Days
dragged by with nothing to give them perspective. Sagara would sleep, watch the slow progression of sunlight across
the floor, would eat a little or drink when it was given to him.
He
felt numb, and when he was spoken to it was as though through a haze. The words meant little to him; they buoyed
him out of sleep, and chased him into dreams too deep for remembrance, but
giving them actual significance – piecing together the fragments of meaning –
seemed like far too much effort.
The
fever would not subside. It spiked in
the evenings and his eyes grew distant, his gaze pierced the western wall and
seemed focused on something a hundred miles away.
He
babbled about ghosts.
Gradually,
memories returned to him. A thousand
disjointed images drew slowly into cohesion. And when the moment came that he
at last recalled everything… a sword through the ribcage would have been more
welcome.
The
woods outside the Shimosuwa township were close enough to Kyoto that he had
been able to see, through breaks in the tree line, the dusting of city lights
on the low hanging clouds. That had
comforted him somehow. For the moment,
the snow had stopped.
Words
had been passed; he had spoken in anger.
Had he really said all those things?
Had he really taken… that long to realize?
After
that, things weren’t as clear. He
remembered vertigo, the sensation of falling from a great height, though the
ground never seemed to come any closer.
A crimson stain crawled slowly outward from his boots.
“Don’t
faint.” A firm hand tightened around
his wrist, drawing him closer to urgent words hissed against his ear. “Sagara!
Don’t faint.”
He
fell gratefully against Ichiro’s shoulder, allowed himself to be drawn back
toward the cover of the trees.
Somewhere beyond the thick inkiness of shadow that clung to the corners
of his vision, Sanosuke sniffled piteously.
Sagara
swallowed hard. “Are you all right?”
“He’s
fine.” Ichiro assured. Don’t talk. Just worry about staying awake.”
And
so he had. He was fading, but
unconsciousness would not take him completely.
Not until it had been seen through, not until he had watched the full
weight of that betrayal come down.
On
the sixth day, the fever broke and Sagara opened his eyes.
It
was late morning, and bright sun spilled through gaps in the walls. He was cocooned in blankets, but the thin
chill against his face and throat and fingertips told him that snow lingered on
the ground.
Subtle
stiffening aches clung to every joint, and Sagara took each breath slowly,
carefully, as though wary of reawakening any veiled pain. He wasn’t in the mood for pain right
now. With a tired sigh, Sagara let his
eyes slip shut once again. Almost
instantly, a warm wave of sleep swept over him, dragging him down towards humid
welcoming darkness. Somewhere deep
enough that none of it would matter…
“Hi
there!”
Sagara
gasped, jerking abruptly awake. He
blinked away disorientation, and found himself staring up into a bright,
curious gaze. He sighed. It was all right; it was just a kid. A girl – only a few years younger than
Sanosuke – she must have crept in while he dozed, and she knelt above him, head
tilted critically to the side.
“I
said hi,” the girl reminded him. “My
name’s Misao. Who’re you?”
Sagara
groaned softly as a dull prickling ache started behind his temples. “Hi…” he said, testing a faint, fragile
smile.
Misao
shifted a little on her knees. “Hey,
are you sick or something? You’ve been
asleep for a whole week, you know.” She
pursed her lips. “You look really
pale.”
“I’m
fine,” Sagara assured. “Where am I?”
“At
the Aoi-ya, of course!” Misao told him.
“Lord Aoshi brought you here.
Did you fight him? I bet he
kicked your butt.”
“Aoshi,
hmm?” Sagara’s smile deepened a
little. So, that was his name… “No, I
didn’t fight him,” he said softly.
Misao
made a face. “Oh. Well, if you did fight him, he’d beat you
bad. Hey, who are you anyway?”
“My
name’s…” But Sagara hesitated, and slowly some of the light faded from his
eyes. “Never mind. I’m… not anyone.”
“Hey,
that’s not very nice!” Her protests
were cut short, though, by the rattle of a screen being pulled back.
