be undone...

Tomoe placed her thinning fude brush directly on the ink stone. She was not normally in the practice of doing this, but she had lost her brush rest on her journey to Kyoto. Besides, there was not enough ink on the stone to clog the fude and render it sticky and unusable. After eight sunsets, her ink stick was now only just a quarter of an inch long.

Tomoe blew the ink dry, and lightly touched the page with her fingertips. She sighed, her neat script, once bold and striking, now closely resembled watermarks.

Soon, she thought, there won't be anything left to write with.

The only voice she had ever claimed as her own would be silenced. The wind outside the room whispered softly past the paper windows and her shoulders tensed. She had best return to the kitchen and prepare the food for cooking. She had been selected by the okami to serve the soldiers who were coming home later that night.

Tomoe reached into her obi and pulled out Kiyosato's gift and a small, delicate piece of rice paper and wrapped up what was left of her ink stick.

Perhaps it is not such a terrible thing not to be able to write all my thoughts she mused as she began to pack up.

If she did not write them down, then she did not have to examine them. At the very least, it gave her an excuse not to confront her growing uncertainties.

The assassin, Himura Battosai, had been a young boy, barely of age. She recalled their earlier encounter, before Katsura had told her that she was a prisoner of the ryokan. Himura had requested that she take her breakfast in his room.

'I want you to swear you'll forget what you saw and leave.'

How she wished she had listened. He may have even helped her escape.

Escape to what? Her mind supplied unhelpfully.

Tomoe stood up and dusted her grey-blue kimono. Its fabric was rougher than what she was used to and was beginning to wear around the edges of her sleeves. The okami had given it to her after Katsura had approved her to stay, another vestige of her entrapment. She sighed. If her confrontation with the Choshu leader was any indication, it would not do well for her to be lurking in corners. She was not trusted here.

Tomoe blew out the candle she was using to light her work. It would last at least two weeks, maybe a little bit longer, if she was prudent and wrote quickly.

The candle was the first thing she had purchased upon entering Kyoto. It had cost her the violet silk scarf her mother had sewn for her when she was five.

Tomoe tucked her diary and ink stick into her obi and took one last lingering look at Kiyosato's betrothal gift, the small golden leaves and the round jade embellishments that were atop the hair pin, shone in the meagre moonlight that spilled in the room. She closed her hand around it so that she could feel the edge of the golden leaves press hard into her hand.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the swell of guilt which threatened to consume her. She should have reached for him and begged him to stay; she should have cried.

With a sudden viciousness, born of self-loathing, she tightened her fist, letting the edges of gold cut deep into her flesh. A sharp pain lanced up her arm and she let out a strangled cry, her knees buckled and she fell forward, the heel of her other hand landing hard on the soft, thin, white candle on the floor. She moved to pick herself up but her body was trembling too violently. A short violent sob burst forth from her lips, and a cold realisation dawned upon her.

I am alone.

Across the street from the Kohagi-ya, the row of fruit merchants hurriedly finished packing their wares. The sun was setting, and soon the blood red dusk would give way to grim darkness. It was to be a full moon tonight, but the large clouds gathering in the sky allowed only rare glimpses of its pallid light to reach Kyoto.

The night belonged to the hitokiri and in these dark days not even the moon dared to bear witness.

Shakku turned from the window he was looking out of and slid the paper divider closed. The rains were coming soon to water newly grown-sprouts and buds. Soon the city would be awash with an array of colour and life, renewing the city. Kyoto was so beautiful in the spring. It had been one of the city's more welcome surprises when Shakku had arrived there from Satsuma four years ago. The sword-maker looked down at his folded up futon, and sighed loudly. He would find no rest here tonight. Nevertheless, he knelt and began going through the motions of preparing the bed, his thoughts taking him back to the very first day he had sold his wares on a bridge just outside the silver pavilion.

It was spring, and the streets were lined with blooming sakura. The markets bustled with life and vivacity. Red banners from every store fluttered gently in the wind as shop vendors called out to browsing patrons to come in and to try or buy their wares. Every kitchen and tea house emitted pleasant aromas of food, while young children cajoled their parents into buying them a box of yatsuhashi.

He had struggled to make ends meet then, yet in many ways, life had been much simpler.

There was no hiding, no lying, no trembling every time a sword-bearing government official came past his store, no wondering if the quiet exchange of pleasantries was a prelude to something more sinister.

