The Face of the Enemy (3/3)

Miracle of miracles – he was practically upright. Propped high on pillows, Kakashi looked on benevolently at a world that remained just a bit hazy and relished the moment of full consciousness for the precious thing that it was.

Iruka sat beside his futon, just as he had tirelessly for so many days, and flourished a bright orange fruit at him. "Tada," he said. "I'm sorry it's not a pineapple, but this will have to do."

Kakashi's quiet laugh turned into a rattling cough. It took him a moment to catch his breath, and when he spoke, he found that lack of use had made his voice strangely croaky. "Don't make me laugh, Sensei. I might keel over."

"Keeling? I'd like to see you do any kind of bending. You couldn't even beat a centipede out of a shoe," Iruka rebuffed, but his voice was almost fierce, and his hands fumbled around the knife.

A pale hand reached out to stop the movement, and Iruka bowed his head. Kakashi reassured, "I'll be fine. You got me out of the water in time. You saved me. It's about time you returned the favor."

With his face lowered, the loose strands of brown hair shielded Iruka's expression, but it was still possible to hear the low bark of something too bitter to be laughter. "Maybe so," he said, lowering the fruit to his lap. "But I wouldn't have had to if you had just followed orders."

Kakashi had strong feelings about orders that required him to stand by while someone hurt Iruka. He frowned severely. "Did you just want me to watch?"

"Yes." Iruka didn't even hesitate. "I was just a civilian to them."

"They would have thrown you off that wall. After they were done with you."

"And instead, look what happened." Iruka's voice sunk, barely audible. "We were both lucky. With the dark, and the water so strong. What if I hadn't found you?"

"You did," Kakashi rasped, wincing at how raw his throat felt.

Iruka made a face. "Stop talking before you hurt yourself. Here, the fruit may help."

Kakashi glanced at the offering and made an exaggerated face of disgust. "I hate persimmons."

"Tough. That's all that grows here," Iruka said unsympathetically. Then, seeing Kakashi's set face, he wheedled, "Surely you wouldn't turn down my gift."

There was an outraged pause while Kakashi considered this manipulation, but in the end he could only sigh with resignation. He opened his mouth and obediently bit down around the fruit. Ack. It was just how he remembered it – like a tomato, but inappropriately sweet. Though, he had to admit, the cool juice did have a soothing effect.

Around a mouthful, he glared. "You're evil, Sensei. I always knew."

"My students would agree with you," Iruka agreed gamely, but the remark was proceeded by melancholy. Kakashi didn't have to be a genius to realize he was thinking about his kids.

He cleared his throat. "Not much longer, Sensei."

"It doesn't matter," Iruka responded matter-of-factly. Leaning over his lap, he embraced himself and rubbed vigorously. The temperature was dreadfully low tonight, even with the tiny stove to heat the enclosed space.

Kakashi grasped the comforter Iruka had acquired and weakly raised the edge. "Lay down," he commanded.

Iruka relented without argument, sinking down with a sigh of relief that turned into a muffled grunt of discomfort. He still wasn't completely healed from what the patrol had done to him. Angry, Kakashi willed strength back into his own body. He hated being so helpless, leaving his comrade to protect him.

He thought Iruka was already asleep, but a whispered voice suddenly reached his ear. "They may come looking again. When they still can't find a body."

Kakashi said, "Shh."

It was a slow night. The only guests were a young married couple, still dewy-eyed with new love, all shy touches and secret smiles they believed no one else could see. Ota kept an eye on them, but generally they stayed to themselves. She was about to douse the lamps and usher them to their room, when a noise from the road caught her attention. Voices, loud and brash, accompanied by laughter that made her heart jump to her throat.

The doors flew open before she could warn away the couple or call Sonosuke. They came in with a swagger, and when she saw the black look in their eyes, all hope of getting through the night unscathed died within her. These men were not just here to get drunk on a night off-duty. They had come to cause trouble.

"Got anything to drink, Obaa-san?" One asked when she approached them stiffly, trying to make a barrier between herself and her wide-eyed guests. His uniform jacket was tight across a broad chest, and his lanky hair hung low over his forehead.

"We don't have any," Ota said coolly. "Your friends drank it all last week, and I haven't replenished my stores."

