Hi Minna-san! ^_^
Here's a little Rurouni Kenshi fic that has recently joined the ranks of
all the other fics I'm working on. *sigh* Gonna finish all these fics,
even if it kills me... which it might, but hey.
Comments and suggestions for improvement are more than welcome, and
always appreciated. ^_^
*Warning: _MAJOR_ spoliers for the Revenge story arc in the manga, and
the OAVs (though I tend to use the manga as my primary source).
The Snow Raven, Chapter 1
a Rurouni Kenshin Fanfic
by Krista Perry
~*~
A spring rain, scarlet,
brings death, and hope fades within
haunted amber eyes.
- excerpt from the private diary of Yukishiro Tomoe
~*~
I know him immediately when I see him.
"You will know him by his hair, girl," the old man told me.
"Downright unnatural, it is. Hair as red as the blood he has
splashed across the shadowed streets of Kyoto with his merciless
sword."
But the old man was wrong. His hair is not like blood at
all. Blood is a heavy, cold, shining color. His hair is,
instead, the color of warm flames that linger in the embers of a
dying fire; the color of a pale cloud stained scarlet by sunrise
before a storm.
He is nothing like I imagined.
I pictured a huge man, older, with a body thick with muscle
and lined with scars of battle. I never once in my darkest
imaginings pictured this smooth-faced, flame-haired boy - who
seems so slight of frame that it's a wonder he can even heft the
swords that hang at his side - as the murderer of my fiance.
He sits quietly at the table, staring sightlessly into a cup
of sake. And, unlike the other men in the dining house, he
doesn't even look up as I enter.
I pause only for a moment, then sit at the table next to
him, with my back to him. Yet, even now that I can't see him,
that first moment is burned into my mind's eye and his image is
before me still.
I order cold sake, because I have no appetite. And because
I feel suddenly, desperately confused. Perhaps a drink will
settle my nerves.
I can't be confused. Not now, not after all this time,
after I've come all this way.
He was supposed to be a monster. A mortal demon of blood-
lust and evil in a barely-human guise. Not this desolate, empty-
eyed man-child, who looks as lost as I feel...
I wonder if he can sense me near him. If his killer
instincts can perceive my intent toward him... the promise burned
on my soul when I first received news of how my beloved Akira-san
was slaughtered in the streets of Kyoto by the Ishin Shishi
assassin...
*I'm going to destroy you.*
But the fire behind my conviction, that has burned so
brightly ever since I left Edo, seems to pale in his presence.
I raise the sake to my lips and drink, feeling deeply
ashamed of myself. How can I avenge my loss when I allow myself
to be swayed from my purpose simply because he is young? Simply
because he doesn't fit my mental image of a brutal hitokiri?
He couldn't be more than fifteen... barely a man by law, and
little more than a child in stature. At the very least, a full
three years younger than myself...
So lost am I in these turmoiled thoughts, I notice too late
that I have attracted the attention of a pair of truly brutish
men. I look up as they saunter drunkenly towards my table, and I
cannot fail to notice the irony that the hulking pair more
closely resemble my mental image of my fiance's killer than does
the boy behind me.
"Hey girl," one of them says; a man whose neck is as thick
as a tree stump, whose jaw is square and solid as stone. His
companion, a man not quite as muscled, his upper teeth protruding
over his lower lip, leans over me, and I can smell the
overwhelming reek of sake on his breath. "Would you care to join
us for a toast?"
I return the man's unsteady gaze silently, my answer held
within my eyes. Just as well that I am unable to show in my
expression the sudden fear that fills my heart. For once, my
shielding mask of impassiveness, which hides so well the griefs,
joys and desires of my inner soul, serves me well. Better to
seem indifferent than afraid with these types, since fear only
feeds their aggressive natures.
But perhaps not this time. My seeming aloofness infuriates
him and his companion. The man with the thick neck slams his
fist on the table, yet I don't flinch, even when he shouts in my
face. "Look, you ungrateful wench! We are the leaders of the
Aizu branch of the Ishin Shishi! We risk our lives and kill for
you lowlifes day and night! You owe us!"
Terror closes off my throat, and I cannot respond, even if I
so desired. Yet, like a Noh performer, my impassive mask remains
in place.
"Liars," someone across the room mutters softly. "Aizu's on
the Shogunate side, you idiots."
"What was that?" The man turns towards the speaker, his
hand on the hilt of his sword, but whomever it was who dared
speak falls silent under that intimidating glare. Even so, I am
grateful to them, for turning the attention of these men away
from me.
The man with the over-bite chuckles. "Never mind. Just a
bit of meaningless noise," he says.
The brute nods and grins condescendingly at the people who
are now cowering before the threat of his blade. "It's someone's
lucky day."