No
sound of footsteps on the floorboards preceded him as Aoshi slipped
inside. He hesitated a moment in the
doorway, appraising them with a glance.
Misao giggled shrilly, and bounded to her feet to meet him.
“He’s
awake,” she announced, wrapping her arms firmly around Aoshi’s knee.
He
glanced up, and for an instant his gaze locked with Sagara’s as he made no
attempt to hide a bemused smile. But
when Aoshi looked away, he sobered once again.
“Thank
you,” the boy said evenly, laying a hand on Misao’s hair. “I’d like to talk to him alone now.”
“Aww…”
Misao stuck out her tongue. “But I
wanna see!”
Aoshi
glanced at her sternly, and she straightened a little. “Okay,” she said, slipping through the open
screen. “But you gotta tell me all
about it later.”
“Perhaps,”
Aoshi said, with a slight nod. He
pulled the screen firmly behind her before crossing the room to Sagara’s side.
He knelt, carefully, lifting his gaze only after a moment, as though noticing
Sagara for the first time. “How do you
feel?”
With
Misao gone, Sagara slowly let his smile fade.
He ached too much, in too many ways, for it to be convincing. The corner
of his lips twitched slightly, a glimpse of amusement through agony. “How am I… supposed to feel?” He laughed, thin and grating, as though through
lungfuls of gravel. But the sound
choked off abruptly, and Sagara sighed.
“I’m
sorry. I’m… all right.”
Aoshi
nodded once, as though satisfied, though he didn’t yet look away. “I see.” But he didn’t – didn’t really – and
he wasn’t yet ready to leave Sagara’s side.
“How’s your shoulder?” he asked.
“Healing.” Sagara narrowed his eyes slightly. “I’ll live.”
“I
know you will.” Aoshi turned a little,
and hesitated as though uncertain of what more he could offer. “And,” he continued after a moment, “you’ll
be safe here, until your strength returns.”
His
words seemed somehow forced, drawing air between them taunt suddenly, and
reminding Sagara that there really was nothing more for them to discuss. Aoshi had saved him for a reason, he was
bound now in the boy’s debt… the rest could remain unspoken. But he was gripped with an inexplicable
sense of urgency at the thought that he might be left alone again, at the feel
of that blue gaze dragged away as tangibly as fingers across his skin.
Before
he could think better of it, Sagara stretched out a hand until the wound in his
elbow ached, to halt the boy’s retreat.
“Thank you.” He hesitated. “Aoshi.”
He
turned back sharply, a bit of color rushing to his cheeks. “How did you…?”
“Misao
said it.” The calm beginnings of a
smile tugged at Sagara’s lips. “Don’t
worry; whatever you’re hiding from…”
“I’m
not hiding,” Aoshi retorted instantly.
Something bright – indignant - flared behind his gaze for a moment and
he turned back. “I have nothing to
fear.”
Sagara’s
eyes widened a bit; he was, not for the first time, struck speechless by the
heaviness of Aoshi’s voice. Crushing
the breath from his lungs. “Then,” he
sighed softly, “I feel as though I am in very capable hands.”
Aoshi
straightened, a shiver of tension briefly tracing the stiff line of his
shoulders. But abruptly all the
defiance seemed to rush out of him, and his gaze dimmed a little. He drew a slow, deliberate breath.
“Don’t
you think it’s about time that you tell me what happened to you?” he asked
quietly.
He
gaze fell away to the floorboards, and Sagara shrank a bit. The one thing Aoshi needed to know was the
only thing he had been trying to forget.
“I…” he tried hoarsely. “I don’t…” A bit of color flooded back to his cheeks,
and his voice rose urgently. “I don’t
remember. I don’t know what happened,
all right?”
But
he did. All those horrible memories…
they were still here, just beyond the reach of his hand “Why…?” he gasped, unable to keep his tone
from growing sharp, jagged around the edges.
“Why do you have to know?”
