Hanasenai mono
"Unspeakable"

Rurouni Kenshin Fanfiction
by Laura Gilkey

*

Reiko-obachan raised her head as she finished scrubbing a small plate and handed it to Soujiro to dry. Something caught her eye outside the window, and she dodged slightly to see it. "Oh, here comes the doctor."

"Eh?" Soujiro leaned over to see the doctor next door coming up the path, which cut a blackish swath across the yard. The first snow of the winter had come a few days before and still lay among the trees, shining in the cold white sun, but meandering paths of footprints crisscrossed through it, and between the outer gate and the door, it had been trodden down entirely.

The door rattled open and shut. Soujiro could hear the doctor catching his breath after the frigid outdoor air, and the shuffle of him taking off his coat.

"Ichiro," he heard Junzo-ojisan greet him. "Nice of you to drop by. Any reason in particular?"

"Just a little," he said. "I wanted to see Soujiro, actually."

"Well, he's in the kitchen..."

Soujiro tensed at the sound of their footsteps. The last time the doctor had been here to see him had been about a month ago, after he'd killed, when he'd been so overcome by his guilt, so ashamed to wear that stain in front of his family, and so desperate to hide it that he had been unable to keep down food.

He still remembered those days sick in bed: fitful, weak, tormented wakefulness; his medicine sending him into deep, black sleep; and the dangerous middle ground where anything seemed possible and his incoherent thoughts still captured by his crime turned into half-awake nightmares. In one the woman he'd killed had been faster than he was and plunged her umbrella through his chest; in another he'd come home covered in blood, and Ojisan and Obachan ran and hid from him while the clawing bare branches of the peach trees seized him and threw him out into the street. While he lay there, he couldn't tell what was real—even when he woke up, the truth of the floor and bed under him and Reiko or Junzo beside him didn't feel stable or safe, as if he were laying on the floor of a small boat adrift in choppy waters. Sleep, waking, and dreaming came and went without regard to day and night, which made it all so confusing and timeless that when that boat at last came to solid land and he was able to rise from it, he found that nearly a week had been swallowed by the sea.

Not only that, but Ojisan and especially Obachan had kept asking him what had happened, and even when he came back to a clear understanding of it himself, he couldn't tell them. The guilt and the fear of their rejection was too much to bear. In a few vulnerably brave moments, he had thought that he should, that he was hurting himself and them with this secret too much not to try breaking it, but if he opened his mouth with these thoughts in his mind, no sound came out. As he tried his best to speak, his lips and tongue made small blundering movements but wouldn't form the words; his voice engaged only in a small, pitiful moan, and at last he admitted defeat and claimed to have eaten bad fish that night—a story that fell out of his mouth painfully, but without resistance.

As time passed, they reluctantly accepted that answer, and as they stopped prodding at his secrets, he'd been more able to venture outside his room and talk to them about the simple, everyday things until by now the three of them and the inn were running smoothly, with a seeming of normalcy that Soujiro was deeply grateful for no matter how hollow it was.

Junzo and the doctor came into the kitchen. "Ichiro, konnichiwa," Reiko said.

"Did you want to see me?" Soujiro asked.

"Yes. I know I'm late following up, but how've you been feeling?" the doctor asked.

"I'm fine," he said with a smile. "I haven't been sick since that time."

"Sleeping all right? No trouble with nightmares since then?"

"Areh? Ah, why do you ask?" His hands froze on the dish he'd been drying.

"Well, Reiko said while you were sick you moaned and talked in your sleep a lot, like you were having nightmares. I wondered if you were having trouble that way," Ichiro said.

Soujiro laughed, but his face blushed painfully hot. I talked in my sleep!? Surely if he'd given himself away, he'd have known before now. "Well, I don't remember any nightmares, even then. I really haven't remembered any dreams since—" that last night in Kyoto... At least I haven't seen him since then... "...Since before I got back."

"Well, that's all good, then," the doctor said. "That wasn't actually my main question for you, though. Tell me, how's your shoulder feeling? You don't seem to be relying on that sling much now."

Soujiro realized he was holding the dish in his left hand up to his chest, not resting his arm in the sling he still wore. "No, I guess not. It hasn't been hurting."

The doctor gestured him into a chair. "Let's try taking it off, then. You said you've been wearing it for what, two months now?"

"Yes, but I hurt it again..."

"Even so, that would have been long enough ago." He untied the cloth behind Soujiro's neck and lifted it away, then started gently pressing on his left shoulder blade, which had suffered the fracture. "Now, let me know if any of this hurts..."

"I do hope you can take it off, finally," Reiko said.

"Yes, then we could put you back on room service," Junzo added as he took up drying the dishes.

"Well, I don't know..." Soujiro said; the doctor massaged his shoulder with increasing firmness.

"Oh, don't be silly. The guests like you; some of the regulars have been looking for you since you got back," Junzo argued.

Soujiro opened his mouth to protest, but the doctor spoke up first. "Was all of that all right?"

He nodded.

"Okay, now try to sit up straight as I do this, and again, let me know if it hurts..." He took Soujiro's arm and gently pivoted it this way and that.

By the time Soujiro turned back to Ojisan and Obachan, they had kept going with the idea. "Maybe I ought to make you a new kimono and hakama," Reiko said. "Everything that happened to you while you were away, goodness knows we weren't thinking of that when we picked white for the uniforms..."

"Well, it's just..." Soujiro broke in at last. "I'd just rather not, right now. I like working back here where it's quieter, you know?"

Reiko just looked mildly disappointed, but Junzo's face darkened as he scratched his beard. "It seems odd," he said. "Before you'd just hop to anything, and get it done faster, too."

"I'm—"

"Shush, dear," Reiko scolded her husband before Soujiro could finish the apology. "It's not too much to ask to let the Boy take things at his own pace right now. After he's had such a hard fight, I swear he ought to cuff you sometimes, you act so cold."

Soujiro burst into nervous laughter. "No, it's okay, really!" He had never seen Obachan talk to Ojisan like that.

"Hold still," the doctor said. With one hand on Soujiro's elbow and one under his arm at the shoulder, he lifted his arm up at the joint and inward in a shrug, gently building the force until Soujiro had to lean away from him. "Any pain?" he asked.

"A little. Mostly it was just the muscles stretching."

"You're not holding out on me, now?"

He shook his head.

"Well, that's well within expectations," the doctor said. "I think it's safe to say the shoulder's healed; you'll just need to be careful. Exercising this arm again will get rid of the stiffness, just give it a rest if it starts hurting and talk to me if you have more trouble with it, all right?"

"Okay," Soujiro agreed.

"All right, then, I had a spare moment and thought of you, but for now I really ought to get going. I'll try to come back this evening for a friendly visit."

"We'll look forward to it," Reiko said.

They exchanged their goodbyes except Junzo, who followed his friend out of the kitchen to see him off at the door; he hadn't said a word since Reiko scolded him.

Soujiro flexed his left arm and hesitantly stepped forward to dry dishes again. Reiko scrubbed and passed items to him in silence, staring dully into the soapy water. After some time, it became clear that Junzo had busied himself elsewhere, and Soujiro again became distracted in the silence.

