Odds and Ends
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Category:
Rurouni Kenshin › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
3,407
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Rurouni Kenshin, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The end justifies the means
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. Watsuki owns the RK characters but the OCs, ideas, plot and words are *mine*.
Odds and Ends
Chapter 2: The end justify the means
Tokio turned to the man again, handing him the bowl of rice and the pair of chopsticks.
“Can I ask now who you are?”
He was frowning deeply, and she would have thought that he wasn’t happy with the food, if not for his gaze focused on her face, with the same weird intensity as he had had at first; as if he was passing a judgment on her. He seemed to realize that she had talked, and retrieved his noncommittal expression.
“I heard that name before, I think. Itadakimasu,” he shrugged, attacking the rice.
She knew that whether he had or not, it wasn’t from the others, but there was still an explanation. She bit her lip, as she was about to say that it was because her father had been a support to the Shinsengumi, an official to Matsudaira Katamori, daimyo of Aizu and protector of Kyoto. His role had been mostly in the shadows, but it wasn’t unlikely that it had been pronounced in their ranks. Yet, it was better to shut up. The man had said nothing about him yet, and she had told him too much already. He didn’t seem prone to hurt her, and maybe he was an unexpected ally, yet she preferred that he saw her as a relatively helpless thing, just in case. Being underestimated by her kidnappers, who hadn’t even looked for her dagger and tied her up with thin cords, had been another proof to her that it was better not to be revealed as capable.
“I still didn’t hear *your* name,” she pointed.
“Yamaguchi…Hajime,” he answered, between two mouthfuls.
She had to make an effort to hide a commiserating smile. He was lying. Even if she hadn’t been so in the know, everyone in Aizu knew that the Shinsengumi there had been under the leadership of a certain Yamaguchi Jiro, who was no other than the infamous third captain, Saitoh Hajime. The man had chosen a combination of the two, his hesitation was telltale. His lack of knowledge of the environment, in spite of his deductions and his being a fighter, had made her deduce that he wasn’t from the region. It was a definite certainty, now. He wouldn’t have tried to fool her with such an awkward choice. Everybody knew that Yamaguchi/Saitoh had been gone for the last battle, and had not come back. He hadn’t been with Hijikata in Hokkaido, either.
It awoke some defiance in her, once more. Yet, she tried to consider all the options. He could be a criminal, an ex-member of Mitani’s group, gone after them for revenge. Nevertheless, it didn’t fit what she had witnessed of the fight. He had referred to Justice. He had said to Mitani that he would end his criminal career. He didn’t say anything about personal revenge…and men were always saying to their victims why they died, in case of duels.
The explanation occurred to her, suddenly. Indeed, he was a criminal, but in the eyes of the despicable Meiji government. Of course, the few survivors living around Aizu had all changed names, and hid their past. She could understand that he didn’t want to trust a stranger with his real name. Her weariness faded somewhat. If the choice was representative of the kind of men whom he looked up at, he was certainly an honorable one. The Shinsengumi was despised or forgotten already as a group of losers, everywhere…but not in Aizu people’s minds. The way the new government made them pay for their loyalty to the Bakufu had gained no sympathy. It had won them hatred…including hers.
“You’re not eating?” he asked, taking her out of her thoughts.
“There is only one pair of chopsticks. I’ll have my rice after you.”
***
The night had fallen while he had been eating. Saitoh gave a look to his cigarette pack, and though he had decided to spare them, not knowing for how long they would stay, he eventually took another one.
She was having her share of food now, gazing once more at the fire. She had gotten closer to it, and indeed, the room’s temperature had gone down a little. The snow was still falling furiously, and it seemed that the storm had enough ire to last indefinitely. He laid down again, watching her, the hands bringing the chopsticks to her mouth in a gracious move, and the small bites of her lips.
Saitoh had never believed in fate, but he had to admit that this one seemed much like an irony of destiny.
She was his wife, the reason why he had had to come to Aizu.
