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Part Three: Truths
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?
Eyes shadowed and concerned, Aoshi watched as Misao paced restlessly back and forth across the small clearing. She's pushing herself too hard. The two of them had been traveling since early that morning, scarcely pausing to rest, stopping only after the sun had set; by rights she should have been exhausted. Toshikage had confirmed Uratsuji's presence in Matsue, but could only vouchsafe that he would remain there for the next seven days. The uragirimono had apparently been trying to contact one of Sunaga's associates, and had finally succeeded in arranging a meeting with Ariga Rennyo -- someone not directly related to what had transpired in Tokyo, but who operated in the same circles of wealth and impunity. Speed was of the essence . . . but Misao's behavior had Aoshi worried. Damn it, what did Uratsuji do to you? Something had happened after they left Kyoto. Although no less determined to face Uratsuji than she had been before, Misao's confidence seemed to be trickling away -- and the harder she tried to hold on to it, the more it evaded her grasp; her efforts serving only to deplete her energy and wound her pride. Refusing to allow him to adjust his pace to hers, she had stubbornly insisted on increasing her gait to match his longer-legged stride, forcing herself to a wearying half-run, something she sustained by sheer force of will. Determined to prove her endurance to be the equal of his, she agreed to rest only if he appeared to be tiring as well. It was as if she were afraid he would reject her if she showed weakness, would leave her if she fell behind. Oh, little one, don't you know I would wait for you? As her okashira he could order her to stop, to go more slowly, to rest; but another voice counseled against it, warning that something had cut at her self-worth, at her assurance, and he would have to tread carefully to repair the damage. So he bided his time, waiting for a more opportune moment, searching for a way to approach her that wouldn't do more harm than good; and as he waited, watching what she was doing to herself, his anger at Uratsuji grew steadily stronger. He had wanted her to come to him, to tell him what had happened in Tokyo of her own volition. Now that was no longer an option -- he needed answers to his questions before they reached Matsue, and before she ran herself into the ground fighting unspoken fears. Anger at Uratsuji was rivaled only by his anger at himself. Sumanu, Misao-mine . . . I should have realized, I shouldn't have waited so long. At the moment, though, what she needed more than anything else was rest. Fighting to keep her eyes open, her legs trembling with exhaustion, she faltered more with each pass. He would deal with the other first thing in the morning; now he needed to persuade her to sleep. Misao fought against the heaviness in her limbs, wanting to keep moving so she wouldn't have to think about what would happen when they reached Matsue; wouldn't have to remember Tokyo; wouldn't have to meet Aoshi's concerned gaze. Mind and heart muddied by weariness, she wavered between elation that he cared enough to worry, and self-disgust that she should give him reason. Gomen nasai, Aoshi-sama . . . I didn't mean to fail you . . . not again . . . not ever. Convinced somehow that she could dispel his fears with a show of strength, she concentrated on the mechanics of movement, grateful for the numbness beginning to spread through her senses. "Misao." His voice, breaking the silence. She slowly turned her head to look for him, blinking against sudden dizziness, staring dumbly when she found him on his knees by the fire, banking the coals for the night. "Hai?" Her voice sounded vague and distorted to her own ears; unspeakably tired. Kami-sama, she looks like she's going to faint. When I find Uratsuji, I'm going to gut him like one of Lake Shinji's fish. "Misao," he repeated, recapturing her wandering attention, "we should get some rest. Tomorrow will be another long day." Their thin blankets had been spread behind her in the shadow of a sheltering tree, giving him an excuse to approach her. Cupping a hand around her elbow, he coaxed her toward bed and rest. Too tired now to argue, pride soothed by the fact that Aoshi was retiring as well, Misao willingly allowed herself to be led. Under his watchful eye she fumbled with her shoes and the wrappings around her legs, then snuggled between her blankets, drawing them up to her chin like a little girl. The last sound she registered was the faint rustling as Aoshi removed his boots. 