Reiko had snapped at her husband; in general she seemed cooler with him, and Junzo's affections had never been overtly warm, but lately he was more remote than ever. Soujiro imagined they must be feeling the same thing he felt and couldn't escape. No matter how sweet each uneventful day—and he was truly thankful for every one—there was still his secret, the fear lurking just below the surface. He had felt a small hint of it when he'd lived here with Tomi the past summer, knowing that the police were somewhere behind him and that staying, he was waiting for the disaster to come, but the dread he felt now was far worse. The horror was promised—no hope that it would simply pass him by. It had a definite shape, more horrible than he would have guessed in those happy warm days.

And it was coming soon. He'd been left in peace for a month now; surely another task was past due. Every day, he became more convinced that it was almost upon him, that it would come at any moment, and somehow he was certain that when it found him here again, it would be the breaking point, that his home here would be lost forever afterward. He felt as if he were building his life on one of the soap bubbles studding the surface of Reiko-obachan's dishwater, on ground that couldn't last; at any moment, it could burst and leave nothing but a tiny ripple behind.

But what could he do? He had nowhere else to go—the telegram from Kenshin still lay in the trunk in his room, but while he couldn't bring himself to burn it, he couldn't bring himself to reply to it and face its sender, either—and the government was still too powerful to fight or even speak up to. For his own sake, he thought he could have risked it, and if he was honest, he didn't think any harm would really come to Tomi in Kenshin's care, but he couldn't protect Ojisan and Obachan, except by doing what he was told.

That left only one way out that he could think of. Having had a chance to rest for the first time and to think about it more calmly, he was sure that the charges against his family were only a way to manipulate him, and if he were gone—if he were dead—then the government would probably prefer to gloss it over. Maybe Saitou's advice would be best; after all, this peaceful life couldn't last forever, and wouldn't he rather it end like this, than in whatever would be left when the soap bubble burst? Occasionally this thought would wander drowsily across his mind as he lay in bed in the evening, or give him a chill when he was handling the kitchen knives, but he was never serious about it. He thought of it more as an academic point than as a course of action, and talked himself out of it when it came up for good measure. If this peace was so fleeting, then it was precious—too precious to cut short with his own hand, however painful its inevitable end. And Ojisan and Obachan: how could he subject them to such a brutal tragedy? He knew that if he did it, he would leave a note to spare them wondering why it happened, but nothing he could write would spare them the shock and grief. Reiko-obachan would be the one to find him laying in a pool of blood, dead, or worse yet, dying...

He glanced over at her; she looked a little sad to him, but still kept her eyes on the dishes, oblivious to the thoughts in his mind.

And what were thoughts like that good for, anyway? Better to make the best of what he had from day-to-day and only face those horrors when they were forced on him. His bubble wouldn't last forever, but he could enjoy it as long as it did. That had become his strategy since his sickness had passed, and for the most part it had kept him happy, even if it was the too-grateful, hand-to-mouth happiness of living on borrowed time.

"There, that's done," Reiko said, putting that last of the dishes in the drainer; she'd outpaced Soujiro drying them in his reverie. "Just get them dried and put away when you can; I'll be around." She headed for the door.

"Obachan?" He stopped her halfway across the kitchen.

"Yes?"

"I... ah..." It had struck him, while they had this moment alone together, to ask her if he really had talked in his sleep while he was sick and what he had said, but what would she answer? What if he had confessed to her without realizing it, and she was just keeping quiet to save his face? His mind might want to take the risk, but his voice wouldn't consent to it, and he stared at her dumbly until he began to feel guilty for holding her up. "Um, nothing. I'm sorry."

"Soujiro?" she turned back to him fully and looked at him, her eyes shadowed with concern.

"Really, it's nothing!" he insisted merrily. "Let me see then..." He turned around and engrossed himself in remembering where to put away the dishes, but he was aware of Reiko gazing at the back of his head for another long moment before she left the kitchen.

**********

Throughout the day, Soujiro became more comfortable with his left arm again, enough that the next morning he volunteered to take the ashes out before Reiko lit the stove, and he carried the heavy ash-box through the long dawn shadow of the inn to the barrel in the corner of the backyard. He walked outside the footprints Junzo had left in doing this over the last few days, and the crystallized surface of the snow resisted for a moment and cracked in facets as his feet crunched through it.

A man was walking along outside the backyard fence and said "Good morning."

"Good morning!" Soujiro answered brightly, but as he poured the ashes into the barrel and covered it, the man walked over to talk to him across the fence. His breath froze in a dizzy shock he recognized his contact's mustache.

"Here." He offered Soujiro a paper and a fat envelope out of his coat.

Soujiro's hands fumbled to take them, numb from the cold. "What's this?" He could put off the inevitable paper by wondering about the envelope, and found it stuffed with banknotes.

"We did agree to pay you for your services, but it takes time to arrive, and you left Kyoto in such a hurry..."

Soujiro frowned at it; he didn't want any money from them. "It's been a month since I saw you," he said, tucking everything in his kimono.

"We heard that you were ill, and the jobs we'd been giving you were a waste of you anyway," the man said. "Now that your arm is healed, we can set you to something more on your level."

"Oh, I see." He wanted his sling back.

The man glanced around to ensure privacy and spoke low. "Your job is tonight; the target and location is there in the note. He's an importer who's been smuggling cultural artifacts to foreigners, but he has a good public face, so it's better to handle it this way. Once you've finished, undercover agents will take valuables from the house to make it look like a robbery, so if you see anything there you want, no harm in it."

"No," Soujiro said simply. He thought maybe he should be insulted at the suggestion, but he'd never had a real sense of honor, so just 'no' was enough.

"Of course. Anyway, that's not a real problem, but we need you for his bodyguard, a man named Aizawa Ametarou."

"Aizawa...?" It didn't sound familiar.

"You may not have heard the name; our best information is sketchy. Apparently he's highly skilled, but not the type to make a big production of himself. It's said he came from the same school as Kurogasa, and I'm sure you heard of him.

"Yes." Soujiro had heard a lot about Kurogasa in the old days, and known when he died attacking Kenshin. He had used the Nikaidou Heihou style and was rumored to have mastered its near-mythical ultimate technique of exploiting the target's emotions to paralyze them, although he tended not to leave anyone alive who knew for sure. Shishio had been certain that such an attack wouldn't affect Tenken no Soujiro at all, but that was back then... "Shin no Ippou..." he said the name half-aloud.

"No word on whether Aizawa has that technique," his contact offered. "But then, very few people can say if it even really exists. —But," he took an optimistic tone, "not even Kurogasa's reputation quite matched yours, so I'm sure you can handle this. Good luck!" He turned and walked away along the fence.