He had been quite displeased about the trip, considering that he was working on a case of corruption that was giving cold sweat to his superior, Kawaji, which made the small man annoyingly prone to throw tantrums. Saitoh had never liked hotheaded people, and notwithstanding getting rid of the object of his investigation, he was eager to get rid of Kawaji’s ridiculous outbursts, too. He had delayed the trip as much as he had been able to, without offending Matsudaira, who had played the matchmaker for him. The daimyo, ex-daimyo, forgot a debt as much as Saitoh was, the letter had said, referring to Saitoh’s reasons for staying and defending Aizu instead of leaving for Sendai with Hijikata, 6 years before. Saitoh was kind of thankful for his intervention, considering that Kawaji was planning something similar, as soon as he would officially enter the police forces, instead of working undercover. The imbeciles thought that marrying the daughter from a dignitary of the new regime would assure his loyalty to the new powers in place.
Morons, double morons, triple morons. Never Saitoh would be loyal to *them* as individuals or as politicians, they were, and would always be, traitors in the first place. He had joined because as they were the new order, and, if he relied on the numerous security crises that they didn’t seem able to solve without him, very incapable to take care of the country correctly, he had followed his duty: assuring that if the Shinsengumi had lost, it wasn’t to chaos. Times changed, systems changed, leaders changed, but the ultimate purpose of Japanese independence and stability was surviving. As long as it would be their goal, Saitoh would be on their side. It was ridiculous to think that a personal advantage or link would be of any weight if in the balance against this superior reason.
Moreover, Kawaji had thrown names, and they were ex-*peasants*, enriched on the political situation, or merchants, money-obsessed group that Saitoh despised above all. Saitoh was a samurai, whatever they decided to abolish casts, and precisely because of it, he would marry into a samurai family. He would be away almost permanently, and it wasn’t to let the education of his offspring to a woman or to in-laws unable to educate them in the principles of his class. It wasn’t with the Meiji fluffy discourses that you made men out of your sons. The young women of Meiji, and in particular of the lower classes, were as worthy of a comparison with a samurai woman of Edo, as those young thugs of nowadays could have survived the Bakumatsu with their poor skills. Their arrogant, childish and demanding stance was finally rending them utterly unattractive to Saitoh.
He didn’t know how Matsudaira had learnt of his situation, yet the proposition to find a decent wife for him had arrived by the end of summer. Because of the ill-timing, the Daimyo knowing of his current charge, Saitoh had thought that they would agree on the wedding, and that it would be done without him. He just had to apply his signature on the paper. He would get to see his wife, and a celebration, if they wanted, once he had the time. He had been satisfied with the outcome, until the insistence that they would proceed the traditional way had unnerved him. Even taking the pretext of the winter hadn’t been enough, and finally, he had found himself, grumbling and reluctant, on the way to Aizu, to make the acquaintance and marry that Takagi Tokio, whom Matsudaira has praised as beautiful, intelligent, educated in the pure tradition of the samurai class, and above all dutiful. Saitoh had thought that he had exaggerated greatly, but now he had to admit that some of it seemed to correspond to reality. On the first two, that was sure. Matsudaira, indeed, wasn’t an ungrateful man.
Saitoh had understood better when he had received a message from the Daimyo, on the way. Part of his insistence was surely rooting in Mitani’s presence…
He grinned, the gesture provoking a numb pain on his crackled lips. That coincidence gave him an occasion to observe her, and her lack of knowledge on the situation would reveal him more than an official meeting. This was partly why he didn’t give her his identity. She married him under his new name, Fujita Goro, as he wanted to judge her before revealing or not his past as Saitoh Hajime to her…reason why he had not given it to her earlier, either. The stupefaction to learn who she was had erased from his tired brain the fake identity that he had come up with in prevision of her question. Maybe being near to Aizu, his old name of Yamaguchi Jiro had come back to him, and it was at the last moment that he had thought that she might have heard it. He had gone with a combination…which was after all his *real* name.
