She could feel it again. It was a tension, air drawn tight and thin. The
hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She ignored it as she always did,
concentrating on bringing the cup of tea to her lips. The warm liquid slid
easily down her throat, dulling the anxiety she felt. It was quiet. Often there
were several of the village children that ate the evening meal here; but today
they’d all gone home, leaving the tension to grow and spread in their
absence.
The source of this tension was the youth seated across from her. He was
nearly three years younger than her—her childlike husband. They had lived
together in the small countryside hut for two months now as a married couple.
Life was pleasant, as her husband, Himura Kenshin, was a kind, honest, and
gentle person. He helped her with the chores, made medicines for the
townspeople, and played with the children. None of these things bothered her.
The source of her discomfort was his eyes.
"Tomoe?"
Yukishirou Tomoe set her cup down. "Yes?"
"I’ll be gone tomorrow morning. I need to gather some more herbs from the
mountain, but I’ll be back by lunch. Is that all right?"
"Yes, of course." Whenever he went anywhere or did anything out of their
daily routine he always sought her permission. She appreciated his
thoughtfulness, though she’d never said so. "The children will miss you."
Kenshin smiled. "I’m sure they’ll be fine."
"Yes. Are you finished? I’ll clean the dishes."
"Alright." He gulped down the last of his meal and handed the cup and bowl to
her; even if he wasn’t finished, he always ate his meals quickly so as to not
force her to wait. It was another courtesy she never acknowledged. He began to
lay out the futons as she cleaned and replaced the dinner dishes. He dressed for
bed and she wrote in her diary as she always did. Then she changed into her
sleeping kimono.
This was the point at which the tension was greatest. Kenshin was already
settled and the room was silent. Every breath and movement that she made echoed
with tremendous volume against the walls; her ears were exaggerating, but that
didn’t matter. Her greatest fear was his eyes.
Kenshin’s eyes, a pair of clear, violet orbs, were watching her now. He was
thinking about her. Tomoe tried to ignore it, but after eight weeks of enduring
it had begun to wear her down. His gaze was not lecherous or unkind, but soft,
curious, and filled with the same uneasiness she felt. Husband and wife
he would be thinking. Till death do us part. Their marriage began for the
sake of a cover-up, but even knowing that both their minds were plagued with
insecurity. What made a married couple anyway? Was it the home, the vows, the
way of life? Or was there something deeper? Maybe it was the way he spoke to her
softly when things went wrong, or the way she watched his hands as they did the
chores.
Or maybe it was the way he was looking at her even now, as she untied her
hair and slipped between the sheets of the futon they shared. How his violet
eyes drank up every inch of her face and features. The way he edged closer,
disguising his actions with a discomforted shifting of movement. This was the
moment. Both husband and wife, lying together, unspeaking and waiting for sleep.
Until one found such surrender they would listen to the questions in their
minds. Only one would be answered: not tonight.
But as the tension reached its thickest point Tomoe could feel Kenshin’s
stare. Despite her better judgement she opened her eyes. He was lying on his
back, head turned toward her, eyes calm and without any deep emotion. His long
red hair curled and snaked about his head on the pillow like tendrils of a vine.
He watched her.
Tomoe was also lying on her back, and she returned his dull gaze. She
wondered vaguely what he must have seen in her; she saw a young, strong boy led
astray. He was a pure, innocent soul—or had been once, now washed in blood. Only
one blemish marked the existence of his failed perfection: the scar that crossed
his cheek. The wound had always drawn her attention in a kind of curious dread.
That night she wasn’t thinking and she reached out.
Kenshin looked bewildered and a bit startled as her hand slid across his
face, tracing the line of damaged flesh. "This scar," she said quietly. "Where
did you get it?"
"During a fight a month before I met you," he answered, his gaze flickering
between her face and her hand. "A night patrol."
Tomoe drew her hand back, a sudden chill running through her flesh. "A month
before?" she repeated, her stomach growing hollow and unsettled. "A night
patrol…"
"Yes. Is something wrong?"
Half a year ago. Tomoe felt a tremble. She knew what it meant. The wind was
whispering to her, telling her terrible things. All along she’d known what her
husband was and what he’d done, but she hadn’t expected to see the proof of
those deeds displayed so plainly on his visage. She knew the hand that gave him
that scar.
"No," Tomoe answered at last, reaching out again. She touched the rough skin
of his face, hesitantly at first, then with a bit more confidence. "Only…even
though it’s only been a while, it feels like a long time, doesn’t it?"
Kenshin nodded slightly. "It’s been two months since I killed anyone. It’s…a
strange feeling."
"Do you…miss it?"
Tomoe held her breath as he ran her question over in his mind, a bit fearful,
though no emotion showed in her face. It often surprised even her how soft her
voice sounded, how calm and sure as if she knew all the answers. She certainly
did not know—she was lost. She didn’t know what to do with this boy she had wed.
She didn’t know what he was thinking, and that made her nervous. Would he return
to the life of bloody slaughter if he could? Had she made a mistake in believing
in the purity of his hidden heart?
"I’m suddenly in a new, mysterious way of life," he said after a long,
thoughtful pause. "It feels like years since I lived away from the black
envelopes." He covered the hand on his face with one of his own. "But being here
with you now makes me think that I don’t want to go back. I will, if I must,
but…" He ran his fingers delicately over the back of her palm. "…I’d rather
touch you with hands that aren’t stained."
Tomoe held her breath as Kenshin moved closer. His hand now reached to touch
her face, and she startled herself by shivering as their skin brushed. She
couldn’t move. His warm breath flowed sweetly down her cheek and neck, and she
waited, suspended in shock. A moment later she felt a dull, soft pressure on her
forehead. It didn’t last long, and then he withdrew once more. "Please sleep
well," he said quietly as he settled back into his previous position. He closed
his eyes.
Tomoe released her breath, forcing herself to calm once the incident had
ended. She swallowed a lump in her throat and wound her fingers about her
kimono’s lining. Her heart was beating quickly. Stop it she told herself
fiercely, trying to control her shuddering limbs. A wave of guilt washed over
her. Remember why you’re here? Didn’t you come for revenge? The man who gave
him that scar—was that not your fiancé, who you so loved but never admitted your
feelings to? Where is your honor, your loyalty?
But now…this is my husband…
She glanced at him cautiously, and was relieved to find him sleeping—or,
at the least, in the guise of sleeping. His childish face was arranged in a calm
expression, one which she now envied. He may look and seem like a boy,
she told herself, but you’ve seen what he is. You watched him as he made the
streets red with his bloody rain. Have you forgotten? Have you forgiven?
Kiyosato…that death was not this boy’s fault.
And he wasn’t a boy. He was a man. She recalled all the times she’d caught
herself watching him at night, wondering at the strength he must have to be so
accomplished a swordfighter. She’d seen the grace in his movements, and the
smooth, perfect muscles in his shoulders and back. Her thoughts caused her to
blush. You’re such a fool, Tomoe. Is your heart truly so fickle?
That night sleep did not come easily for her.
*End