Soujiro kept standing there; his mind was still unspooling everything he'd known about Kurogasa's technique—the sword positions formed the characters of numbers: one, eight, ten—but he let that fall into background noise. He worked confusingly on multiple threads at once, and his main attention was elsewhere. 'More on your level'...? In the last year and a half, one time had he faced an opponent 'on his level': back in Kyoto when he'd stood stupidly in front of Saitou and survived only by being too pathetic to kill. His stamina had been pushed to the limit up to now, just being used on essentially helpless victims; he was sure that he was no longer capable of a serious battle. Tonight... I just have today before... This Aizawa person would surely be in practice with his sword and, more importantly, would surely want to win; if his skill was at all respectable, that difference would close the gap...

Soujiro couldn't escape the conclusion. This is the last day of my life.

He stared at the sides of the yard, outside the shadow of the inn, where the snow shone pale golden pink through the lattice of the trees and their shadows. The small deposits of ice frozen into the branches glittered at him.

"Soujiro?" Reiko called him from the back door, and he belatedly remembered that she was waiting on him to light the stove.

"Sorry! I'm coming!"

"Soujiro, the ash-box!"

He'd started toward her and left it sitting on the barrel, so he had to run back and fetch it before coming inside.

"What kept you?" she asked him.

"It's just such a pretty morning," he said, a little winded and flushed from the cold, but smiling brightly. They crossed the kitchen to the empty stove, and Reiko replaced the ash-box and lit the fire while Soujiro paused and stared out the window at the rosy dawn sky.

"Soujiro?" she asked as she straightened up.

He took her in his arms suddenly and hugged her tight. "Let's have a good day today!"

**********

Through the morning, Soujiro helped prepeare and clean up after breakfast with a smile and intense enthusiasm, but Obachan became worried when he said he was meeting that man again for dinner, and Ojisan gave him a bad shock by peeking into his room as he was memorizing his orders—he managed to hide the message, but shut the door so hastily that he caught Ojisan's fingers. When he came back out, the note was tucked in his kimono to burn in the stove when he had the chance, and he'd thought of doing the same with the packet of money, but put it away in the trunk instead.

As the hours passed, he tried to stay cheery. If it was his last day on earth, he thought he should do whatever he could to enjoy it, but he was also measuring his life in its hours, and over the lunch dishes—half of that day past—his chest would tighten at random moments and force him to let out dry, isolated sobs, which he tried to hide as coughs or laughs. He didn't think Junzo was convinced, but if he could fend off his suspicions for a few more hours, it wouldn't matter anymore...

The giddiness of the morning melted away, leaving a more realistic and chillling view of the fate before him. He'd seen his last springtime—he still felt cheated to have gotten just one—his last sunrise... He'd enjoyed Reiko's cooking for the last time; he couldn't enjoy it today. He would never see Tomi again, or Kenshin. In a few hours he would leave Ojisan and Obachan, and when he didn't come back, she would cry.

At least, it was a good thing he had saved Kenshin's message; he couldn't have let himself leave everyone without a word of explanation, but now Ojisan and Obachan would surely find the telegram and reply, and it seemed they and Kenshin had the full story between them. Hardly the way he'd have wanted them to be introduced, but nothing for it now...

And at least, knowing he was going to fail tonight, he wasn't a killer anymore, that kind of monster that killed others to save itself...

As dinner approached, he was so distraught that he knew they must see it, and Obachan acted concerned, but set him to slicing vegetables as usual—after she'd tried letting him make one private meal the past summer, this was as much cooking as she let him do, and usually he was at least good at it, but today it all came out out in ugly, rough chunks. The sight and sensation of the knife again and again breaking the tough green skin of the cucumbers and slicing through their watery flesh was only a reminder of the fate fast approaching him: that pattern of numerical cuts that he'd memorized, blood, agony, terror—the fear of his brother's sword. Memories flooded in on him, of all the horrific ways he'd seen people die by the sword—his sword more than not, but since then, he'd been both blessed and cursed to feel some of the pain they went through, and now it was being turned back on him completely. At that, he supposed that he deserved it, like a sort of roundabout execution.

This is my last meal... I can't eat... His eyes clenched shut to squeeze back tears. I'm so scared...

His hands hadn't stopped moving when he closed his eyes, and the knife sliced into his thumb and forefinger and he jumped back with a cry.

"Soujiro, what happened!?" Reiko started.

He stared at the cuts and the tiny white line where the knife had barely caught the base of his thumbnail as blood pooled to obscure the shape of the wounds and fell in drops. "I cut myself," he said, shaking with a small, uncontrollable chuckle.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I should have known better... Here, sit down..." she pushed him into a chair and called out into the hall. "Junzo! Junzo!"

"I'm sorry I got blood on the cucumber," he giggled softly as Ojisan entered.

"Junzo, stir this for me; I need to go get the bandages."

With wordless assent, he stirred the sizzling pan mechanically while she went, and Soujiro was aware of him watching like a sentry as he tried to control his laughter at his bleeding hand. He kept that watch even when Reiko got back, and Soujiro squirmed from the burning soap she used to clean the cuts before bandaging them up. While she worked, the clock struck half past five—a half-hour until he had to go to his death—and when she was finished his fingers throbbed, but the tied ends of the bandages were almost cute, like bows.

"I can do this if you'll get the vegetables," Reiko said, taking back the stove. Soujiro was facing away from where he'd been cutting and didn't look back to see how much of his work Junzo had to fix. "Here you go," Reiko said, handing Soujiro a cup of tea and holding him around the shoulders. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he forced himself to say. "I have to leave in a little while..." ...And I'll never come back... I'll leave like this... He winced at the thought, but said "I'll be okay."

"I wish you wouldn't go... Just tell me if there's anything I can do." She went back to her cooking, but kept glancing back at him and refilling his tea.

I'll leave just like this... Without telling them what was so obviously wrong. He'd leave still lying to them, and put the responsibility on Kenshin to tell them the truth, like a coward... I should just say it. If they throw me out, I was going to go and die anyway, so it wouldn't matter... He took deep breaths, one after the other, with each one promising that he would use it to say something, but nothing came out. He tried to plan what to say, but thought that if he could just say "Obachan" and commit himself to talking, he could get it all out, however messily. But even at that, he struggled with that same paralysis in his throat, and he found that there was something holding it there, something he could feel from the outside and couldn't get past.

The clock chimed quarter 'til six. The cooking was done and they were putting the dishes together. He'd wanted to change clothes and not do this in his Sumidaya uniform, but he'd have to do that now, and it would mean giving up on ever telling them. He stayed sitting where he was.

At nine minutes before the hour—he was watching the clock—Reiko finished the cucumber salads and came back over to him. "Are you still going to go?"

"Yes."

"You don't have to," she assured him, stroking his hand.

"No... I do have to..."

"You can't even tell him you're sick?"

He shook his head and saw her worried frown deepen. Now or never... "Obachan, I—" That blockage stopped him cold, and he didn't realize why until he'd already glanced over his shoulder to where Junzo was arranging dinner plates, still watching him. Ojisan!? He felt an immediate pang of guilt for it, but it was true—he didn't want to talk in front of Junzo. After all, Reiko had always been the one who accepted him, even when he'd told her about his past in the summer. She had been the one he could say that to...