Shakku shook his head and tried to clear his mind; these thoughts were unwelcome. He crawled onto his futon and pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes, as though he were trying to squeeze the thoughts out of his head. How he wished that his wife and son would know a life without fear. Closing his eyes, the sword-maker willed himself to sleep, his mind's eye clinging desperately to the image of a Sakura branch in full bloom, before cold fear had withered the blossom and covered the branch in snow.

Mannen 1 (1860), Winter

Kyoto

A strong winter breeze blew across Shakku's face, biting at the exposed skin around his eyes and penetrating the three thick layers he had wrapped around himself. He shivered and went to take a sip of some weak tea he had prepared for himself earlier. The porcelain was cold against his chapped lips and he soon discovered that the tea had frozen to the bottom of the cup. He growled in frustration and set down the tea cup with a clatter. Shakku had travelled to the great city months ago on the advice of his cousin, who had come home from his guard station at Nijo castle.

'Kyoto has been crazed,' his cousin had told him as he inspected his newly sharpened sword. 'The fighting has escalated; after 400 years of peace, men are finding out the hard way that their swords are not adequate for battle.' He raised his eyes to Shakku. 'Your skills would be valued there.'

And indeed they would have been, had many of the bakufu's samurai not already had their own trusted sword smiths to create and maintain their blades. Business had, at first been slow but steady. The spring brought some men, mostly ronin, who came to him to have their swords sharpened, but as the seasons changed, Shakku's meagre stream of customers waned. So desperate had Shakku become that he had sold one of his most prized and carefully crafted katana for a third of its worth to a skinny young boy in order to pay to have a roof over his head. The sword's specially serrated blade which could've been used to kindle a flame had entranced the child so much that had Shakku not been so desperate for the money, he may have thought twice before selling such a sword to a child.

Another cold wind blew in his direction, penetrating the thin layers of clothing he wore.

Tomorrow he would have to find other shelter, perhaps under a bridge, if he wished to keep eating on a daily basis with what scant supplies he had. After a few more moments of shivering out in the cold, he began to start wrapping up his wares.

That's it for today, he decided, pushing away thoughts of tomorrow's problems.

He had almost finished wrapping his wares when he heard a man call out to him in greeting. Shakku sighed inwardly, not pleased at the prospect of delaying the warmth of his last night within four walls.

Perhaps he could convince this man to buy something, anything. Then at least he might be able to scrounge up enough coins to allow him a warm room for another two nights. Shakku bowed low at the waist.

'Irasshaimase'

The man nodded politely in acknowledgement.

'Forgive my intrusion,' the man said, in a thin tenor muffled by a cloth wrapped around the bottom of his thin face to protect him from the cold wind so that only his beady eyes could be seen. Shakku couldn't help but notice that the man before him wore a daisho at his waist, but he did not wear his hair in the style of the samurai. His cousin had warned him of the growing number of commoners who were wearing swords. Shakku bowed lower, canny enough to know that a man who dared to wear a sword would no doubt be willing to use it despite his status

'I am looking for a sword-maker in these parts,' said this new customer, in superior tones. 'A friend of mine bought this blade from him and I wish to return it.'

Shakku raised his head slightly and to his relief saw an unfamiliar and unvarnished scabbard. He had no money to return to any customer as it was. His customer unsheathed the blade. Shakku's nose screwed up in distaste. The blade was dull and crudely crafted; its temper line almost non-existent.

His customer looked up at him questioningly.

'I know not where your man bought such an awful sword,' Shakku replied. 'But I am not the maker…'

The customer raised an eyebrow, and Shakku sighed and passed over one of his swords. The customer needed only a glance to see the difference in the quality of the blade.

'Sumimasen,' he said bowing apologetically. 'Thank you for letting me see your blade.'

The customer turned to leave, but the unforgiving winter breeze began to blow more ferociously, threatening to rip the flimsy awnings of Shakku's store. Feeling pity for this unknown customer, Shakku invited him to wait out the storm in his shop. The customer accepted the offer gratefully and followed him inside.

'My name is I'izuka,' the customer said. Shakku bowed and led him into the house. The corridors were dark, and unlit, and they wound on for longer than he remembered. Soon his visitor's steps behind him had faded only to be replaced by the sound of soft talking and the sight of a meagre light just beyond the corner. Shakku slowly turned the corner and the voice, while soft, resonated clearly with strength and passion.