It was a funny irony, too, especially as she had not seemed to believe it, yet this time, he couldn’t even lift his lips. He moved a bit, his body slow to answer, and he felt the beginning of a headache. Damn, he was tired.
She was washing the bowls and the chopsticks now, and observing her hair swaying rhythmically with the moves, sleepiness invaded him. He had just to assure one thing before he could rest, at last.
***
Even the proximity of the fire wasn’t warming Tokio, just burning her hands and her face, creating an aching contrast with her freezing bones. With the steam, the room’s humidity had increased, and now it was only heightening the cold sensation. Her teeth were shaking, her lips trembling under the little shudders. Her under-kimono didn’t dry the least, the collar and front were even more humid with sweat, and she began to worry that it would take more than the night for her clothes to dry enough to be worn. She stayed still, gazing at the flames, wondering what to do.
“What are you waiting for? You’re going to get a cold, moron.”
His voice was an odd mix of laziness and order, dry as always but also faraway. She turned to him, and noticed signs of exhaustion, on his face and in his stance. He had awoken rapidly, but still he had undertaken the effects of the cold. He was definitely not from Aizu: she was so frail compared to him, yet her habit of the weather made her more resistant.
“I’m not a moron,” she said dryly. She was getting a bit tired of his attitude.
“I have no time for discussion. There is one futon and one blanket, the temperature is going to go down more, and you’re still in your half-wet clothes, *outside*. Now, if you want to die with hypothermia…”
He knew this, at least. When winters were really hard, especially after the defeat, when they had to spare wood, she slept with her mother, her father and Goro-chan, because human heat was the best source of warmth against the deadly cold. But, with a stranger, a man, it was different…she couldn’t help to hesitate.
She stared at him again; he really was exhausted, so much that his eyes were shining. She was ridiculous; still, maybe if she kept her yukata, she would feel less…vulnerable. She made a move towards the futon.
“I don’t want to be chilled, take this off” he uttered, and then, with a contemptuous sigh, he turned his back on her.
She didn’t know whether it was a show of delicacy or of exasperation, but it made her forget her reserve and comply. She suspended the piece of clothing next to the others, some cold shudders still coursing through her, and finally, after placing another log in the fire, she slid under the blanket, next to him. Luckily, it was quite big, probably to allow one person to be rolled under several layers. They would have to do with one, but they were completely covered, at least. She shivered as her skin was in contact with the rough, uncomfortable and slightly damp futon, and the blanket was rugged against her flesh, but it was a little bit better. Her muscles were sore, she realized, exhaustion falling upon her, too, using insidiously the relief sweeping over her.
She had hoped that he would make the move, yet after several endless second, and although his respiration told her that he wasn’t sleeping yet, it was blatant that he wouldn’t. He wasn’t making things easy for her. He had called her prudish, well, maybe that was the word. She wanted to spit to him that he could be more understanding. It was only normal that she was so awkward; she had never slept in the same bed as a man. Though she had rather get used to it, she thought bitterly.
Her nervousness disappeared quickly, she banned the grim thoughts; she was too tired to stay angry, and finally, she moved towards him, joining her back to his. The part of the futon where she was now had been previously warmed by his body. The skin of his back was not so cold, his thighs were warm already, and she was stupidly reassured by the bandages, which made a small belt preventing the contact from being complete. She couldn’t help but letting out a sigh of well-being. He still didn’t move, and finally she was able to relax.
She stared at the fire, thinking that she shouldn’t sleep too long: the new log would last only a few hours. The flames grew in intensity in front of her tired eyes, soon she could only see an orange blur, until her lids closed and she fell into a deep slumber.
***
He was hot, his body was on fire, and his head banging as if it was going to explode. Why was he feeling so bad, all of a sudden?