She also caught that glance. "Dinner's running a little late," she said. "Why don't you help me take the salads out before you go?"

"Okay."

Ojisan watched them go as Reiko picked up the tray of green salads and led Soujiro out, not into any of the guests' rooms, but into the bath where the tubs were heating, empty now while the guests ate. "Soujiro, don't go tonight," she said, setting the tray aside.

"I... I have to. —I mean, maybe I won't get bad fish this time..."

"It's not really dinner, is it?" she asked.

"Eh?"

"What is it they want so much, to make you go out like this!? Last time, the doctor said you got sick from nerves, and all day I can tell, you're worrying yourself sick again!"

He stared at her. That was what the doctor said...? No wonder the medicine had always knocked him out; it was probably a sedative. "I... ah..."

"I didn't want to say anything to make you feel bad... But Soujiro, I'm so worried! You did talk while you were sick, like you were being hurt, or being taken somewhere you didn't want to go. What are they doing to you!?"

Those words were another shock, but of a different kind, knocking apart all the resolve he'd gathered for his confession. After all this suspicion and questioning, even when she'd known about his past and heard him give himself away in his sleep, Reiko couldn't imagine him as a killer; she was still sure that he was an innocent victim. He felt tears of gratitude come into his eyes, but it left him trapped. It would be wrong to deceive her, but he couldn't bear to shatter that faith...

The clock began to ring the hour; he took a step back.

Reiko caught his sleeve. "Please, whatever this is, don't go! Everyone's scared! Even your Ojisan's scared, I know it! Whatever it is, it can't be worth it!!"

"I have to," he said. "Obachan, it's better this way."

"Soujiro?" Junzo called.

"Yes?"

Junzo's eyebrows raised for a moment to see them come out of the bath. "You said this was time to leave; where are you going?"

"Oh, he said we'd try a different restaurant this time, don't worry. Gomennasai, Obachan," he said, then brushed by Ojisan and into the kitchen. "Just let me finish my tea." No time, everyone was close outside the door... He took his orders from his kimono, folded the paper one more time to fit, and pushed it into the stove through the grate. Junzo came in behind him as he swallowed the rest of his tea and headed out.

Back in the hall, he let Reiko bundle him up in a heavy coat. "Please, stay warm," she said. "Take care of yourself."

"Thank you," was the only answer he could give her. The moment had come to say his last goodbye; better to keep it simple and natural... "I'll see you when I get back," he said. "See you, Ojisan!" he called.

The answering sound from the ktichen was just rattling dishes—and metal? Maybe the oven? It doesn't matter. It doesn't even matter now...

With a last look at Reiko, he said "goodbye," and set off into the cold night.

It's better this way... he told himself as he walked, picking up the sword at the appointed place. Ojisan and Obachan and Tomi and everyone will certainly be safe if I die trying... And nobody else will die because of me... Wouldn't he have done it this way from the start, if only Saizuchi would have just let him die back in Kyoto? Back then, Kenshin's words to him had still been fresh in his mind—"Don't be too quick to sacrifice yourself." Now they seemed like a lifetime ago. What else can I do? If this is the only way I can protect everyone... It's okay if I die for that...

But even as he thought it, his heart squeezed with fearful resistance. It's better this way. It'll be over soon. I shouldn't be afraid... But no matter how he told it to himself, that resistance wouldn't go away.

It was a long walk to the importer's house, a large Western-style structure closer to the heart of the city, and when Soujiro finally approached it, he saw only one light on, on the second floor. He slipped in silently through a dark back window, then climbed cautiously toward where he'd seen the light. So close to the end, it felt surreal... Silent blue darkness filled the rooms, but everywhere he could see treasures glinting in the shadows—the police plan of faking a robbery would certainly be believable.

On the story with the lighted window, he came into a large library where he at last saw light shining through a connecting doorway, and he approached it guardedly. It could be a decoy; the bookshelves made it easy for him to approach it unseen, but they could be hiding Aizawa from his sight, as well. As he came near the door, he heard voices from the lighted room; his narrow view into it revealed a richly-furnished study with a mosaic tile floor.

"I wish I could've gone with Momoko and the children," a man said.

"As do I, but they'd have known and had you followed," answered a deeper, calmer voice.

He stayed here in danger so his family could get away...? On his previous jobs, Soujiro had numbed himself for the kill, but this time, focussed on his own death, he hadn't, and was open for the jolting parallel between himself and his target. But it was also strange; how had he known about the threat?

"Quiet," came the second voice. There was a shuffle of fabric, then the hiss of an unsheathing sword. Soujiro watched the doorway intently.

"He's here!? You heard him??"

"Perhaps. I feel a presence, very agitated. Strange, after all I've heard about Tenken no Soujiro..."

He shuddered at the shock—They knew I was coming! How!? An importer was unlikely to have access to that kind of government leak, unless it was intentional. They gave me away! They're trying to kill me!! —It doesn't matter... he reminded himself. Doesn't matter...

"Come inside," came what must be Aizawa's voice. "Of course I can't promise not to hurt you, but I'm not a monster."

All Soujiro had to prepare himself was what he knew about Kurogasa, and supposedly that man had looked like a kind of monster: terrifying eyes with pale pupils on black instead of white, a battle-lined face with a vicious grin... It was that deathly image he prepared himself for before taking a deep breath and whipping around into view of the room.

As a notion of Aizawa's apearance, it could hardly have been more wrong. The man Soujiro found standing in the middle of the room before him looked simply magnificent, more like Shinomori Aoshi than anyone else he could think of. Aizawa was tall and straight, dressed in a deep plum-purple kimono and a black ankle-length coat whose flowing silhouette was broken only by the two saya at his hip. The wakizashi was still in place, the katana ready in his right hand. His face was serious but smooth, with oddly-striking but unfreakish eyes, and his long, straight, black hair was worn loose and hung like silk.

Behind him, the importer, a fat, middle-aged man, cowered in an armchair, as if at any moment he might leap out of it and run into a corner, the furthest point from Soujiro that he could find. "Remain still, sir," Aizawa said, his hair swinging beautifully as he turned his head. "It will be difficult for me to defend you if you move suddenly."

He turned back and took a step forward, and Soujiro almost unconsciously bent his legs and raised his hand in his battou-jutsu stance. He didn't plan to win or want to hurt anyone; he didn't know why he should go on-guard, but he felt compelled to as he slowly circled Aizawa and they sized each other up. Why am I doing this? I'm so scared to get cut... But I don't want to do this again...

His eyes paused on Aizawa's, which were strikingly beautiful. The irises were too dark to distinguish from the pupils, and their strangeness was that they were just slightly larger than normal. They shone like water, wide, deep pools where it seemed the man's depths could be seen, even as Soujiro could feel those same depths looking back, just as deeply into him. What am I doing!? He might have Shin no Ippou and I'm looking right into his eyes! He began to look away.

"Are you in pain, Soujiro?" Aizawa asked.

Instantly, his gaze was recaptured. "Eh??"