“Because…”
The boy’s fingers curled slightly against his thighs. “My name,” he said quietly, “is Aoshi Shinomori, of the Oniwaban
Ninja Clan.” Sagara glanced up, against
all his better judgment, and their gazes locked, deep and searching. “The movements of the government are always
my business.”
“Shinomori…”
Sagara echoed quietly, just to have the taste of the name in his mouth. He smiled, faintly. “It’s nice… to finally meet you.” He felt as though Aoshi had forfeited
something in just that simple introduction, as though something had shifted in
his favor, if only just a little.
But
Aoshi’s eyes were on him still, unwavering, and he knew the boy wouldn’t let
him off that easily. Sagara sighed
breathlessly. If he just told him
everything; if he said it all at once and quickly… maybe the words wouldn’t
affect the way he knew they should.
“We
were used,” he started softly. “They
lied to us. We told people what they
wanted to hear. I suppose… I always
knew the government couldn’t back up those promises, but I didn’t know they’d
be so desperate for someone to blame.”
His eyes darkened a little, and his gaze slipped away to some point far
in the distance. Betrayal… the word was
bitter in the back of his throat, but solid.
Real and undeniable. “They…
killed everyone?”
“We
didn’t find any other survivors.” Aoshi
lowered his eyes respectfully. “I’m
sorry for the loss of your men, but you’re learning now what we knew all along:
that the new government isn’t any better than the one it replaced.”
Sagara
shivered. That really was all; it was
finished now. Somehow, he didn't feel
as empty as he knew he should have, and he couldn't help but feel grateful -
just a bit - for that numbness. "I see," he murmured. He shouldn’t
have been asking this, was certain he knew better, but he couldn't keep the
words from spilling past his lips. "There was a boy. At least... tell me
if you found his body."
Aoshi’s
lips drew together slightly. “There was
nothing about a boy in the report my men delivered,” he told him quietly.
"Only tracks, near the riverbed where I found you. They lost his trail--he
might have walked downstream." After a moment he added, "If my men
don't find him, no one can."
Sagara
watched him carefully for a moment, hardly daring even to breathe as he gauged
the boy's sincerity. "Thank God..." he breathed at last, and his
shoulders slumped a little. Sanosuke was all right, he had to be. It wouldn't
do Aoshi any good to lie to him about something like that, not when he had been
so blunt up until now.
The
boy’s gaze slid over him, critically.
“You shouldn’t have allowed yourself to become so attached to a soldier
– boy or not,” he concluded at last.
Sagara
only tilted his chin back slightly; not even that iciness could touch him now,
and eventually the boy backed off a little.
“Well, then. Is there anything you need?”
Sagara
shook his head. "No thank you, I'm fine now." There was nothing Aoshi
could offer him now, at least. "They might come looking for me here, you
know," he murmured. "What would you do then?"
"Kill
them," Aoshi replied instantly. He lifted his chin. "This place is
well protected, you know. I'd never let anyone near it."
"Of
course..." Sagara couldn't keep the thin smile from his lips, hearing the
boy's voice pitch like that. Maybe he was human after all. "In that case,
I feel quite safe."
"Good."
Aoshi climbed to his feet, brushing nonexistent dust-motes from the front of
his gi. "You can stay as long as you need.” He paused, meeting Sagara’s
gaze. "You owe me,” he added hesitantly.
“Oh?” One dark eyebrow twisted upward as
Sagara settled himself gingerly once more amidst the blankets. "I suppose
that all depends on what kind of favor you decide to call back.” It had sounded like some kind of innuendo…
maybe that was even how he had intended it. He felt fragile, like ice, but the
slight surprise that had flickered across Aoshi’s face when he spoke those
words helped a little.
Aoshi
backed away quickly, and didn’t speak again until one hand was already poised
to pull the screen shut behind him. “I
guess… we’ll have to see,” he said at last, and slipped into the hall.
Sagara smiled a faint, bittersweet smile. To see Aoshi like that, to hear his voice that way… "I guess we will," he murmured to the closed screen. “Aoshi.”