"... a Japan that is modern, led by men of talent and skill rather than those born to privilege. And this new world begins with you!"

Shakku blinked letting his eyes adjust to the light. He remembered this place, a small inn at Hagi, where men would gather in a small secluded courtyard to listen to Katsura Kogoro. This day had been no different, for every seat had been taken, every man's rapt attention on Katsura as he wove his dream of a new Japan with his silvery words.

This had been a sight which had become rarer and rarer as the years wore on.

"For hundreds of years the bakufu has kept us unaware of the world beyond our borders! Keeping us from progress, keeping us from seeing their incompetence...!"

As Shakku thought this, the man before him began to change. Eyes which had once shone with warmth and youthful exuberance had turned steely and calculating.

"...but our eyes are open now. We can see more than ever that the Tokugawa's strength is waning..."

Shakku shook his head and turned his attention to those in the crowd, almost all of whom now appeared to be slumped in sleep.

"...and the emperor calls upon his people to become a new strength..."

Katsura continued on, seemingly unaware of the slumbering state of his audience.

Shakku frowned. Someone ought to wake them up.

"...the emperor calls upon us to build a new era!"

He stepped into the courtyard and reached out to touch the shoulder of a large, bulky man who had fallen asleep against a support beam.

"... but such an ambition will not come with ease..."

A sudden realisation, struck Shakku the moment he touched the man's shoulder.

"...the new era will come with a price..."

He was cold, they were all cold.

"...my brothers, are you willing to pay it...?"

Shakku fell backwards in shock, the movement, jerking the body so that it fell forward, allowing the severed head to roll unceremoniously across the floor. Shakku scrambled backwards in panic, his hand brushing against the small hand of another cold body. The sword-maker turned sharply, the body he had disturbed was a woman who had fallen face down on the floor. Long ebony hair obscured her face from sight, but he did not need to see it. He knew upon touching her who it was. Shakku scanned her body and closed his eyes against the image of a still child, clutching at his mother's breast with four characters written on his tiny back.

尊皇攘夷
Sonno joi

Shakku bolted upright from his futon, heart pounding wildly against his rib cage as he scanned the room he was in.

It was a dream, only a dream.

Forcing himself to take deep breaths, he struggled to cease the trembling in his hands and quashed the urge to run straight to his home in Arashiyama. Unexpected returns were equally as suspicious as unexplained departures and the bakufu's men were watching him.

He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to will away the images of the dream.

To keep his family safe he needed to be cautious.

He needed to get a hold on his sanity.

He needed sake.

With that decided, the sword-maker began to make his way towards the kitchen, intent on liberating a large bottle of sake from the kitchen.

As Shakku reached the kitchen door and slowly slid it open. It suddenly occurred to him that he had not eaten in the last twenty-four hours. He surveyed the kitchen and was pleased to find some apples and oranges on the counter. Shakku smiled.

The last time he had eaten fruit, he was with his wife and son. Young Seiku had gotten hold of a quarter of an orange and to his mothers great irritation squeezed its juice all over his hakama in an attempt to eat it.

Shakku felt a sharp pang in his chest and shut his eyes.

Stop thinking.

He reached for the fruit, but before he could search for the sake, a soft, muffled sound caught his attention. He froze.

The traitor

Quietly, he moved towards the sound, his right hand hovered above his left hip and gripped his katana. The sound was coming from the washing room. Weapon in hand, he slowly approached the door, careful to ensure that he slid open the shoji quietly.

He soon found that there was no need for such precautions, for there, on the floor was a young girl sobbing and huddled over a broken candle, an ink stone and an old fude. He froze, taken aback by the sight.

The girl looked up at him, her eyes widening in surprise. She straightened abruptly and pulled her hand into her body to hide it.

'Sumimasen,' she said, clutching her hand. 'I fell and… '

Shakku released his hold on his katana and stepped towards her.

'Let me see your hand.' He reached out to her and reluctantly, she showed him her hand. The makeshift bandage she had wrapped around it was spotted with blood. Carefully, Shakku unwrapped it to see a few fresh cuts on her palm, and healed scars of a similar shape. He looked up at her questioningly and she looked away, and tried to pull her hand back.

'We should clean the wounds,' he said, releasing her hand and turning towards the kitchen.

He began rummaging through the cupboards

'The sake is just behind you.'