"I feel that you're confused. Your mind is in conflict. The truth..." Aizawa took a step forward very slowly, lowering his sword a little and looking intensely into his eyes. "The truth is that you are a gentle child. You don't want to harm us."

"How—? How did you—!?"

"I can see it in your face. Your blue eyes are beautiful and open." He continued to advance slowly as Soujiro stood his ground. "By the way you hold your sword, I believe you are the famous Tenken no Soujiro of the merciless smile. I can only imagine that when Shishio fell, you let go of those emotional defenses. Your eyes tell me that you were born that day. That's why you stand before me now as a child."

Half of Soujiro's fear was turning to fascination—to think that this man could read him so accurately, just by looking at his face! It was like the way Kenshin could always see through him, but Kenshin's insights caught the rough edges, punctured comfortable old ideas, and hurt, as if the words were being pulled out of wounds. By contrast, what Aizawa was saying was very warm and comfortable...

But the other half of the fear was still there, telling him that he was in danger, that no matter how gently he talked, Aizawa had to kill him. That half could see the line, when they would be in range of each others swords, and when Aizawa crossed it, he tried to retreat, but the command died away in his brain; his feet wouldn't move. No! I fell for it! The fear blossomed in his chest.

"Don't be afraid," Aizawa said, seeing it.

"Aizawa!" the importer burst out. "What are you—!?"

He stayed him with his free hand, keeping focused on Soujiro even as a spark crossed those deep eyes. "You are a perfect swordsman," he told Soujiro. "You don't only weild the sword; it is a piece of your heart, yet that heart is also kind. You kill, and then you weep for your victim, even if they are a stranger."

Tears pooled in Soujiro's eyes, half from fear, and half something else he wasn't sure of.

"You kill against your will," Aizawa continued; he had come very close and crouched slowly to the level of the frozen battou-jutsu stance, bringing them eye-to-eye, inches apart. "Someone is forcing you to do this, brutishly abusing your gentle heart. I believe you have suffered terrible pain, and loneliness." With his free hand, he cupped Soujiro's cheek.

The importer couldn't take it anymore and scrambled up and against a wall, as if Soujiro were some horrible insect that his body guard were holding up to him. "For heaven's sake, Aizawa, get rid of him! Kill him!"

With their faces so close and their gazes locked together, Soujiro saw Aizawa's eyes spark again. "Sir, with all due respect," he said sharply, "you know nothing about a swordsman's heart. For that reason, you must leave this absolutely to me. Be still or leave this room now."

The interruption was enough to lose the thread of Aizawa's words to him, and Soujiro began to realized what they meant. Aizawa was reading his emotions in his face and saying them back to him so gently and kindly, pouring over him such a sweet sensation of understanding and acceptance that he let himself do nothing at all but listen—he realized with a shudder that even his breath had stopped. He had fallen into those dark pools in Aizawa's eyes and was drowning; that spark was a distratction, and he tried to use it to struggle toward the surface, but he felt lost.

"What if there are more!?" the importer protested in terror. "What if he's just a decoy!?"

"Extremely unlikely, now go," Aizawa snapped. The man scuttled out into the dark library, and Soujiro watched the spark as he went.

But what was that spark? Soujiro wouldn't have credited himself with the kind of insight Kenshin or Aizawa posessed, but he got feelings from it. The entranced, hopeful part of him thought anger at the man interrupting their connection, and that seemed true, but the part of him that clung fastly to his fear saw other things that seemed true as well: fear, desperation. Maybe Aizawa meant what he was saying, but he'd also chosen this as a battle strategy, maybe fearing the reputation of Soujiro's sword in an open fight. He was keeping Soujiro hypnotized by reading his face aloud, but he wasn't sure of the tactic. He knew that if he left that thread for long or made a single mistake in what he said, the spell would be broken and he would be killed—and now Soujiro knew it, too. The fearful half of him took hold of his right hand, frozen poised over his sword-handle, and screamed Make a mistake! Make a mistake! The other half of him wanted Aizawa to talk to him again, wanted it to be flawless, even as his lungs began to ache.

As they were left alone in the room, the spark in Aizawa's eyes faded, and he again began to work the spell. "It must be very lonely for you. Ordinary, kind people cannot accept you as a swordsman who has killed, and those who do cannot understand your gentle heart."

The parallels with Ojisan on the one hand and the government on the other were all he could ask for, but there was someone in the middle, who could understand both. Himura-san... It again touched the comparison: Aizawa could read him like Kenshin could, but beyond that, they were completely opposite. Kenshin was harsh on his mind but strengthened him, and now Aizawa soothed him like a lullaby while melting him away. By now his chest was burning, his head pounding, like when Saizuchi had had him strangled. Please, not like this! Not again! Himura-san wouldn't do this to me! It hurts!

"I know it hurts, and I'm sorry." As Aizawa spoke, he sheathed his katana and took off his long black coat, which he swept around Soujiro's back and onto his shoulders. "To find a swordsman at once so famously skilled and so kind, I feel that I am in the presence of a rare, delicate, beautiful creature, but sadly, I fear that the others are right. There is no place in this world for a child like you."

Again, Kenshin was there to help him argue, but the words echoed his own feelings: lonely, abandoned, abused...

"You have suffered greatly in this cold world, but that is nearly over. Forgive me, but it's better this way."

An hour ago, Soujiro had been telling himself 'it's better this way,' but now his fear saw the end coming and cried Make a mistake! Let me go! His vision had begun to fade; everything outside Aizawa's eyes was dark haze, but he dimly saw him draw his wakizashi, draw back his right shoulder and elbow, and raise it to the level of Soujiro's heart, poised for one fatal thrust. No! Let me go! I don't want to—!!

"Since you entered this room, you haven't made a move against me, because you know this is the best way. This is what you want," Aizawa soothed. "You want to rest from this pain. The truth is..."

He had built to a climax; his next words would be the coup de grace and bring the sword. Even the burning in Soujiro's chest was drowned out by the opposing wishes inside of him, crying so loudly that he felt he would burst in two. Tell me what it is! It would be worth it if you tell me—No, get it wrong! Make a mistake! Let me win, LET ME LIVE!!

"The truth is, you want to die."

That went too far; the words rang false—the spell was broken. Soujiro's entranced self spun away in a whirl of confusion, at last betrayed by Aizawa's words, and the fear instantly shot forward. His breath, his voice, and his sword burst out as one. "NO!!!"

No thought was left for the next moment, and the next thing Soujiro knew, he hit the hard, slick floor and skidded to a stop. He lay there, curled on his side and panting to catch his breath until he felt something touch his hair, slapped a hand to it and bolted up.

It was Aizawa's hand—his right hand. The sword had been flung away, and the blood from his mortal wound was hard to see against his purple kimono, but pooled on the colored tiles, creeping forward along the grout lines. They had landed together; Soujiro raised his head to find them face to face. Aizawa's dark eyes were dim and watery, but he showed Soujiro a weak, blood-daubed smile. "The legendary Heaven Sword Battou-justsu... It was beautiful..." he quavered.

Soujiro scrambled up to his knees and took him in his arms. "Aizawa-san..."