He tried to change position, the form into his arms moving reflexively in answer, with a little content sigh. Smooth flesh against his hard frame, soft skin under his wandering hands, and fresh, delicate scent…a woman…why was he with a woman? He should be at the office, examining the last reports on that case…
He searched into his mind, thinking was painful and he couldn’t even grasp a clear memory, until a lasting impression finally brought a word to him, wife, and then an image. Long black hair, a graceful body clad in a revealing white yukata, and clear eyes…Yes, he was with his wife. He didn’t remember being married…maybe he had been too drunk at the wedding party…he didn’t drink that much since the new era…or he would want to kill people. Kill…the war…no, the war was over now…the fire…he was on fire…
He tightened his hold on her, trying to focus, to hang on to reality. Her breasts were round mounds tentatively pressed against his chest, and her skin was so, so soft, especially when the bedding was so uncomfortable. He couldn’t help his hands to trace the definition of her curves, trying to get familiar with her again…his muscles were sore, he must have made love to her many times…that wouldn’t be surprising, she sounded so welcoming. He felt desire mounting, that wasn’t a good idea, he was in too bad of a shape, but he couldn’t fight it. He moaned as he managed to touch the interior of her thighs, delicate skin…
She bolted, exclaiming something that he couldn’t get with the blood pounding into his ears, and he attracted her on top of him. The move hurt his flank…he groaned in pain, how weird, and he held her closer, trying to open his eyes. He could only manage to half lift his heavy lids, and he could discern nothing but her mouth. She was talking, and he couldn’t get it, either, too distracted by his numbing state and the view. It was a beautiful mouth, the bottom lip full, the upper lip graciously curved. He had to know what she was saying…
“…please…fever…me…”
Oh, she was so sweet. Her tone was pleading, and she bit that tempting lower lip as he placed one hand on her bottom, molding her to him. It wasn’t a good idea, he was too tired, but if she wanted it too…With his other hand, he brought her face to his, and kissed her, not taking the time of teasing touches, his tongue invading her mouth voraciously. She tasted good, he wanted more, but she went all stiff in his arms, and he could feel her shock…that was odd…she didn’t respond, even when he tried to coax her, more slowly and tentatively…
She had never been kissed. The thought flashed through his mind, and he released his grip somewhat. She placed her hands on his torso, trying to keep a distance, that wasn’t right, something wasn’t right…If only his headache let him remember…Maybe that was it. The image of her half naked in her yukata, and in his arms, had made him think that they had consumed their marriage, but maybe not…
Certainly not, he could feel her panicked respiration. He tried once more to gather his thoughts about her, but she was talking again, too fast now, and he couldn’t focus on both, not even on one…she was worried, he could get this from her tone…that was it, she was still a virgin, and she was worried…
He lifted his hand to caress her hair; it was a silky mess, odd and nice to touch. All in her was nice to touch. He wanted to tell her that it would be nice for her, too.
“My wife…”
It was all that he managed to utter, his arm was horribly heavy, and he let it down, exhausted by the effort. His head began to spin, still pounding, and he released her completely. His whole body was stinging, he was burning alive. He saw red, then black, and then there was nothing.
***
Tokio was unable to make a move. She was still kneeling, just next to him; she had gotten away as soon as he had released her. She was in utter shock, physical and mental, a hand on her heart, which was pounding like mad, her body scorching where he had touched her, the feeling of his rough hands lingering.
He was now tossing his head, unconscious, beads of sweat pearling on his forehead, moaning as his restless moves were tearing at the wound on his flank.
She stayed there a minute, until the panic and disturbing feelings disappeared, and she realized that the room was freezing again, and very dark, though the slight whitening of the scenery behind the shoji told her that dawn was already pointing.
He had fever, and…oh, no, the fire!