She said it as though reading his mind. He saw the bottles on the shelf just above the vegetable box. He tore his yukata and soaked it in the sake. He reached for her hand and started to dab it with the rag and wrapped her hand up. When he looked up she saw her looking at him questioningly.

'What song were you humming?' she asked.

Shakku blinked, he did not realise that he was humming. He looked down at his hands and began to wipe them free of her blood. He paused, and evaluated her, finally he spoke.

'It is the song I sing to my son when I clean his wounds after a fall.'

The corner of the girl's lip quirked slightly as she whispered her thanks and Shakku couldn't help but think of Himura. He wondered if he knew that the girl had a smile with an uncanny resemblance to his.

Genji 1 (1864), Spring

Kyoto

It was still early in the evening when Ikumatsu had learned that the Shinsengumi were bragging about a victory over 'those damn patriots'. She had been at Karyukai teahouse serving Matsudaira-sama, a well known high ranking samurai, from Echizen prefecture, when she spied a group of men in blue and white uniforms being ushered into the adjacent room, many of them demanding sake and a song played on a samisen. She did not have to strain hard to hear their conversation, for the samisen did little to cover their voices, and the sake did nothing to inhibit them.

'They are almost out of resources,' one said in smug tones, 'and I heard someone was able to ambush the assassin. '

'Before he was cut into pieces,' said a mocking voice. 'The dead tell no secrets; we're still as blind as before.'

This had not been news to Ikumatsu, who had been hearing these whispers since early that morning. An ambush on the assassin meant that Choshu's information was leaking; Kogoro would be in the midst of trying to control the damage. So she was surprised when the teahouses' proprietor had told her that the rest of her evening engagements had been cancelled, and she was to go back to the Okiya to prepare to leave for the city.

Once she had returned home, mother had packed Ikumatsu and her escort into the palanquin with an odd smile playing on her lips as she told her the steep sum Kogoro had paid for her to be with him tonight.

'Eight thousand ryu,' Ikumatsu said teasingly, as soon as her escort had left her alone in his room. Now that they had no audience, they could do away with the niceties. 'Seeing that you've lost most of your support here in Kyoto, would it not have been more prudent to send that money to Hagi?'

'So Takasugi can spend it buying weapons for an army that he can barely control?' he countered irritably, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. 'The situation is delicate, Ikumatsu, Choshu is restless; they want to march on Kyoto regardless of the consequences.' He buried his face in his hands, prompting the geisha to pause.

Defeat was not something she was used to seeing on Katsura Kogoro.

She stood from where she knelt by the door and walked towards him, eyeing the plain, solemn decor of the room with distaste. He peered up at her from his hands. 'We will lose if we continue to make such ostentatious demonstrations of defiance.'

'I understand,' she replied, kneeling behind him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and began to rub them. 'Strategy and discretion until you are ready to challenge the Bakufu openly.'

Kogoro leaned back into her touch and she kneaded his shoulders twice more before guiding his head to rest on the crook of her neck, while her hands travelled down from his shoulders to the sash around his waist.

'Why is it that Shinsaku cannot seem to make his men understand this?' he asked leaning into her soft caress.

'Because they are men,' she replied readily, and smiled at his affronted look. 'Even if there is no success, there is glory in death. The fervour of battle is upon them, they are unhappy and angry. You have given them a reason to fight, but not one to succeed.'

She tilted his head so that she could see his pensive expression.

'You have given me much to think about,' he said solemnly, then with a wicked smiled he added, 'Well worth the sum I paid.'

An indulgent smile played upon Ikumatsu's lips.

'I live to serve.' Long slim fingers pushed the folds of his haori to the side, stroking the hard muscle of his chest. 'Though I'm flattered you were compelled to pay eight thousand ryu for my company, mother would have accepted two thousand.'

At this he smiled devilishly.

'She would've accepted six hundred,' he said. Ikumatsu let out an indignant cry and pulled her hands away from him. 'But eight thousand was your debt, and I need you to cut ties with your house.'

Ikumatsu's eyes widened. For most geisha, this was the greatest success and honour: to have their debt to their house paid. For a moment she felt elated until the implications sunk into her.

'You want me to live here?' she screeched, and stood up.

Kogoro reclined easily against a pillow like a lazy cat.

'Come now, Ku-chan,' he teased; his expression now betrayed nothing of his earlier concerns. She flashed him an angry glare. 'You knew this was bound to happen eventually.'

'Yes,' she conceded throwing her shawl at him. 'Once you had finally overthrown that idiot Yoshinobu, and you weren't being hunted like a rat!'