"I was wrong... This cold world hasn't broken you yet..." he choked out through the blood. "Amazing child... Maybe......" His voice broke there; his body shuddered.

"Aizawa-san! Aizawa-san!!" Soujiro cried out and shook him, but his eyes rolled back, leaving blank white in place of those beautiful black windows. He was gone beyond return, and Soujiro held him tightly, sobbing into his silky hair as he felt the life drain out of him. When at last he became still, Soujiro lay him straight on his back, folded his hands on his chest, and closed his blank eyes.

He was just standing and sheathing his sword when he heard footsteps behind him in the doorway—it was the importer. "So, Aizawa, are you finished—?"

Soujiro still had Aizawa's coat draped over his shoulders; from behind, it must have confused him, and when Soujiro turned, he froze in terror. If the man hadn't come back, Soujiro might have forgotten about him, but now he knew there was nothing for it but to finish the assignment.

"No! Stay away!!" the man screamed. He darted back into the library, but he didn't know how to use the cover. In his terror, he was unwilling to move even slightly closer to his attacker, so it was all too easy to stay between him and the exits and herd him into a corner. He grabbed books off the shelves and threw them; Soujiro let one bounce off his shoulder as he moved in for the fatal blow.

**********

As Soujiro left the house by the back door, his mind had been blasted bare. He forgot his own coat and walked down the street clutching Aizawa's long black jacket closely around him as its hem dragged over the snow at his heels. He wasn't even aware of going anywhere, only wandering around the street in the cold, but some deeper part of his mind must have known that it would be dangerous in this weather not to get home and rest, and his numb feet carried him back inland, toward Sumidaya.

The cold air did little to relieve the breathlessness Aizawa had inflicted on him, which petrified his brain, but still, as he walked, the shock began to fade. His numbness shrank into a circle around him, like the light of a lone streetlamp, and he clung to it as the terrifying black shape of what he'd done threatened from the surrounding darkness. The safety of the light was shrinking, and he knew he would have to let it go. He had to be afraid of that darkness; if he didn't let it savage him, that would mean that he'd gone back, the worst fate of all, but he wanted the respite to last just a little longer, and pressed forward blindly while it held. If I could just get home to bed, and lay down and be safe, then it would be okay... Just if I could make it there...

He had no energy to run, but he was in a hurry, so when he came to Sumidaya's gate, he pushed numbly through it and walked on, leaving it swinging open. Reiko came out from the glowing doorway and met him in the yard, but he kept walking, and she had to follow back inside behind him. "Soujiro!" she cried. "I'm so glad you're home! I was worried sick!" When they were in the entry hallway, she stopped him by the arm. "Here, let me—"

"Obachan, please, I'm so tired... I just want to go to bed..."

But she had broken off in surprise. "This isn't your coat!" she realized as she took the lapels to take it off him.

He distantly began to realize his mistake. "Please, let's talk about it in the—"

Even as he spoke, Obachan drew the jacket open, and immediately leaped back with a cry of horror. "Oh, my god!! Soujiro, what happened!?!"

"Areh?" She was looking below his face, and he lowered his eyes and raised his hand to try to find the problem. His wrist struck the handle of his sword, and the bump echoed through his entire body—he'd forgotten to take it off. Clinging to the relative comfort of his senseless shock, he'd forgotten about the bubble here, and the secrecy preserving it, but now the two were crashing down together. He looked down and found his worn-white Sumidaya uniform stained violently red with Aizawa's blood—on the hakama legs where he'd knelt in it, on his chest where he'd held him as he died...

The sight of the blood tore the merciful haze from his mind, which whirled off, sharp but plunged into terror and confusion. As he took a step back to flee, Obachan caught his arm, and he didn't pull hard enough to break away. He looked up with wide eyes, but she'd gone into action too quickly for him to catch her face. She hurried him firmly to the bath, pushed him in, and shut the door behind him.

"Give me those clothes!" she ordered, her tone more fearful than angry. "I'll get the stains out—oh, better just burn them!"

He complied almost unconsciously, his mind still spinning, and let the sword fall on the floor as he handed his clothes out the door to her.

"And you get cleaned up before anyone sees you!" she told him, and hurried away.

Without scrubbing himself off first, he blundered across the room and into one of the tubs. The water was still warm, and closed in around him, heavy and smooth as glass, as he sat down against the side of the tub, drawing up his knees until they broke the surface. The air touched them, making two islands of chilly skin above the warm bathwater, which rippled under his breath.

**********

Reiko bundled the bloody clothes in her arms and hurried into the kitchen, pulled the door closed, and turned to the shock that she wasn't alone in the room.

Junzo was standing at the oven—where she'd been going to burn the clothes—and had put out the fire and pulled the ash-box out. One of her good ceramic platters lay in the ashes, as if he'd used it to smother the flame. She found him grimly scanning some paper, pieced together from fragments that were charred around the edges, and he looked up at her with a dark frown.

"Ah, I was just toing to..." she blurted. It was no use; the stains were showing.

"Reiko." He came and took her by the shoulders, and she let her face fall against his chest as she began to cry.

**********

Soujiro sat still in the bath, feeling like a criminal waiting for his judge to return with the sentence. The initial shock was gone; he could no longer delay facing what he'd done.

There were smears of Aizawa's blood on his skin, which the water was only slowly dissolving away. His last words... 'Amazing child'... It seemed to prove that he'd meant everything he'd said, even if it was a battle tactic, too. Soujiro had been blessed to meet someone who could understand his pain, and he'd killed that person with his own hand. And the importer, who'd stayed behind to protect his family's escape—his family now left without a husband and father—how he cowered and screamed... No one should have to die that way... And now they were both laying there while strangers ransacked the house around them...

I can't blame Ojisan and Obachan if they throw me out... Someone who did a thing like that... They should throw me out...

And the government, too—in the bathwater, the half-forgotten shock that he had been expected bobbed to the surface again. They had given him his orders and then warned his target about them, down to who and when; they'd been willing to sacrifice the objective they'd given him in order to be rid of him. They wanted him dead. Why? I did everything they said... But it was no use complaining. If he did, they were sure to kill him outright—they might anyway. Saizuchi had said that if they did, it would be slow torture... He curled up so tightly that his chin was in the water.

That was all he had to look forward to, to be sent into their deathtrap assignments again and again until one way or the other, they killed him. Aizawa-san... I killed him just to get that... I'm so horrible... Aizawa's hypnosis would have been a more comfortable way to die, better than coming back here and hurting Obachan with those bloodstains, having them throw him out to face the end, a long, losing battle, cold and alone... It would be easier...

With a long, slow breath, he squeezed his eyes shut and let his shoulders fall forward until his face was submerged up to the ears. The water tickled sharply in his nose as he held his breath. His lungs were still sore, and again began to burn. It would be easier... he told himself as he fought to hold his breath and stay under. This way would be easier... but...!

He couldn't hold it anymore; he had to come up or take a breath of water. I should—but—I don't want—!