And he turns towards me again, his previous intent now
magnified in his lecherous grin. Oh no, please, no... Please,
just leave me alone...
Fear tightens my chest, and I can feel my heart pounding in
my ears as he reaches for my wrist with a huge beefy hand...
"You two are the lucky ones," says a soft, piercing voice
behind me, and I feel my breath catch in my throat at the sound
of that voice. "If you had drawn your swords, you would be
fighting me."
"Wha--?" The thick-necked man turns, eyes blazing
furiously, grasping the hilt of his sword, ready in his drunken
rage to slay the offending speaker...
But the boy is already there. Standing, though I never even
felt him move from his seat. Dwarfed by the drunken man, who is
more than twice his size in both height and breadth.
And the boy's eyes are no longer empty. They burn with cold
amber fire as, with the lightning-quick movement of one slender
hand, he stops the brute from drawing his sword, blocking the
pommel with his palm.
The huge thick-necked man strains against the boy's hand to
unsheathe his sword... and cannot move.
I wonder for a brief moment why the huge man doesn't just
strike the boy down with his fist, breaking him like a twig...
...but then I see the raw fear in the larger man's eyes as
he gazes down at the calm, inhumanly strong stripling before him.
And in that moment, I also see the clear understanding in his
expression that, if he were to make even the most minuscule
threatening movement towards this boy, or anyone else... he would
never draw another breath.
For the indisputable promise of swift, silent death gleams
in the boy's heavy-lidded eyes.
"A word of warning," the boy murmurs in that low, silken
voice; a gentle sound, yet laced with undeniable threat. "There
is yet to be an uprising. There is no place for you hypocrites
in Kyoto now. If you value your lives, go back to the country
soon."
His quiet words seem to melt the fear of the other patrons,
restoring their courage in the face of these oppressors.
"That's right, that's right!" one man agrees, shaking his
fist at the would-be Ishin Shishi.
"Stay out of Kyoto, you charlatans!" shouts another.
The two men stare about in confusion, and I am amazed at how
quickly their threat is reduced to mere bluster in the face of
true power. Yet, even now, the larger man snarls, his confusion
blossoming into fury in the face of his humiliation, his huge
fists clenching--
"Leave," the young man says, so softly this time that only
the men and I can hear. "On your own, or with my... assistance.
The choice is yours."
His narrowed eyes are like seas of molten gold; calm, yet
ready to consume in flames anyone foolish enough enter their
depths...
I have forgotten how to breathe.
The large man grinds his teeth. His fists tremble, white-
knuckled... then slowly unclench. Eyes lowered, he pushes his
way past my table and out the door, his friend following closely
behind.
The young man watches them leave (when did I start thinking
of him as a young man and not a boy?), then reaches inside his
sleeve to retrieve a few coins, which he tosses onto the table
next to his unfinished food. He nods respectfully to the
proprietor as he walks with an unthinking, silent grace towards
the door. "Sorry about the trouble," he says.
"Oh, not at all!" The old proprietor clutches his serving
tray to his chest and bows deeply. "Thank you!" But when he
straightens, the young man is already gone into the night.
Conversation immediately erupts all around me as I sit
motionless, my heart pounding in my chest, my hands tingling as
they lay folded on the table before me.
"That kid is so strong..."
"Yes... Like a warrior of justice."
A silly thing to say, I think. The ramblings of someone who
has had too much to drink...
Justice...
I look down at my hands and see that they are trembling.
And I realize, only now that he is gone, that he never even
looked at me.
~*~
There is a storm coming.
A cool breeze brushes my hair against my face, and I can
smell rain on the wind as I walk slowly through the damp Kyoto
night. Clouds, gray as ash, race across the full white face of
the moon, and the dark streets gleam wetly from an earlier
rainfall.
My thoughts are muzzy from the sake. I can't seem to get
the image of the boy... of the hitokiri... out of my head...
And I can't help but wonder... what his eyes looked like
when he killed Akira-san...
The wind blows, cold and wet. Thunder rumbles in the
distance, yet the rain does not fall.
"He died an honorable samurai," my father told me as I knelt
numbly, my calligraphy brush still poised, frozen, over the
unfinished letter that I had been composing to my beloved. A
great black stain of spilled ink spread slowly across the
parchment, drowning my half-formed sentiments, sealing them
forever away from human sight. Yet I remember the words still.
Come home, the letter had said. Think not that because
smiles do not come to me easily, that you do not give me joy...
"Fighting for the glory of the Shogunate against the Ishin
Shishi hitokiri," Father continued. "The reports say that his
blade is the only one that has ever left a mark on that bloody
assassin..."