It was happening again. Evasion, acceptance, retaliation . . . just as before. Unable to breathe, unable to find purchase, she struggled wildly; arms and legs flailing to no avail. "Misao." Growing desperate, she thrashed harder, frantic to escape. "Misao!" There was an iron bar across her legs, and another across her chest; twin weights preventing her from moving. She whimpered piteously and heard someone gasp, surprise and anguish commingled. "Misao! Mezamere!" Startled, her eyes obediently snapped open to meet Aoshi's. The world spun crazily as the dream resolved itself into reality -- the restraint binding her arm to her side nothing more than her tangled blanket, the weights across chest and thighs nothing more than Aoshi's outstretched limbs. She stared upwards into his clear gaze, reading strain and concern and something else within. Anger? Remorse? "Tell me." It wasn't a request, and Misao needed no explanation to understand what he meant: what happened in Tokyo -- what happened at Sunaga's mansion. Reluctantly obedient to her okashira's will, she gave him the information he wanted. "Himura was busy with Itsurugi and Suguro. The rest of us split up to look for Ayahito, Uratsuji, and Masuaki." Her voice was dull, almost mechanical; her head turned slightly away, blue eyes gazing blankly over his shoulder as she spoke. "I remember Himura yelling for us to wait, and Sano gleefully promising to bring Ayahito back in one piece. While the rooster-head and Yahiko searched high, I searched low . . . and caught up to Uratsuji in Sunaga's wine cellar."
"Matte!" Kunai sliced the air to either side of Uratsuji's head as the angry female voice rang out behind him. Without pause, he turned his loping run into a leap, landing crouched and ready atop a triad of stacked wine casks. They creaked ominously under his weight, emptier than he'd expected; the head of the Sunaga family believed in entertaining gaijin "investors" in fine style. Empty or not the barrels held, and he shifted his attention to the young woman standing in the doorway. Dark hair, petite build, Makimachi Misuko's features . . . and the Oniwabanshuu uniform. "Makimachi Misao," he stated, his tone somehow making it an insult rather than an observation. "Our okashira's granddaughter, content to be nothing more than a lapdog." The black eyes were cold as they ran over her, taking in every detail. "Morinaga-san would be angry to see Oniwabanshuu aiding the Battousai." Misao's jaw tightened. "Himura understands ojiisan's purpose far better than you. Don't presume to know what would be in his heart, uragirimono!" Uratsuji smiled, cold and empty-eyed. "Traitor? I've hurt the Oniwabanshuu no more than Shinomori, yet you named him okashira." A short swift movement of his arms, and in each hand he held a tonfa. "Then again, he's the only one among you who understands what the Oniwabanshuu once were." Face twisting with disgust, he spat into the cellar's clay floor. "Your strength died with Morinaga-san." He gestured with the tonfa, inviting her to attack him: "Come, I'll prove it to you." "And I'll show you the strength the Oniwabanshuu have found in Meiji." Dashing forward, she surprised him by directing her attack at the barrels upon which he knelt, rather than at him; her kick shattering the upper arch of one of the supporting casks and collapsing the structure. He half-jumped, half-dove from his perch, arcing over her head; she pivoted on her heel to follow his progress, peppering the ceiling and surrounding wine racks with kunai. Spinning the tonfa rapidly, he deflected the small projectiles even as he launched his own attack. Much as Aoshi combined kempo with the use of his kodachi, Uratsuji's club-like tonfa played counterpoint to the weaponless strikes of leg and elbow. Misao ducked as his right hand lashed out, the tonfa whipping around to deliver a blow to her skull; then rolled away from his kick, drawing two more of her kunai as she did so. This time she curled her fingers around them, using their weight and dagger-like tips to add stinging impact to her blows. Rising smoothly to her feet inside his reach, she slashed across his chest with her right hand, drove her left upwards into his jaw, then leapt backwards and away while he was still reeling from the combination of strikes. "Jiiya mastered the tonfa before you were