He came up quickly with a splash, hearing knocks on the door. Already he couldn't tell if the knocking had roused him, or if he'd lifted his head before he heard it. "Yes?" he called, panting to catch his breath.

"Soujiro, I need to talk to you," Ojisan called.

His heart pounded, but there was nothing else to do. "I'll be there in a little bit," he called. He hurriedly scrubbed away the last of the blood and dried off, rubbing the hair around his face into a messy fringe of thin, clingy tendrils, wrapped himself in a robe and went to the door. The dread dragged back on his hand, so it took all his strength to reach forward and slide it open as if in a dream, painfully lightheaded and dizzy.

Ojisan stood outside waiting with crossed arms, Soujiro's bloodstained clothes and scorched-but-readable fragments of his orders were piled at his feet.

"Junzo, please," Reiko said, behind and beside him.

He ignored her, and fixed Soujiro with a stern gaze. "Soujiro, if you can explain this, then do it, now."

He sagged back against the wall, defenseless. What could he say? Of course it was exactly what it looked like. But I swear I didn't want to! I didn't know what else to do! I don't want to be like this... I'm not really like this! His mind cried these things out like a child, but again, his mouth didn't know what to do. His lips and jaw only blundered around in silence. He looked up at Junzo's face, hoping that he would be able to read it in his eyes like Aizawa had, but Ojisan's iron gaze didn't give an inch.

"So it's true, then."

With intense effort, Soujiro managed a small, tight nod.

Junzo sighed and spoke, his words slow and clearly chosen. "Last summer when we took you in, I understood that this kind of thing was all in the past, but it seems I was wrong."

The cries in Soujiro's mind struggled toward the surface. "I... Ah...h..."

Junzo turned away from him. "I don't want to see your face," he said, and walked away down the hall.

Since Soujiro had come home, the bubble had been swirling fast, and with those words it finally burst. He felt like it was a bubble of glass that now hit the floor and shattered, and he fell, too, to the floor on his knees.

Reiko clasped his shoulder for a moment before scooping up the clothes and paper and hurrying after her husband. "Junzo, wait!"

Soujiro let her touch pass by him and sat for a long moment after they left him alone, hollowed-out with shock as Junzo's pronouncement echoed in that empty space. 'I never want to see your face.' The words struck true and deep—Junzo-ojisan was surely the one in the right. Soujiro had already known it when he came back here a month ago; he'd spend this time decieving and using them, and he'd known a few minutes ago in the bath that this would be the answer and that Ojisan would be right. He could hear Obachan arguing loudly with him down the hall and through a door, although he couldn't make out the words.

I got into this because I wanted to protect everyone, but instead I've been hurting them. Ojisan and Obachan were happy before I came here... I never should have come back... I never should have stayed...

He slowly picked himself up, went back into the bath for the sword, then to his room, picking up the pace to hurry past Ojisan and Obachan's raised voices. Opening the trunk in the corner, he took out his clothes and dressed; for the first time in months, he put on the old blue-and-purple kimono under the one with blue stripes. He put the sword in his belt, took the envelope of money, and also the telegram—he knew he should leave it for them to find, but he wanted to have it with him. The old stuffed horse was there in the bottom of the trunk, but he avoided looking at it or touching it. As he left the room and closed the door, he was sure he'd seen it for the last time. Probably they would start renting it out again.

In the hallway, he hesitated, but finally took another coat and bundled himself up in it before going outside again. The outside gate was still hanging open from his entrance, and he shut it softly as he passed through and looked back one last time from outside the fence. The first time he'd come here, the summer leaves had obscured it from this distance, but now through the bare branches he could see the "Sumidaya" sign and the building, cold and eerie in the dim light of the streetlamps, dotted here and there with glowing windows.

The Tanabata wish, "To live here in peace with my family"... Back then, it was already true, and I thought I'd just enjoy it while it lasted... In the end, that had been all he could do.

For as long as it lasted, thank you. I won't trouble you anymore.

With that goodbye, he looked away and set off down the street, toward the railroad tracks.

**********

"If you'd just hear him out, I'm sure—!" Reiko insisted, charging out of their bedroom.

"He didn't seem to have much to say," Junzo grumped.

"You didn't give him the chance to say it!" She came to the bath; he wasn't still there in the hall, so she looked inside, but found it empty. "Soujiro?" she called, passing Junzo on the way back toward his room. That was empty too. "Where is he? Soujiro!"

Junzo must have started looking, too. "There's another coat gone," he called.

With a pang of fear, Reiko hurried to Soujiro's trunk, threw it open and rifled through, tossing aside his Sumidaya jacket and mussing Tomi's kimono. "His clothes are gone!" In a last, desperate search, she ran into the kitchen. "Soujiro!! No!! He's gone! He's gone!!" Junzo ventured into the kitchen behind her and she turned on him. "How could you talk to him like that!? How could you do that to him!?!"

"Reiko, I—"

"Do you think he wanted to!?" she screamed, tears running down her lined face. "They made him! They tortured him into it, I just know it!! Oh, god, my poor boy..."

"Reiko, I was only..." Junzo stammered, thrown to the defensive. "I wasn't trying to throw him out, I—"

Reiko was not placated. She snatched the platter out of the ash-box and threw it at him, smashing it on the floor a few feet off the mark. "You STUPID STUPID MAN!!!"

As he dodged out of the kitchen, several guests came running from their rooms. "What's going on out here!?" "Reiko, what happened!?" Reiko only kept wailing as some regulars went into the kitchen to soothe her.

"It's Soujiro, we can't find him," Junzo explained.

"We'll look out in the yard," someone said.

"I think I saw someone go out and turn toward the tracks," another offered.

"I'll head that way and look for him," Junzo said, pulling on the last remaining coat as another cry echoed from the kitchen. "Reiko, I'll find him!" he called.

**********

Soujiro walked down the street, past the doctor's darkened clinic to the side of the railroad tracks and followed them inland, away from the city. He knew that it was a cold night, that he should go the opposite direction and find a place to stay until morning or he might freeze, but still he kept walking.

The tracks here lead to Tokyo... he realized, but he still couldn't face the risk of going there, even moreso now that he'd lost his family here. It struck him that he wanted to keep the telegram because it was the last thing he had to tie any hope to, but paradoxically, that also meant he couldn't use it. How could he gamble it, if it was all he had left? Himura-san knows what happened, and he sent this telegram... He said 'I'm a friend.' Maybe that means he doesn't hate me... As long as he had that, it wouldn't be complete despair...

But the latest crisis past, walking along the tracks with its difficult price of leaving Sumidaya behind forever, he sank back into the thoughts he'd been dwelling on in the bath. Even if Kenshin did want to help, it was still the government; what could he do except make trouble for himself? Nothing was left but a painful, futile fight that could only waste the lives of more beautiful people like Aizawa, inflict more terror, pain, and grief on people like the importer and his family...

The rails rumbled at the approach of the evening train in the distance.

That's all I have to look forward to... Soujiro thought. Aizawa's words returned to him. 'Kind people cannot accept you as a swordsman who has killed, and those who do cannot understand your gentle heart.