As if knowing that Akira-san had shed another's blood before
he fell would ease my grief, restore my happiness...
I could have kept him safe in Edo with tears... or even a
single smile... but fear kept my impassive mask firmly in place,
driving away the one who would have loved me forever...
And now... Now that I have come to avenge him after so much
time has passed, the sake clouds my mind so that I cannot even
remember his face.
Instead, my mind is filled with images of warm red hair. Of
cold amber eyes. And a voice like the brush of a butterfly wing
against a flower petal...
"H-help me! Somebody, help-"
My thoughts are jerked into the present by that scream, from
the dark street that stretches out before me... and my heart
freezes in my chest as I hear the scream abruptly silenced,
wetly... followed by the sound of flesh hitting the stone
ground...
"Nothing personal," says a deep, raspy voice from the
darkness, and, even as my blood runs cold with terror, I am
filled with a strange sense of relief to discover that it's not
the boy. "But you were in my way."
I need to run. I need to get away from this place,
quickly...
"You killed him, though he was no threat."
...
It's him. He *is* here... lost in the shadows of the street
before me...
"He was in my way," the gruff voice repeats. "So... You are
the Hitokiri Battousai."
I need to run.
But I don't.
"What do you want?" Even now, his voice, though filled with
tension, is low, unassuming.
"I know you. I've watched you for a long time. I want...
your life."
And the sudden, shrill sound of clashing steel fills the
night.
I cannot move. I cannot run.
Not even when the two combatants leap from the shadows
before me, even as the moon breaks through the storm clouds,
abruptly illuminating the scene in an eerie pale light.
The gruff-voiced man is huge, even larger than the men from
the tavern, and he wields his swords, connected by the hilts with
a length of chain, which he has somehow wrapped around the boy's
thin frame, pinning his arms to his sides...
The huge man throws his sword at the boy's head... but the
boy, moving so fast that I can barely see, dodges and catches the
thrown sword by its chained hilt, even as the man leaps over him
for the killing blow...
The boy screams a battle cry as he cleaves the man in half
from shoulder to thigh with the chained sword... and blood
splatters all over me, from head to foot...
The two halves of the man fall to the ground. And the boy
lands lightly on his feet, facing away from me...
Blood. Blood... So much...
I cannot think.
There is blood everywhere. In dark rivers on the ground, in
splashes against the skin of my hands and face, soaking into my
kimono.
In rain, that falls from the sky.
And, as the loosened chains fall from around his body, he
stands with his back to me, but the tenseness in his frame tells
me that he knows I am here.
"*White plum,*" I hear him breathe softly.
My perfume, I realize with numb surprise... He can pick up
its scent amidst all this blood?
His shoulders are stooped and tense, and I can almost hear
him thinking that I've seen too much, I know too much, I have to
die...
Strangely, I am not afraid. Perhaps because of the pounding
of my heart, my sudden light-headedness, the sudden darkness
flickering at the edges of my vision that threatens to swallow my
consciousness right there.
But I cannot faint now...
"I came," I whisper, "out of gratitude for what you did back
there." And, as the words leave my lips, I am surprised to
discover that they are the truth.
He freezes at the sound of my voice. Then, slowly, he turns
to face me. His face is pale, stricken with a look of wide-eyed
shock.
And, as I look at him, eye to eye for the first time... I
notice the scar on his left cheek. A thin, dark line that runs
from the outer edge of his eye, down to his chin.
*...his blade is the only one that has ever left a mark...*
For a moment, without looking, the body at my feet is the
corpse of my beloved. The mist of blood, falling from the sky
against my face, is his.
And even now, I cannot remember his face...
...for I can only see the startled expression of one who
protected me from harm in a small tavern just minutes before...
His amber eyes are feral and trapped, like those of a fierce
tiger that finds itself unexpectedly caged behind bars of steel.
Only I have willingly opened the door, and I stand, waiting.
And, as his fist tightens around the hilt of his sword, I can see
the tiger struggling to decide whether to leap and tear out the
throat of its captor... or stay caged.
"It has been raining blood in these tragic times," I say
quietly.
He pauses, uncertainty suddenly flickering in his wild, wide
eyes.
"But..." I whisper, "you are the one who makes it rain,
aren't you?"
Slowly... the feral glow fades from his eyes. And now, he
is no longer a hitokiri, but a boy again.
A desolate, empty-eyed man-child--
He looks at me in horrified, stricken silence. The sword
slides from the loose grip of his limp, bloodstained hand to
clatter on the stone ground.
--who looks as lost as I feel...
The darkness swallows me then, and I welcome it.
~*~
To be continued.
--
"I think it's impossible to really understand somebody, what they want,
what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves."
from _Ender's Game_
by Orson Scott Card