Kogoro's eyes narrowed as he pushed the shawl away.

'If I didn't know any better,' he said, his voice dark and foreboding 'I'd think you were ungrateful Ikumatsu.'

Knowing she had gone too far, the geisha sighed and reclined next to him, fixing her face into an expression of penitence.

'It's not that I don't enjoy your company Kogoro,' she said soothingly, running her right hand down his body and lightly squeezing his buttock to punctuate her point. She pressed a soft kiss to his neck and smiled as he turned towards her. 'I would deign to live with you if only you chose more suitable accommodations, or at least have access to a modicum of entertainment.'

Kogoro let out a soft, low laugh and shifted as her experienced hands stroked his chest and divested him of his cumbersome haori.

'Your idea of suitable accommodation would attract too much attention,' he replied as she began pressing light kisses to his collarbone. Despite the smell of sake on his breath, Kogoro still smelled pleasantly of soap and tasted clean and sweet. 'But as for your entertainment... There is someone here I think only you can investigate.'

'Oh?' she replied distractedly. The request did not surprise her; since she had met Kogoro, Ikumatsu had had much practise in using her feminine wiles to loosen a man's tongue. Her betrayal of Hagone-san, a visiting samurai from Aizu, had been her first service to him and had led to Kogoro's successes in the Choshu raids. She had also been a vital instrument when weeding out any whose loyalties were… questionable.

'The okami hired a new girl... I need you to gain her confidence'

She pulled her hands away from him and sat up straight, clearly insulted.

'Investigating the help?' she replied, trying to hide the hurt in her voice. 'Are you patronising me?'

'Not at all' he replied sincerely, reaching out a hand to caress her cheek and slowly coaxing her closer. Ikumatsu sighed. It did not matter anyway; she would do as she was told, no matter how distasteful she found it. He brushed his lips lightly against hers and obediently she yielded to him, as his kisses trailed up her jaw line to her ear.

'Himura brought the girl home last night,' he whispered hotly. 'I need to know if she bears him any ill will.'

Ikumatsu pushed Kogoro away from her so she could peer at him. His expression was solemn, serious.

'What you're asking…this is not like Hagone-san, Kogoro,' she said seriously. 'Prying secrets from a woman takes a different set of skills which I am not accustomed to calling upon'

At this Kogoro chuckled.

'Then I expect that you shan't be complaining about boredom too soon then'

Shakku had not ended up drinking sake the night before. After he had cleaned the girl's wound, she had left to sleep in the maids' quarters and he spent the rest of the night wandering around the Kohagi-ya like a ghost. He finally settled on the stone bench in the courtyard to bask in the early morning sun's rays.

He closed his eyes praying, for what he felt was the millionth time that night, that his wife and son were safe. The sound of voices and clattering wood interrupted Shakku's prayers. His eyes snapped open to see the boy, Naoto, standing in front of Tomoe. She was holding two small pails.

'Let me get that for you,' Naoto said, taking the buckets from Tomoe. Politely, she declined but when he insisted, she sighed in surrender, put down the pails, and walked back into the kitchen. As pleasant as their encounter was last night, her coincidental presence there still lingered unpleasantly in Shakku's suspicious mind. She had been willing enough to stay in the ryokan, he mused, though if she were a spy he had to wonder how she was gathering information. She did not attempt to ask him for any information, and kept mostly to herself. Her most constant companion was Gi, who, if she did know anything about Choshu's strategies or politics, would not have been able to explain it to anyone with any semblance of coherence.

Shakku watched as Naoto made sure the girl entered the ryokan and noticed the boy's face was set in an expression of admiration.

'That was generous of you,' Shakku said, making his presence known. Naoto turned around surprised. 'Won't you be needed in Sannensaka in two hours?'

'I can make it,' he said, picking up the buckets. He strolled towards the well, which was just beyond the small gate in the fence which separated the Kohagiya from its neighbour. The gate was almost imperceptible as it was covered in thick layer of vines which climbed and twines around the trellises. Shakku watched as the boy filled up the pails and came back towards the kitchen. He emptied them out into a larger basin.

Shakku smiled and leaned against the fence, his eyes focusing on the other as he came back for his second load of water.

'I don't think I'd have your courage,' he said as Naoto passed him.

The boy looked at him perplexed

'To challenge Himura for that woman,' Shakku clarified.