The men looked at each other in disgust, but they weren't ready to give up. The man who had spoken before leered. "Girls, then?"

Ice poured straight through to Ota's core. It took every inch of her control to remain rigid and calm. "This isn't a brothel."

"That's not what I asked, is it?" The man's eyes swung around and lit wickedly when he spotted the young woman huddled next to her husband. He stalked over to grab her arm. "Here we go."

The man flew up, his instinct to protect her his only weapon. His wife shrieked when he was thrown aside. She tried to wrench free and go to him, but the bastard who held her only twisted her closer and whispered in her ear. She began crying uncontrollably.

Ota reacted without thinking. A vase appeared in her hands, and she ran, dashing it as high as she could against the shinobi's shoulder. It shattered, and the sudden shock of pain must have been acute because the man let the girl go with a yell. He struck out backhanded by pure instinct, but even that sent Ota into a crumpled heap. Her head hit the floorboards, and stars swam before her eyes.

"You're going to regret that!"

The angry exclamation was accompanied by a glancing kick. It jarred Ota back to consciousness, and she looked up fearfully into her assailant's furious face. He raised his hand, and she saw the end of her life there. She closed her eyes and said a prayer that she would see her daughter soon.

The final impact never came. Instead, she heard the terrible sound of splintering wood and the thump of a body crashing to the floor. Her eyes snapped open to find her attacker sprawled in a heap of broken table. He was flailing, swearing. The other two shinobi wore expressions of astonishment, which swiftly became murderous.

Disoriented, Ota followed their gaze. Iruka stood over her, breathing heavily, and for the first time she saw him with closed fists. As her head cleared she began to understand what happened. He had thrown that man – that shinobi – across the room, and in doing so he had revealed himself.

"You." The shinobi regained his feet, and his voice was no longer lustful or even angry. There was a killing light in his eyes. "You're the one we've been looking for."

Iruka didn't meet the description of 'a white haired man', but that made no difference to them now. They knew him for what he was. Not a servant in a backwoods inn. He was a ninja.

"You should leave," Iruka challenged them, and it was brave. Yet what could he really do? True, in a moment of surprise he had landed a blow. But he was wounded, and they were not. They were armed, and he was not. He was alone, and they were not. Still he stepped between them and Ota. His shoulders relaxed, and his whole body transformed as he gathered himself in a readiness to fight.

'He has no chance,' Ota thought.

And she was right. They leapt at each other, and there was the impression of force and the crunch of splinters spraying from a wall as someone flew into it. It took all three of them, but steel was the deciding factor. An arrowhead knife appeared and cut through the air. Too busy fending off fists and feet, Iruka couldn't block it. It sunk deep into his shoulder, and in that moment they had him pinned, blood already blooming through his shirt where the knife had been driven in.

The heavily muscled shinobi leaned over Iruka while the others held him down. "You know," he said. "I don't think we're going to bother bringing you in. We're going to kill you right here." And the shinobi put the tip of his knife to Iruka's neck.

Ota screamed.

And then all the shinobi froze. At first she didn't understand why. Then, as the strangely shaped knife fell with a clatter to the floor, Ota saw the reason the men had stopped. There were three sharp splinters of wood, directly through their throats.

In the next instant, they fell like puppets whose strings had been cut, and the tatami floor quickly soaked up their blood, leaving stains that would never come out.

Ota felt her hands clasping together, so paralyzed by shock she simply couldn't process what had happened. It was Iruka's voice that explained it to her. Still half-trapped under the bodies of his would-be murders, he exclaimed, "Kakashi!"

The shock of white hair could belong to no one else. He stood, supported by Sonosuke, one hand braced on the wall. But though he was breathing roughly with exertion, he still kept his focus on the dead men with eyes like a predator.

He shook himself when Iruka called his name, muttering, "Always have to rescue you."

Iruka sputtered with relieved, half-hysterical laughter.

Kakashi was still upright. It was clear to Ota that he could barely sustain the effort, but now that he was, he refused to lay down again. Instead, he sat with his hand on Iruka's shoulder while Sonosuke bandaged the knife wound. It was strange to see their roles reversed.

Ota waited until all hurts had been tended. The husband and wife were resting quietly now, though it had taken some effort to convince them it would be more dangerous to leave than to wait until morning. Two ruined tatami mats were outside, covering three bodies. As they moved them, all Ota could think about was that one could easily have been hers.

