For War is Kind ~ Chapter 3

 

Consciousness came again, sudden and malicious as a slap to the face. In the first moment when he awoke and tasted blood, Sagara was convinced he actually had been slapped. He raised a hand slightly, tensing, and flame and razors tore his left arm to shreds. Abruptly, the world tilted on its side, and his vision hemmed in red.

A thin, strangled cry seeped from his chest, and his hand fell to his shoulder, growing tight around bloodstained fabric. His clothing was soaked trough, making him shiver, slowly numbing him.

It was probably for the best; whatever was happening to him, Sagara realized, he probably didn’t want to feel it. Though he could no longer hear footfalls, shouting or gunfire from the woods behind him, he knew it was no miracle.

He was dying.

There was too much blood, crystallizing in the snow around him; it was too hard to draw each breath… Weakly, he struggled, digging his heels into frozen earth as though to root himself to the spot, bind his soul to torn flesh and a failing pulse. He gasped, small and straining like a sob, and his eyelids fluttered before growing wide once more.

He had memories like fragments… he couldn’t quite give meaning to them, place his torn body and the smell of slaughter into a timeline. All he knew with any clarity was that he hadn’t meant for this to happen. It was never supposed to end this way.

Pale silver filtered through the cedar trees; the pine bows sliced them to ribbons and abstract geometries, painting the forest floor in dark ink-smudges of shadow. The moon hung low in the sky tonight, impossibly low and heavy and luminous, and distantly Sagara wondered why he hadn’t noticed something like that before.

And it felt as though, if he could only stretch out his hand just right, his fingertips would brush against a silk-smooth surface. Perhaps he would be free then. He lifted his hand from his shoulder, and abruptly a jet of blood soaked into his collar, spilled the taste of alkaline over his lips. He cringed away from it, head spinning and breath coming in sharp gasps.

His lips parted around a faint sob… abruptly choked off.

"Tell me your name and your affiliation."

Someone was speaking to him. It took Sagara a moment to realize it, over the rush of blood in his ears, that he wasn't alone here anymore. His eyes snapped open, but he could make out little more than the paper cutout of a man crouching above him, severing the silvery columns of moonlight.

Though it sent another slick wave of blood coursing over his throat, into his hair, Sagara lifted his hand, tying his fingers in the collar of the stranger’s uniform with more strength than he had thought he should have left. "Don’t hurt the boy," he gasped. "If you so much as touch him…" But that was all he could manage, and he broke off abruptly, shuddering and gulping deep breaths of cold night air.

The stranger recoiled slightly at the abrupt assault, but a moment later he recovered, brushing Sagara’s hand away from his collar with a scowl. "There’s no boy here," he assured quietly. "And don’t die before you tell me what happened."

Abruptly Sagara grew very still, as though ashamed.  For a moment, he felt oddly detached, and he lowered his gaze. He probably wouldn’t last much longer anyway; the bleeding would not slow, and his skin was icy and numb. This man certainly hadn’t come here for this, not to watch him shiver and writhe, not to see his eyes as the life at last ran out of him.

That was why Sagara was surprised when the stranger reached for the edge of the long sash around his waist, and drew his sword to cut some of the extra material for bandages.

As he leaned close, his features faded slowly into focus. He was familiar, somehow, though it was nothing Sagara could place immediately. Cold blue eyes, those porcelain lips, the upward tilt of his nose… A shudder ran through him, raising a stinging pain in his shoulder. "You…" He had been right after all, the boy really had been a ghost. A phantom, all along. He felt his eyes cloud inexplicably with tears "It’s so good… you’re here again."

Aoshi glanced up from his work and laid a blood-streaked hand on Sagara’s brow, brushing a few dark locks from his eyes. "Be still," he ordered, and clamped his teeth around the end of the bandages so he could tie them off around the last deep wound in Sagara’s thigh. "What happened to you?"