Naoto paled and Shakku felt slightly guilty for scaring him.

'That's not what this is,' he said his voice tight.

'Don't worry, I won't say anything to anyone.'

The boy relaxed slightly and glared at Shakku, clearly indignant at being made fun of. 'I'm not trying to win the girl over'

Shakku's gave the boy a dubious look and Naoto resumed his walk towards the well. 'Himura-san gave instructions that the woman was to remain in the ryokan.'

Shakku raised an eyebrow.

'But you're interested in her,' Shakku pressed on. Naoto's love life and his embarrassment was a welcome distraction. He saw the young man's face go crimson.

'What does it matter?' Naoto said, pulling up the pails from the well. 'I think she's pretty, but she's with Himura.' He entered the kitchen and poured the water it into a larger basin. 'Besides,' he added, appearing at the kitchen doorway. 'I will not give Himura-san a reason to kill me before I am able to test my skill on the bakufu's men!'

Shakku watched Naoto bring back the buckets the third time.

'Are you sure you're not just looking for an excuse to talk to her?' Shakku teased. 'I mean this courtyard is still technically part of the Ryokan.'

'Well I figured if I'm going to stop her from going to the flower shop next door, having to step into the courtyard of another establishment for water must also count as "leaving the ryokan",' Naoto replied.

'The flower shop?'

'The okami sent her…' the younger boy explained.

Shakku smirked. When it came to the running of the ryokan, the okami took orders from no one.

'And what happens once you're in Sannensaka?'

'Takuya-kun will be back by then to take over the watch.'

Shakku let out a short laugh. They had a schedule. Then again, they were right to take an instruction from Himura seriously.

'I don't suppose you'd want to help out with any of this would you Shakku-san?' Naoto asked from within the kitchen.

'No,' Shakku replied leaning back. 'Himura gave the task to you. I'm sure you're incredibly capable of it.'

'I meant carrying water,' Naoto said, crossing the courtyard for the sixth time.

Shakku's laugh was answer enough for the boy.

'I'll supervise,' he said, and turned his eyes to the sky and began to lazily watch a pigeon circle round and round above him. How strange that it would circle the same spot for so long, he mused, then his eyes caught on something on its leg, a note. His hand felt around for a pebble, and with the precision of a hunter, flung the pebble towards the bird, stunning it and knocking it onto the floor. Shakku quickly untied the small note from its leg and unfurled it. It had a single odd character written on it, three diagonal lines drawn from the top right to the bottom left. Shakku frowned. He had seen this character before in his han. He had engraved the character on the hilt of a sword he created for the most powerful of the Satsuma damiyo, Shimazu Hisamitsu. He looked up to see Naoto staring at him and the note incredulously. Shakku's voice trembled when he spoke.

'Find Katsura-sama.'

Genji 1 (1864), Spring

Shimabara, Kyoto

Perfume was an ever present smell in Shimabara. The overly sweet smell permeated the air as though it were attempting to mask the smell of sex and alcohol which was the trade of the district. Idly, I'izuka scanned the white faces behind the wooden bars. Twisting his pipe in one hand and fiddling with a tiny bag of small coins in the other, he began to peruse of the goods the city had to offer him. With the stipend he had been receiving from Katsura, he would be lucky if he could purchase anything he would find… stimulating.

Finally, he stopped in front of a storehouse of women, knowing if he walked any further he would find himself spending more than he should. He leaned forward and let his pipe tap noisily on the wooden bars, drawing angry, irritated stares from the women inside. I'izuka frowned, most of them were thick and ruddy, as though they were built more for labour than for the pleasure district, and a few were so thin that he thought that if they were allowed to leave their storehouse, they would float away with the winter wind. I'izuka went through the motions of having the girls brought forward to be examined, and did not even try to suppress a cringe when he noted missing teeth or a barely healed bruise.

These would not do, not after the night he had.

As he began to walk towards the more expensive storehouses, he remembered what it was that had driven him here.

Himura.

Ten months had passed since Katsura had arrived on the door step of the Kohagi-ya with the boy in tow, a laughably short, foreign-looking boy whose big eyes and soft unshaven skin made several of the men mistake him for a young girl. The first time I'izuka had seen him he, like many others, had looked upon the child with amusement. Some had even wondered if Katsura had chosen the boy to replace Ikumatsu. But once they had seen his skill, all had looked at him in awe. When they had learned of Himura's first killings, all had regarded him with fear.

