The troupe stirred slowly to life that morning, filling the air intermittently with the clinking of weaponry being buckled into place, the humming of conversation. Sagara left them to break camp, and climbed the small bluff to the north. It was a good vantage point; they had combed this area well already, but he wasn’t going to miss any of the tiny villages tucked into the pine groves.

The clouds had broken for a moment, and fresh sunlight warmed the frozen ground. As the sky began to grow light, lazy plumes of smoke from cottages in the foothills below him faded slowly into existence, intermittently breaking the steel gray of the winter sky. And if he were a little nearer Sagara knew he would be able to hear the shuffling of bedding being tucked away, the hiss of water for tea being put to boil.

Mornings like this always made him a bit nostalgic. He could almost feel the freshly lit fire melting the chill from the air, smell the dull, sticky odor of cooking rice. These small farms sprawled like toys at his feet now, but it hadn’t been so many years that he couldn’t remember what it was like to call one of them home.

Sagara’s lips curled into a faint smile. The slight tug he felt, the affinity… it was to be expected, he supposed. The expanse of sky that stretched out before him was tangible as a wall, something impregnable standing between him and the simple warmth, simple comfort, of the farmhouses below.

The longing was always there – a thorn beneath his ribcage, a bit of edged metal under his tongue – but it was times like this that made it sharp all over again.

Five years ago, it had been a day just like this: winter, but right on the edge of something warmer. There wasn’t much work to be done around the farm because of the snow, but the cold made what there was twice as hard. There were whispers of fighting to the south, and for nearly a week now the sky over Edo had been stained red by flame at night, and bruised by plumes of smoke during the day.

In idle moments, when he knew he was alone, Sagara found his gaze drawn… For months, he had been plagued by the need to move, to act; something. It felt as though if he stayed in the same place for even one year, one season, more, this wanderlust would gut him.

Despite his conviction, it had taken three days to gather the courage to speak those five simple words – "I’m going to the capital" – to his family. Perhaps by that point he had become so used to the way they sounded when he played them over in his mind that he wasn’t prepared to hear them at last spoken aloud. A soft gasp chased them from his lips, and his eyes widened a little as he waited for judgement.

For some reason, it seemed he had expected tears, had prepared himself for tears, but there was nothing like that. Only a quiet glance his parents exchanged, and then two sets of eyes turned upon him, dark and intense and… accusing, as though he had violated some unspoken contract. It was the only thing he hadn’t been prepared for, and Sagara wondered even now how his determination had been sustained.

"But you’re just a child…" Back then, he didn’t know how much truth those words held. At sixteen years old, Sagara had lived all the life that three acres of farmland had to offer, and so he couldn’t have known until first time he felt his blade found the soft hollow between ribs. Until the instant he looked down and his senses were saturated with the blood that soaked his shirtfront, wide and damp and gaping, red, like a woman’s mouth.

Until the first moment a sword skated over his own flesh, and he felt the crush of mortality, dragging him down like a drowning man’s boots.

Sagara shook his head faintly, a few narrow lines appearing around his eyes as his brows drew together in annoyance. He should have been able to distance himself from memories like that, keep them as far away as the plumes of smoke that curled from hearths far beneath his feet. What he did now was the closest thing that could be done to washing away all the blood of the past seven years.

Sighing, Sagara tilted his chin back slightly, searching the pale sky for something to center his wandering thoughts. He found only the endless sprawl of clouds, rimmed in fresh sunlight. It was shaping up to be a beautiful morning, and the moment he heard the trill of a voice calling his name from the hill below he knew he hadn’t wanted to spend it alone.

"Sanosuke." He greeted the boy as, panting, he crested the bluff.

"Good morning, Captain," Sanosuke said brightly, bending slightly at the waist and planting his palms on his knees while he caught his breath. He straightened, and followed Sagara’s gaze to the horizon. A few hazy ribbons of sunrise still stained the clouds over the mountains in the east, bright against the hard gray of the winter sky. "Someone’s looking for you, you know."

Sagara chuckled softly. "Would ‘someone’ happen to be your lieutenant?"

"No." Sanosuke shook his head emphatically. "I’ve never seen him before. He’s too mean to be a friend of yours; I think you should go see what he wants. He says he’s been sent by the Government General…"

This was certainly new. Sagara had lost track of how many months had past since he had last been contacted by a commanding officer. It was beginning to feel like they had been forgotten out here…

Sagara glanced down at the boy. He was too young yet to keep the emotion from painting itself clearly in his eyes, and Sagara felt a sudden and inexplicable stab of shame at being able to read him so easily. Something had unsettled him, and Sanosuke was nervous in the vague and embarrassed way the very young become nervous when they aren’t quite certain what has caused their apprehension.

Sagara’s eyes grew a little thinner, and abruptly he turned. A gauzy curtain of shed snow clung to the tree limbs, making it hard to see through to the road below. "Show me, Sanosuke."

Somewhere, distantly, he could hear the sound of hooves on packed earth. And though he had never before thought it an ominous sound, this time around it sent a cold chill skittering down his spine. He shook his head faintly, as though suddenly confused, and when he looked again Sanosuke had begun to descend the hill.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder. "Captain? Hey, Captain? This way…"

It only took a moment for Sagara to find his smile, warm and reassuring, again. This was foolish; Sanosuke couldn’t have known how fortunate the arrival of new orders was, but he did. He knew better than this, didn’t he? "I’m coming, I’m coming…" he said lightly. "You’re too quick for an old man like me."

Sanosuke giggled quietly into his hand, and bolted ahead, boots skidding a little on the snowy path. As they neared the foot of the hill, the pounding of hooves from somewhere further down the path became audible, and the boy drew back a little, to Sagara's hip.