born." Misao forced her voice to mere statement of fact, resisting the urge to taunt her opponent as he wiped a trickle of blood from his chin. "I've been his sparring partner for years -- and he is far, far better than you." She raised her fists in an attitude of readiness. "Come. Take me if you can." "Don't be over-confident, Misao-chan," he tossed back, circling around towards her left, "I don't make the same mistakes twice." He's trying to trick me into mirroring him. Shifting to match his slow progress would place her in the jumble of wine racks and crushed wood, curtailing her movements. Keeping her position in the room stationary, she tracked him with her eyes, pivoting her body like the lynchpin in a wheel. "Once is all it will take, if you're careless enough." The words were scarcely out of her mouth before he moved, darting forward and right, placing himself within striking range before she could blink. "Sou da ne," he hissed, ramming one of the tonfa into her stomach and cracking the other into her knee. Pain, bright and startling as hanabi. Misao's mouth opened in a silent scream as her breath was forced from her body, her knee flashing white then numb. Collapsing, she threw herself forwards in a clumsy roll, using her good leg and her palms as impetus. She struggled into a low crouch, still gasping for breath, sensation -- painful sensation -- slowly returning to her knee. "That's once," Uratsuji remarked idly, watching her with almost clinical amusement, "was it enough, do you think?" His face hardened into anger again. "Or does the little girl want to play at being a ninja some more?" "Kisama!" Forcing her still wobbly leg to support her, Misao lunged at him, simultaneously releasing a dozen kunai. The tonfa spun, deflecting the projectiles; she slipped between them, flipping at the last moment so that her feet would strike his chest, the power in the blow compounded by momentum. Blue eyes widened as her legs swung downwards and found only air. "Nani?!" He was above her, arcing forwards and landing in a roll only inches from her head. Desperately, she pushed with her hands, changing the move into an awkward handspring. Uratsuji's voice came from behind her: "That's twice." She had the space of two heartbeats to dodge, turning just far enough that his elbow drove into her shoulder rather than the back of her neck. Dropping to the ground with the blow, she spun quickly, legs outstretched . . . and somehow managed to catch him by surprise. She scrambled out of the way as he fell, kicking him in the ribs before springing backwards and away, seeking a safe distance from which to catch her breath and assess the damage. "I think we're even," she panted, even as her reason protested that goading him was not a wise move. His breathing was still regular, his only real injury the slash across his chest; Misao was winded, her leg weak and aching, her stomach and shoulder sporting bruises. Not wise at all. He gave a short, derisive laugh, dismissing the idea that they were in any way evenly matched. "You don't have the training, you don't have the instinct, and you don't have the skills." He grinned viciously. "You would never have passed for Oniwabanshuu when your grandfather was okashira. Shinomori is only humoring you." Aoshi-sama . . .? Strangely, this suggestion hurt more than any of the other wounds Uratsuji had dealt her. "Masaka . . ." "Aa. But now . . . playtime is over." It was all the warning she had; beaten, weary, emotionally torn, there was no way she could react in time. His charge knocked her backwards and off her feet; his hand at her throat slammed her into the shelves behind them, sending bottles cascading to the floor. "I win." Gasping for breath, the scent of alcohol rising about them, Misao fought against his hold, slowly strangling in his grip. Her hands clawed at his fingers, his stance preventing her from landing a blow with her feet. As the world began to darken around her he leaned close to whisper the final insult. "You disgrace Morinaga-san's Oniwabanshuu."
Gaze still locked on some point over Aoshi's shoulder, Misao seemed unaware of the tears streaking her cheeks, or the sword-calloused fingers stroking her hair away from her face. "When I awoke, we were outside, somewhere in the gardens. Uratsuji was arguing with Masuaki about my usefulness to them . . ."