A fear that had been reserved for I'izuka and his partner, Reiko, who had taken care of the assassinations long before Himura had stepped into their lives. Together, Reiko and I'izuka had been unstoppable. I'izuka's cool intellect coupled with Reiko's brute strength had been the jewel of Choshu. I'izuka had been both loved and feared, and he had revelled in it, for never in his life had he,the last son of a low ranking samurai, been treated with such reverence and respect. But all that began to fade the night Reiko perished in the assault on Nijo castle.

Katsura had introduced Himura to him as his new partner, but after a few 'assignments' done together, it became apparent that Himura was as mentally agile as he was strong. Soon, it was Himura who was being consulted on strategy and tactics. It was Himura who was receiving those little black envelopes. It wasn't long until I'izuka was 'promoted' to the 'Examiner of Executions' – whose sole purpose was to follow the boy around like a glorified servant and put paper tags on the corpses.

In fact, it should've been he who accompanied the boy to Osaka last night but Katsura had more 'important' work for him which involved helping Katagai glean more information on the little woman Himura had brought home with him. Oh, and how the night had been insufferable, standing guard while Katagai talked at length with a skinny old man about the geographic origin of a particular food spicing technique Himura's woman had used when preparing their lunch the previous day. Espionage, I'izuka decided, was far less exciting than he had originally believed it to be.

Finally stopping at one of the more expensive storehouses, I'izuka smiled. These girls were newer, prettier. He gazed lustfully at the young woman who sat in the centre of the display, her sad eyes, red lips, and delicate frame had a striking resemblance to Himura's woman.

'You have a keen eye sir,' said a voice from his left. I'izuka looked across to see a thin man with golden teeth smile at him. He wore the garb of the vendors in the district, yet unlike his rotting teeth the garb appeared unspoiled and new. Clearly, I'izuka thought, slave trading has become quite lucrative. 'She's only been displayed this week'

I'izuka lifted an eyebrow.

'I supposed that would mean extra?'

'The young ones are always more expensive,' he grinned. 'But reasonably so'

I'izuka took a puff from his pipe and passed it to the girl who clumsily took it in her hand, and took another puff in acceptance. It was true then: at least that the girl was new, or a good actress. Either way he wanted her. She passed back the pipe and just as I'izuka reached for it, it was snatched out of his hand.

'Aren't you supposed to be in Osaka?' asked a soft voice.

Startled, I'izuka jumped, turning towards the voice.

'Kiyosato-san?' he yelped in surprise, noting the livid expression on Akebo's face. 'What are you talking about?'

The other frowned and pulled I'izuka out of ear shot and into a small alley, ignoring the vendor who was now wondering what to do with the girl.

'You are supposed to be in Osaka leading Battosai into our ambush!' Akebo gritted through his teeth.

I'izuka frowned and snatched his pipe from Akebo.

'I planted the information to give to Katagai like your lord instructed,' he replied irritably. 'I never received orders to accompany Battosai anywhere.' He took a drag of his pipe. 'Besides, what does it matter? If I lead him there or not, he will come to you regardless.'

'Yes,' Akebo said slowly, as if speaking to an old woman with hearing problems. 'But now we'll have to kill him.'

I'izuka's brows furrowed in confusion.

'Isn't that what you want?'

Akebo ran his hand down his face in exasperation.

'Did you not receive Kodama-sama's message?'

'Message?'

'One of the carrier pigeons should have come to you last night'

I'izuka frowned. He'd seen no carrier pigeons circling around the Kohagi-ya last night. But then again, when he had returned from his errand with Katagai, he had drunk himself into a stupor. So it was likely that he did see it, he just didn't remember.

'There was no pigeon.'

Akebo growled in frustration and grabbed I'izuka by his hakama and pulled him so close I'izuka could feel his warm breath against his cheek.

'You are useless!' he snarled, before pushing him away and laying his hand on the hilt of his katana. 'I may as well kill you now.'

'Then why don't you?' I'izuka challenged. He got up gingerly, certain that Akebo was under strict orders not to kill him, for he was the bakufu's only window to learning about Hitokiri Battosai. He looked up at the other and at the sight of Akebo's form trembling in fury, I'izuka laughed and swaggered towards him. 'Oh yes, I forgot, you don't have permission to. Bureaucracy is a bitch isn't it? Can't do anything without a pile of paperwork. No wonder people think the bakufu can't get anything done. You sure you don't want to join the Shi shi Akebo-kun? There aren't as many rules on our side.'