A man with a mane of coarse white hair and an immaculate uniform—that immediately made Sagara aware of the sorry state of his own coat and boots—drew his mount to a halt just before them. He nodded shortly. "You're Sagara, I take it."

When his answer came in the form of just a slight narrowing of gray eyes, he nodded again and continued. "My name is Tatewaki Shindou, staff officer of the government army. I come from headquarters at Shimosuwa."

* * *

"Well?"

Sagara started, damn near biting clean through his lower lip, which he had been worrying thoughtfully between his teeth. He couldn’t stand people sneaking up on him, and if he wasn’t mistaken, this was the second time this morning. "Well what?" he asked, and ran his tongue covertly over his teeth to taste for blood.

Ichiro didn’t look at him as he spoke, which Sagara found a little disconcerting. "Well, are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?"

"It’s just as I said." Sagara tilted his chin back, gazing skyward. "I have orders to march to Shimosuwa. The Government General wishes to meet with us."

"That’s not what I’m talking about," Ichiro sighed. "Sagara, doesn’t it seem… odd to you?"

Sagara frowned. He had to admit he didn’t know what the older man was trying to get at. "I suppose we are to be given new directives. I don’t see anything odd about it."

"Shimosuwa is in the middle of nowhere. If we are receiving new orders, why is it so important that we march there to accept them?" Ichiro’s expression tightened, and Sagara found himself at loss for what the man was thinking.

He laughed disarmingly, hoping it would set him at ease. "Well, I didn’t think to question them, but I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation. If it has you so worried, I’ll find out when we arrive, satisfied?"

"I hope you’re right, Captain."

Sagara paused; he couldn’t even laugh off that last comment. "What are you thinking?" he asked cautiously.

Ichiro sighed. "I’m… not sure," he admitted. "But I do know that the hold the New Government has on this country is still fragile; they can be as dangerous as cornered animals if they feel threatened."

"I still don’t see what that has to do with…"

"Nothing," Ichiro interrupted, his eyes falling away. "Just be careful. Sagara."

Something cold and slimy slid down his spine, brought on by Ichiro’s tone just then. But by the time he had collected himself enough to respond, the man had slowed, fallen back into the ranks. Sagara shook his head, quietly, disbelieving.

* * *

"What do you think?"

It was quiet tonight, and the sound of another voice – even one Aoshi had come to know so well – sounded somehow strange.

"Something is going to happen," he said simply, tilting his chin back to the chilly night breeze; his lips parted a little, as though to taste the air. All the recent snow had left a heaviness in the atmosphere, and it pressed against the bare skin of his jaw and throat, raising a chill over his shoulders and the back of his neck.

There was something in the air tonight, static and electric. He tasted ozone, faintly, in the back of his throat. Over the past few years, he had learned to trust the whispers his intuition sometimes spoke. The sounds of battle, the reek of blood… imperceptible to his conscious mind, registered somewhere deep inside. And if he concentrated, he would know they were there.

Hannya shifted a little, a step closer to him. "You’re going?"

Aoshi nodded faintly. "Of course." He knew even now that by the time he traced the disturbance back to its source it was likely that there would be little left for him to do, but he couldn’t leave it alone. Not when there was fighting in his territory.

"It’s most likely nothing, you know."

"Most likely," Aoshi echoed, but even now he couldn’t keep a tiny flutter of excitement from materializing in the pit of his stomach. Anxiousness, he knew, that was already destined to burn itself out when he ventured out of these city walls and found… there was nothing left for him. His hand drifted back absently to the hilt of his blade.

In the next instant, he had decided, and he stepped once, gracefully, away from the steps of the Aoi-Ya. The ground was dusted with white, dry snow that adhered to each of his footsteps, perfect indentations in the shape of his boots.

He didn’t like that. Didn’t like knowing that he would leave evidence of his passing in his wake. "Stay on your guard."

"Always," Hannya said, and though the tone of his voice didn’t seem to change, Aoshi could hear the subtle indignance. Of course he was cautious.

Aoshi nodded slightly, and ventured out a few more steps. A stray finger of wind caught some of the fallen snow, spiraling it up and out. And in the midst of that flurry, he faded effortlessly into the night.

He slipped out of the city by way of the northern gate. The slight shift in the breeze a moment before had carried with it the distant sounds of gunfire. Ugly and unmistakable… Away from Kyoto’s bright streetlamps, Aoshi found his way by moonlight, amidst the strange shadows it cast through the bare and blackened tree branches.

He didn’t want to admit how deeply this intoxicated him. He felt alive at last, fully and completely realized for the first time in months.

And the promise of an impending battle only thrilled him more.

It was an odd way to feel, he was aware of that, but Aoshi refused to be ashamed of what he had become. Cold steel and warm blood and all the shades of slaughter that ran between… they had not been thrust upon him; he had chosen them, the most important choice he had ever made.

As he came upon Shimosuwa pass, Aoshi’s gaze drifted fleetingly upward. The trees were thinner here, allowing more silvery moonlight to penetrate to the forest floor. He scowled defiantly up at the heavens.

The ghostly sounds of gunfire had led him on for what proved to be a long time now, and he refused to be given away by something so base as a brightly lit night. Aoshi pressed on, more cautiously than before, not even disturbing the low hanging pine boughs, the fresh snow that powdered the ground.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound of rushing water. Though the gunfire had stopped, the sounds of the forest had not yet returned, as though frightened into submission, or humbled in remorse. Abruptly, Aoshi drew to a halt, tilting his chin back a little.

The metallic odor in the air was unmistakable. Blood.