". . .only slow us down!" "I can move as fast as you -- faster -- with or without her weight. Worry about yourself." Misao faded into consciousness, her head pounding dully, her arms hanging limp, something hard pressing into her stomach. Fuzzy senses slowly managed to piece together the messages from her body, and she realized she was slung over Uratsuji's shoulder. "What do you want her for? She's too scrawny and boyish for my tastes." She bit her lip, tears smarting behind closed lids. First humiliated in the fight, a failure as Oniwabanshuu, and now rejected as a woman. "Ahou." Uratsuji's voice held as much scorn as Saitoh's ever had. "We can use her to buy our safety. Himura-tachi will hesitate to challenge us if they know we have her . . ." ". . . and the Oniwabanshuu will pay any ransom we set in order to protect her." Hearing Uratsuji agree with Matsuoka's assessment, Misao drew in a slow, shuddering breath. It's bad enough that I lost; I won't humiliate my family that way as well -- having to rescue their founder's granddaughter. I won't worry Himura and Kaoru-san, either. Opening her eyes, keeping her body as limp as before, she tried to get a feel for her position and surroundings. Suddenly she was grinning -- despite the situation -- as she realized Uratsuji's belt was only inches from her dangling fingers. That's three. She stretched slowly, hands and arms only, trying to remain as still as possible. Please . . . let him still follow Oniwabanshuu practice. Then she felt it: the cool metal shuriken sharp beneath her searching fingertips. Easing it out, she carefully wrapped her hand around it . . . . . .and slashed downwards across his back with all her might. Uratsuji howled in pain, throwing her from his shoulder; she screamed as well as her back slammed into a nearby tree. A foot dug into her ribs, and then she felt his hand fist in her hair, pulling her upright when her knees attempted to give in reaction. "Jajauma!" He slapped her harshly across the face. "I should kill you for that -- worthless little brat that you are." "Leave her!" Matsuoka's voice rang out with uncharacteristic command. "They're coming -- Himura and that ex-ganster friend of his -- all that noise the two of you made alerted them!" "Not-" "Now!" The plump little money-grubber interrupted Uratsuji's protest without flinching, unimpressed by the larger man's anger. "You don't have time to kill her and get far enough away to make it worth the effort. The Battousai would hunt you down and rip out your heart . . . and that's if you're lucky." "Che!" Matsuoka was right, and if Himura actually let him live, Shinomori would make sure that mistake was corrected. There was no time for this. He shook Misao roughly once, then released her to crumple at the base of the tree. "Follow me." She watched as they disappeared into the surrounding greenery before struggling to her feet, clutching an arm to her bruised body as she stumbled toward the voices of her friends. They cried out when she staggered into view, the men's eyes narrowing in anger when they took in her battered form; Kaoru's widening in shock at her tortured expression and the bruises on her throat. As Himura darted back the way she'd come she collapsed into Kaoru's arms, crying until her system refused to tolerate the mental and physical anguish any longer, and blackness rose up to surround her thoughts.
"They never asked me what had happened -- I don't think Kaoru-san would let them." Misao shrugged, her eyes closed now as if to contain her tears. "They already knew anyway; everything that was important, they knew. I failed them. I failed you. I failed everyone." "Stop." Aoshi's voice was harsh and commanding, tight with some unfamiliar emotion. "It wasn't your fault." "It was!" Suddenly the pain heightened, changing the silent tears to violent sobs. "I couldn't stop him -- I couldn't even wound him!" It wasn't true -- she knew it wasn't true -- she had wounded him, enough to make him cry out in pain. But not enough to make a difference. Aoshi's arms closed around her to offer comfort, and she struggled against them -- "Don't! Don't! I don't deserve it! You should be angry! You should be angry!" It was a strange new anguish: Wasn't she worth reprimanding? Was she so unworthy, so unfit to be Oniwabanshuu, that her mistakes meant nothing? "Why aren't you angry?!" Her hands slid over his shoulders, trying to push him away. "I am." The single tight phrase cut through her hysterical worry, halting all motion. As she stilled, she could feel his body trembling like a wire stretched more than taut. "I am angry," he repeated -- and now she could hear that anger in his voice, hidden though it was in his gentle tone. "Then--" Her voice was a wail, pained and confused. "Not at you. Never at you, certainly not for this!" He shook his head at her, his hands tightening on her shoulders to give her a tiny shake as well. "How could I be angry at you for something that was my fault?" "Your fault? Aoshi-sama-" He shushed her with gentle fingers over her lips. "I thought you