Sagara shifted faintly beneath his hands. "I don’t… remember what happened," he managed. "I don’t know…" But that wasn’t quite true; the memories were still inside him, hazy, just below the surface. His eyes glazed a bit. "The Sekihoutai…"

"What?" Aoshi fell back a little on his knees. "But why would a division of the new government be…" And then he stopped suddenly, because he already knew. "You were wiped out," he said softly, lowering his eyes. "Then you’re a fugitive. Just like us."

Sagara snorted quietly. "I'm dead," he murmured, letting his head fall back. "Better leave this place. Before they find you…" If he could get out of here, tell the story of what had happened … it made something inside him flicker weakly. "They'll be back this way soon. Just go."

"I’m not going to die tonight," Aoshi replied crisply. He hesitated a moment before adding, "and I have no intention of letting you, either." He tightened the bandages once more, drawing a soft groan, a flutter of eyelids, from the wounded man. "Can you stand?" he asked at last.

"But…" Sagara protested weakly, even laying a bloodstained hand over Aoshi’s and pushing it away from him. But when the time came to release the boy once more, he didn’t dare let go. He couldn’t, not when he sounded so sure, so certain that he could get them both out of here alive. "I think so…" he conceded quietly. "With… your help." He swallowed hard, tasted saline. "Can you help me stand?"

Aoshi nodded quietly, reaching to tug one of Sagara’s arms over his shoulders. He pushed them both to their feet, and held very still as he waited for the other man to regain his breath and balance.

"Hold onto me," he murmured vaguely, tugging Sagara close. He dragged the man back into the cover of the trees, trying to move slowly for him, though he stepped with such purpose that Sagara stumbled with nearly every step. Kyoto wasn’t far, but Aoshi was worried about all the blood his companion was losing. Even with the bandages, he could still feel the warm, organic heat pouring from his wounds, like flushed skin against his own.

He shook his head a little, to keep it clear. "I’m saving your life, you know. So I’m going to expect some answers."

"Oh…" Sagara lifted his head weakly. Something bright flashed behind his eyes, like a brief instant of lucidity. "A-all right."

Aoshi hesitated, glanced down at him. He had to make him talk, if only to keep him conscious until they reached Kyoto. "You can start with your name."

"Souzou Sagara," he said. His voice was weak but even, and the sound of it almost startled him. He had thought… he would never hear himself say anything again. And though even a moment ago he hadn't thought he wanted to know, now he had to ask, "How am I?" It was much easier to drag himself back to the desire to live than to resign himself to die, and he felt impossibly alert. Aware of every sound, every whisper of foliage and ever shadow cast by the pale moon. "Where are you taking me?"

"Kyoto," Aoshi answered simply. "And you'll last until we get there, at least." He was silent for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly as he sifted the name through his memory. "Sagara. I see."

There was a hint of recognition in Aoshi’s voice, followed by an abrupt dismissal that made Sagara want to look away. "Any chance," he whispered, "you’re going to give me a name to go with the thanks for saving my life?"

Aoshi’s eyes thinned a little. "No," he said at last. "You don’t need to know that yet."

After that, they fell silent. Aoshi’s pulse and breath, though muted, were steady, and Sagara felt oddly subdued by the feel of them beneath his hands. Eventually, the Kyoto city wall came into view through the trees.

Aoshi dodged around the gate that led into the city.  “I don’t want to risk a trip through the streets just yet.  Don’t worry,” Aoshi said, in response to the tiny questioning sound that seeped from Sagara’s lips.  He took them instead around the western edge of the walls to a small hut just inside the treeline.

Upon seeing their approach an elderly women lit a lamp in one of the dwelling’s small windows and bustled out to meet them. "Summon a doctor," Aoshi instructed shortly as, tugging Sagara a bit higher against his body, he continued inside.

A bed lay prepared against the back wall, and Aoshi left his charge there, hesitating only a moment to make sure he was settled. "Try not to move too much," he instructed, and then was gone.

Sagara watched the boy depart as though through a tunnel, until he receded into the hazy pinpoint of light at its end. He sank back to the mattress, boneless and weary. The bandages Aoshi had wrapped around him were soaked through with blood by now, and he glided a hand over his chest to see if he could determine where he had been hit.