From the dresser in her bedroom, she retrieved one of the three small items and carried it to the room which had, until recently, been completely closed off. She sat in front of her two saviors, and laid the little portrait before them. From it, the face of a small girl smiled. A tiny rose was twisted in her hair.

She spoke to Iruka. "Once, you asked me why I hated you." Swallowing deeply around great pain, she said, "This is my daughter."

"Ota-san, you don't have to –" Iruka tried to speak, but she shushed him with a hand.

"My husband and I were young when we built this inn. We heard about the warring daimyo, but that didn't worry us. Everything we knew of shinobi came from stories I read to my daughter. In the tales they always seemed brave, strong."

Overcome, she waited for her clicking throat to reopen.

"Then one night when my husband was gone, the doors were forced open. They were soldiers. They took everything they could carry. Nothing was sacred. My daughter –" Her throat closed. "I fought them, but they locked me in the pantry. I dashed myself against that door. I tore at it until all my fingers were broken."

She lifted her crooked fingers, the joints of which were fused painfully now. A reminder.

"It was late the next morning before my husband came back. I found my daughter in this room. She was lying facedown in a smear of blood. Her soul was already gone."

There was one last admission, one more baring of her own heart. "When you came, I was so angry. I thought I would get my revenge by forcing you like I had so often been forced. In my mind, you were the same as my daughter's murders. I wanted to believe that more than anything."

She looked at them, their wounded, weak bodies and their strong, noble eyes. She had taken out her pain on Iruka, who even now looked at her with sympathy.

"I was wrong," she said, and tears of regret sloughed down the carven lines of her face. She sobbed. "I was wrong."

Of course, after what had happened, it wasn't safe for Kakashi and Iruka to stay. The death of the three shinobi would be noticed very soon, so they planned to say goodbye at first light.

Ota made sure they were equipped with all they would need, packing food that would keep week and dressing both men in the warmest clothes that could be found. It hurt to see them go without their full strength, but Iruka assured her that they had been forced to travel in much worse conditions.

"We'll be fine," he said and looked at her quite warmly. She had been humbled by his forgiveness. Without the constraint of her antipathy between them, she witnessed his natural kindness, which both soothed her and fed her regrets.

She stood by as Sonosuke and Iruka exchanged goodbyes, the elder dragging the younger into an embrace. Kakashi watched impassively. He was a different creature on his feet. Reserved, and very tall. He kept his eye on Iruka with a protective watchfulness Ota recognized.

Quietly, and mostly to herself, she murmured, "I still can't believe how badly I misjudged him."

Kakashi said, "First impressions can't always be trusted."

"You don't think so?"

"No. And especially not with Iruka. I have to redefine him at least once a week."

A laugh forced its way from her throat. She'd heard the hidden fondness in his gruff voice – testimony to a friendship she couldn't believe she had thought them incapable of, simply because they were shinobi.

It made the guilt fall against her shoulders, weighing them down once more. She said, "I'll never forget the wrong I did him."

"Nor should you," Kakashi rumbled. He looked at her with a gimlet eye, and she knew that though their hostility had passed, he would never completely forgive her. And maybe he shouldn't.

"Ready?" Iruka questioned. He had finished his farewell, and hefted a pack gingerly over his shoulders.

Behind him, Sonosuke was bundled up to travel into town. There, he would report the rogue shinobi attack, and how they had been unable to do anything but helplessly watch. Of course, Sonosuke planned to walk very slowly, and he intended to say that when the enemy ninja left, he had fled to the north.

Iruka took her hands one last time, squeezing them gently. "Take care, Ota-san."

Fighting not to let emotion close her throat, she responded, "Please be careful."

Then they left. Ota was able to watch them for only a few footfalls, and then the trees wrapped around them like old friends. In an instant they were gone, lost under the branches and a flurry of snow.

Many weeks later, Ota received a letter. It was written on parchment, and when she unrolled the message, she found only a few short words:

"Home safe. Recovered and well. Thank you, Ota-san, for all that you did."

And, scrawled in the corner in a much messier and entirely different hand:

"Let her go. Live in peace.Don't forget."

She never did.