agreed not to call me that anymore," he whispered. Misao nodded, and the fingers withdrew, his voice preventing her from protesting further. "It was my fault. All of it. I didn't teach you what you needed to know." His mouth twisted bitterly. "I taught you just enough to make a child happy, then left you on your own." That stung, even given her failure with Uratsuji, and she shoved at his shoulders again, her tears starting afresh when her efforts proved useless. His weight remained -- solid and protective and frustratingly stronger than she. Aoshi brushed the wetness away with his thumbs, a wordless sound of apology rumbling in his throat. "Misao," he chided gently, "you were a child when I took the others to Kyoto. A child with a child's interest and eagerness, wanting to learn and easily appeased." A sob shuddered in her throat, and he bowed his head, his fingers tangled in her hair. "But there's more to ninjutsu - things I should have taught you -- things Okina assumed I had." "What?" she gasped through her sobs, struggling to speak, "What could possibly have made any difference against Uratsuji? What didn't you think I deserved to know?" "No!" His head snapped up to meet hers, frustration flashing in his eyes for just an instant. "Not that you didn't deserve to know, but things it wasn't time for you to know. Things you could learn when you were older, things you would learn once you were truly ready to begin training -- when it was no longer a game." A muscle ticked in his jaw as he closed his eyes, dropping his forehead to rest against hers. "But I wasn't there when you were ready," low and filled with self-reproach, the words seemed almost torn from him. "I swear to you, you aren't to blame for what happened with Uratsuji." And even if you were, the Oniwabanshuu would forgive you. He might have spoken the words aloud, so clearly did she perceive them. She -- they -- had forgiven him for far worse than this, and had welcomed him back with open arms. Why should she be any different? Still Misao hesitated, unwilling to let him accept the blame for her mistakes, unwilling to believe she had made none of her own. "But . . . but what about," her voice broke, "ojiisan?" Aoshi sighed. "Misao . . . your grandfather's name, do you know what it means?" A slight nod, her nose rubbing against his, was his only answer. "It defined him completely. The Oniwabanshuu served to protect -- the emperor, the people of Kyoto, anyone in need." His hand slipped around to the base of her neck, soothing the anxious tension there. "Our founder would be proud of you." She was silent for a moment, then brought her hand up to cup his cheek, her other knotting in his shirt. "Will . . . will you teach me now? The things I didn't learn before, the things I need to face Uratsuji?" She believed him. Relieved and grateful to hear her request, Aoshi let his body relax against her. "Aa." He grunted in surprise when she wrapped her arms around him in an exuberant hug. "If you don't break my ribs," he amended teasingly, earning a giggle. Enjoying the sound, the feel of her trembling happily in his arms, he ducked his head into the curve of her neck and felt her snuggle against him, her hands smoothing over his back. Still, there was something else that needed to be said; he whispered it against her skin. "Sumanu . . . I'm sorry I failed you. So many times . . . I'm sorry." So very sorry. There was no way for him to apologize enough; all of her sorrows, anything that had ever hurt her . . . he had been the cause. "Sumanu." Misao rocked her head gently against him, drawing in breath to protest. "Iie," he murmured, "It's only the truth." She felt him smile against her, the gesture at odds with the emotion in his voice. "Himura told me, when we fought in Shishio's stronghold . . . he told me I had to answer for your tears, that only I could quiet them." Raising his head, he opened his eyes to meet her startled gaze. "It's been over a year -- closer to two -- and I still haven't started. I think it's time." Past time. He brushed a kiss across her mouth. Please let me make you happy. Aoshi . . . Tears pricked her eyes again -- happy ones this time -- and she tilted her chin to kiss him back. "Hold me, then," she whispered when he released her, "Just hold me." Wordless agreement rumbled in his chest, and his arm tightened obligingly around her waist -- pulling her closer, settling her more comfortably along his length. His other arm pillowed her head, his leg holding hers trapped warmly beneath. Cuddling into his shoulder, she listened to the beating of his heart, relaxing to the gentle stroke of his hand through her hair and along her arm. I was right, she thought, sliding into relaxing slumber for the first time in months. It feels safe and warm and cherished. "I love you, Aoshi." He gently nuzzled her ear, returning the words to her even though she was too far gone to hear them. "Aishteru, Misao-mine. Aishiteru."
Index of Japanese Terms
Explanation of Japanese names:
Author's notes:
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