Akebo lunged for I'izuka and slammed him up against the wall of the alcove.

'Do not test me,' Akebo said, through gritted teeth. 'You are the reason my brother is dead.'

'You were the one who chose him for that mission,' I'izuka reminded him, shoving him back. 'Trying to fast track him on the road to glory before his wedding day, aye, Kiyosato?'

A swift punch to his face saw I'izuka sprawled on the floor for the second time that day.

Nose throbbing and tasting blood in his mouth, I'izuka decided that he was finished goading Akebo.

I'izuka lifted his hand to block the blood flow from his nose then stood up, leaning against the alcove wall for support. He touched his nose gingerly. He was going to have to come up with a story for that.

'Tell me why I was supposed to accompany him to Osaka,' I'izuka said, frowning at the nasal sound of his voice. He could tell it would be a while before the bleeding ebbed. Akebo hesitated a moment before whispering.

'Kodama-sama wishes to talk to him.'

I'izuka blinked and locked eyes with Akebo.

'Talk?' he echoed incredulously.

'They saw what happened to the Yaminobou who challenged him,' Akebo explained. 'They think he could be an asset to the bakufu.'

I'izuka's eyes widened in disbelief. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

'You want him on your side?'

Akebo's eyes narrowed.

'Kodama-sama believes that would be best. If we cannot kill him, we can at the very least, try to control him.'

I'izuka would have laughed if it hadn't meant spraying blood everywhere.

'Battosai cannot be bought'

'Please,' Akebo said darkly. 'Every man has his price.'

I'izuka shrugged. As long as the bakufu paid him once they had their hands on Battosai, dead or alive, he'd have enough money to seek his fortune abroad. So he couldn't care less what the boy did. He looked at Kiyosato for a moment and seeing that he did not appear to have anything left to say, began to walk away. He had reached the entrance of the alley when he heard Akebo call his name.

'The girl, is she…'

'She's alive,' I'izuka reassured him.

'And has she…' A sharp intake of breath. 'Have they…'

'Battosai hasn't touched her if that's what you're asking'

From the corner of his eye I'izuka saw him nod in approval. After a few more moments of silence Akebo spoke again.

'Kill her'

'What?'

'Unworthy as she is, she belonged to my brother.' Akebo lifted his trembling eyes to his. 'Whatever purpose they sent her to him for, I would rather see her dead than defiled by my brother's murderer…'

Why not write Kenshin's PoV?

Reason 1: Kenshin has already told you this story

Watsuki has already outlined Kenshin's PoV, and I find it redundant to rehash too many ideas already put forth in the manga because then, the story risks becoming a copy of Watsuki's story told in prose. Although I have already brought out new ideas in this story (i.e. new events and new characters), I feel that Watsuki has acquainted us well enough with Kenshin to allow us to use our imaginations to discern what his reactions are to the events I have created. I believe that your imagination is much more awesome than anything I or anyone else can write.

Reason 2: Avoiding Kenshin's PoV has allowed me to explore and convey three ideas simultaneously (possibly without you knowing!):

The first is that by deliberately avoiding using Kenshin's point of view I aim to use the text form to provide a subtle metaphor for what Watsuki has already told us about him. Kenshin's life was a dark secret. He existed only on the edges of other people's lives, thus that is how he has been and will be portrayed through the rest of the story.

The second is the idea that 'Hitokiri Battosai' is merely a construct created by those who know of him. I have most explicitly explored this notion in chapter 2: 'Legend'. For example his enemies call him demon, his new comrades call him hero, an older comrade sees him as a lonely soul and his superior sees him as a means to an end. Who is 'Hitokiri Battosai'? That I will leave for you to decide as the story unfolds :).

The third idea that I hope to convey indirectly is Kenshin's internal conflict. Kenshin, as Hiko has said 'wavers' between the coldness of the hitokiri and his ideals. Kenshin is fragmented, and the text –as in how Kenshin is written into the story - reflects that.

I am deliberately using this story to experiment with how the structure of the text (e.g. the use of fragmentation and the deliberate deconstruction of Kenshin's character.) can be used to add meaning to the story.

Have I over intellectualized this?

Most definitely, yet there is great satisfaction which comes with consciously creating something this complex :)

Thank you all once again for your kind reviews I read them whenever I need inspiration to complete the story!