'There is no place in this world for a child like you.'

He saw the light from the train engine in the distance, down this straight stretch of track. It took so long for a train to stop, by the time the engineer could see him in the dark, it would be too late. Leaning forward for balance, he climbed the gravel mound in three steps to stand between the iron rails.

'You have suffered greatly in this cold world, but that is nearly over. You know that it's better this way.'

I know... This time... He looked down the tracks, watching that light grow larger and brighter, the whistle letting out lazy bursts as it neared the town.

'You want to rest from this pain.'

He could feel the moment of impact bearing down on him—pain, blood, the final destruction of hope... It would be easier just to look down and close his eyes, but he forced himself to watch it come. His fists clenched; his breath grew shallow and strained, with occasional shudders somewhere between sobbing and laughing. I don't want to go on like this. I don't want to kill anyone else... I don't want to be lonely... Just a few moments of pain, and it could all be over...

'The truth is, you want to die.'

That had been the mistake that cost Aizawa his life, and now it seemed like a waste. I do want... He tried to make himself say 'I do want to die,' but he couldn't. I don't want to... I just don't know what else to do... The exact things that were true about killing others.

The rumble of the train was swelling to bone-shaking volume; the engineer had seen him and the whistle blared wildly, the engine chuffing like the breath of a wild beast but too fast.

I don't want to die! Please tell me something else I can do! Memories rushed to his aid—Sanosuke shouting 'do you think Tomi will be happy when you're dead?' Kenshin saying it isn't as simple as leaving and saying no harm done. 'If we lose you, we haven't won.' But I'm no good to anybody—

The train was rushing toward him, the brakes slammed on. The wheels threw sparks with a scream that drowned out the whistle.

Sparks—Tanabata fireworks—green leaves—'Don't be too quick to sacrifice yourself.' Like a gale wind, the oncoming train blew away everything down to the bare foundation, a glimpse of hope for no reason, something at the bottom, indescribable.

The light was blinding, the sound deafening. It took all his strength behind one thought to be heard above it.

I DON'T WANT TO DIE!!!

He moved under the force of that thought with such speed that almost before he knew what was happening, the screaming fire of the train was rushing past him, and he hit the ground and skidded to rest, spraying chunks of the days-old snow.

He lay there, curled tightly on his side until the din of screeching metal died away. Fearfully, he tested his limbs for the sensation of the ground and felt his legs with his hand to be sure that they were all still there. Finding his body whole, he threw himself down in the snow, convulsed with tear-streaming sobs and broadly-grinning laughter, both gripping him so powerfully that it hurt, as if he would be torn apart between them, but that pain felt somehow good, like the blow from Sakabatou.

"I don't want to die!" he laughed through his tears. "I don't want to die...!"

**********

Junzo hurried down the street, his lantern bouncing as he ran. On the path across the yard and in the street, the snow had already been trodden away, so Soujiro hadn't left any tracks that he could follow.

The evening train's whistle shrilled in the near distance, and as Ichiro's clinic came into view, that sound exploded with the grinding squeal of its wheels braking hard. To have to stop like that... There must have been something on the tracks!

He ran to the doctor's door and pounded. "Ichiro! Ichiro, it's Junzo, wake up!" He glanced desperately down the street as he waited, but heard the train shudder to a halt before it came into view.

Finally, Ichiro opened the door and peeked out. "Junzo, what—"

"Soujiro! He's run off, and the train— I think he might've been hit!!"

Instantly, the doctor was wide awake. "You go see, I'll be there fast as I can!"

Without another moment's pause, Junzo dashed down the street and along the tracks to where the train stood, engine panting steam as if winded from a long run. The engineer and attendants were milling around the locomotive with lanterns, and Junzo hurried toward them. "What happened!? I live down the street here, was someone hurt!?" he panted, clutching a stitch in his side.

"If not, it isn't for lack of trying," one of the uniformed railroad men said. "Someone was stainding on the tracks. Doesn't look like we hit them, though."

The engineer was hunched over with a lantern to the front of the train; he looked pale and shaky, and spoke in a hollowed-out voice. "I kept blowing the whistle, but he just stood there... I couldn't stop... I didn't hear it hit, and I don't see any blood, but..."

"Must've dodged at the last second," the first man said. "Probably some dare, damn stupid kids."

"Did you see him? What did he look like?" Junzo asked the engineer, although he knew and dreaded the answer he would get.

"It all happened so fast, I couldn't really see him in the dark. It looked like a blue kimono..."

That was enough to confirm Junzo's fears. He stood numbly as the railroad men kept shouting to each other and Ichiro ran up behind him. "Is anyone hurt? I'm a doctor."

"We don't think so."

"Find anything?" someone called down the far side of the train.

"Some tracks in the snow, like someone hit the ground and walked away. No blood there, either."

"See, they must've jumped off the tracks," one of the men assured the engineer, patting his shoulder.

"I'll go try to find them," Junzo said, hurrying across to that side with Ichiro close behind.

"If you do, you read that kid the riot act!" one of the men called after them.

Not far down the line, they found the spot, a wide bare swath of ground where the snow was freshly flung aside as if someone had skidded through it, and a set of tracks coming out of the bald patch, headed down the rails, toward the heart of the city and the ocean.

"Was it Soujiro?" Ichiro asked.

"I think so," Junzo said. He suddenly seized his friend's shoulders. "Don't tell Reiko this happened!"

"I won't. Trust me, I won't."

As the train got underway again, they followed Soujiro's footprints, but soon the path led into streets clear of snow, and from there they couldn't find his trail.

**********

Once he was a safe distance from Sumidaya, Soujiro hid the sword and knocked at the first inn he came to. He had to wake the owner, and the rooms were all full, but all he needed was shelter from the cold, and the government had given him plenty of money to bribe his way to a spot on the kitchen floor until they opened in the morning. Curled up next to the stove, it was warm and comfortable enough. He'd done much worse, although in the past month he'd gotten used to his bed back home.

'Back home'... Maybe he shouldn't anymore, but he knew that he would never stop calling Sumidaya home, even though he also knew that he would never go back there again. Even as exhausted as he was with guilt and grief, tomorrow he would go, tell the police he was leaving town, and move on somewhere. He hadn't decided what to do with their sword yet.

But even in the midst of that pain, tonight he felt warm and thankful, almost contented, and settled in with a small, shaky smile. He let himself have it; his pain was still there, for his bloody hands, his Ojisan who didn't want to see his face, the horrible dead-end path that lay ahead... He could still feel it all, and tears swelled in his eyes burning with weariness, but he also had that indescribable thing deep inside him, what he'd seen in the light of the train at that last second. It was different from fear; he didn't know what it was, but he was feeling its shape as he knew that for no rational reason, he was glad that he was still alive.

That too, I can just hang onto it for as long as it lasts...

He nestled into the warmth of the strange oven and the gentle, almost-smooth texture of his clothes. As he let himself down into the darkness of an exhausted sleep, he imagined there were nightmares waiting, but was also glad to get some rest. He was still crying, but still clinging lightly to his smile.

Owari