The entire front of his uniform was slick and cold, a thin sheet of crimson ice, and the ends of his hair were saturated with blood, stiff and wiry as an old paintbrush. His hand fell weakly away, curled around the edge of the mattress. He didn’t feel much pain – not yet – it was the helplessness that ached the most.

With a quiet sigh, Sagara pressed his eyes shut. He kept them closed, even when Aoshi returned a moment later and pressed a ladle of water to his lips. "Drink this, if you’re still awake."

Sagara did as he had been instructed, though the icy water stung his throat, making it constrict achingly. Aoshi was patient, keeping a steady hand behind his neck until he had finished and he tilted his head back, coughing weakly. He had to turn away to escape some of the intensity in the boy’s gaze. "You shouldn’t have done this…"

Aoshi’s eyes narrowed a little as he lowered him carefully back to the futon. "Maybe not," he said quietly, "but you’re here now."

"This is all my fault," Sagara continued, as though having not heard. "If I hadn’t…" But his voice was failing, and the rest was lost in a breathless sob.

"Stop it," Aoshi ordered, laying a hand against Sagara’s jaw to calm him. "There will be time for that later." He was silent a moment as he evaluated the man's injuries. He would live--he could tell already, even if he hadn’t yet had a chance to look over his wounds. There was something strong about him, even as he was now.

Aoshi removed his short sword and began to cut away at Sagara's uniform to get to the injuries. Not for the first time, he wondered what good he had just done. If he could get the stranger back to the Aoi-ya he’d be safe, but still, why even bother with him? If nothing else, they could use him… as someone who now also had a reason to fight against the new government. Yet here, now, his hands rising and falling with each of Sagara’s labored breaths, saturated by the bloodlined smell of his hair, he was having trouble thinking along those lines.

He tugged the last of Sagara’s clothing away from his shoulders. "You won't need it anymore," he explained quietly.

"I… I know," Sagara said ruefully. It shouldn't have bothered him, but still, to hear the words spoken so calmly in that boy's voice, so coldly, it sent a tiny shiver all through him. His hands wound tightly into fists at his sides, and he closed his eyes, silently resigning himself to Aoshi’s care.

It wasn’t so bad. There were worse ways to die than this; than warm and safe with a beautiful boy watching over him. Sagara smiled, just faintly, but it was enough to make Aoshi pause.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

"Nothing. I just…" His eyes grew distant again, unfocused and dim. "I never knew phantoms were so considerate."

Aoshi tilted his head slightly, gazing down at the man as though seeing him for the first time. "Is that so?" he said, gathering fresh bandages into his hands and cutting them precisely. He leaned over Sagara, and hesitated a moment. "Listen," he said at last, "you’ve lost a lot of blood, and you came close to freezing out in the forest." He closed his eyes briefly. "But you’ll survive this." And for some reason, Aoshi was grateful for that. Perhaps because Sagara had been betrayed, as though he held in his hands now pure vindication, pure vengeance. "So much for a new rule of peace…" he muttered absently; he hadn’t really intended to say it aloud.

Abruptly, Sagara’s face twisted, as though in pain. His eyelashes fluttered heavily before falling closed all together. "So… much for it," he whispered bitterly.

Aoshi drew back a bit, surprised by the sudden change in the man’s tone. He shook himself slightly and began to bandage the deep wound in Sagara’s shoulder. "You’re in shock," he said bluntly. "It doesn’t hurt much now, but you’re going to be in a lot of pain, soon. You should rest while you can."

"All right." Sagara swallowed hard, as though collecting his emotions. Having Aoshi’s hands on him like this… it wasn’t unpleasant. He was grateful for it, and he would have liked to stay awake a moment more, just to see what the boy would do next. But he was weary. His eyes stinging for want of sleep, his body sore and unwilling to move.

Exhaustion tugged at him, an insistent hand pressing against his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. Slowly, his body relaxed, fingers uncurling at his sides. "So much for…" he whispered vaguely, but the words trailed off into a soft senseless murmur, and Sagara slept.