She rushed, desperate, hoping that there was something to save. There was a small piece of log still glowing under the layer of ashes, but it wouldn’t be enough. She grabbed the match box, and heaved a sigh of relief as they were still dry. She re-lit the fire as fast as the shaking in her arms and legs allowed her to. She prepared another pot of boiling water, and other bandages, getting warmer and more optimistic as the flames splattered across the room again, until she turned to him. He was still delirious. She un-wrapped the bandages to see his wound, and fortunately in a way, he was too feverish to struggle or turn away, so that she could manipulate his tall body rather easily. She observed the trace left by the katana, sighing with relief as she saw no sign of frosting, and it was of a deep red, there wasn’t any trace of infection either. Maybe the fever was only due to the cold and exhaustion.
She hoped so, because she had no medicine with her, and she wouldn’t be able to do anything, then, she regretted, as she finished her care by replacing the blanket correctly around him.
***
Hours had passed, and it was the beginning of the afternoon, according to Tokio’s estimations, when “Yamaguchi Hajime” seemed to calm down a little.
The storm had also lessened, during the morning, to be back with a vengeance, winds hurling outside louder than a hundred wolves. Her negligence had slowed the process of drying the clothes, and they had just been engorged with humidity again.
She had nevertheless put her yukata on, grimacing whenever she was moving, as it was sticking to the skin of her breasts. The foreign contact made her thought of the way he had touched her, and to her disbelief, it made them tense. She looked at the bowl of okayuu that she had prepared a bit earlier, and had tried to feed him with, without success. Maybe she should try again…He was sleeping like a stone now, his respiration at last regular, it was no use. She was just trying not to think of the events of the morning. She had managed to avoid it until that moment, busy that she had been with the state of the ill man, but…
She stiffened. She’s better address the issue, or she would finally be unable to take it out of her mind. It was simple. In his fever, he had confused her with his wife, and had behaved as he would have with her. He had been utterly delirious: hence he wasn’t really responsible for what had happened. He would surely apologize when he awoke, she would accept it, and that would be the end of the embarrassing incident. Yes, that was it. Of course, she had been terribly shocked, and she didn’t know how she would spend one more night naked next to him…but as long as he didn’t have fever anymore…
She felt herself blushing to the root of her hair as her mind signaled to her that she was refusing to acknowledge the most embarrassing.
She had been in his arms before she awoke…and after she awoke, all right. She hadn’t been supposed to sleep for so long, she never could when she was not comfortable. Yet, she had been feeling so well. She guessed that they had changed position during the night, she looking for more warmth, and he out of habit, since he had a wife. She couldn’t forget that she had drifted out of her sleep, to feel that hot and solid body holding her close, and that she had snuggled even closer. She had felt his hands caressing her, knowingly stroking her back, her hips, her shoulders, and the delicious feeling that they were creating. It hadn’t seemed the least out of place; it was only good and natural. He had murmured some words, and she hadn’t gotten them, not clear-minded yet; but his voice had been low and so…tempting, the combination of all the sensations, touch and sounds and also his scent, all that could have made her just purr with pleasure. It was only when…oh, she couldn’t even dare to *think* where his hands had wandered.
She had been taken abruptly out of what she was half-convinced was a wonderful dream, and after a moment of sheer panic, she had realized in what state he was. His body was too hot, and his face flustered. She had tried to tell him, but then…She had been truly scared when he had yanked her on top of him, holding her so close, she had thought that nothing would prevent him to do whatever he wanted, and then the kiss, so fierce at first that she had been frozen with shock. It was only after…he had softened at the very moment when she thought she was going to burst into tears with despair, puzzling her because she didn’t feel so afraid anymore, and he had stopped very soon, letting her at loss, torn between contradicting feelings, and even more after she gazed into his eyes.
He had seemed to realize that something was wrong, and his amber gaze was perplexed behind the veil of fever that was tarnishing it. She had been still afraid that he would try again, and her first move had been an attempt to get away from danger, to be once more bewildered by his reaction. His gesture had been so soft, blatantly soothing, his hand caressing slowly her hair, and his expression, for a second, had softened, it had been…indulgent, his voice full of bemused assurance.
Maybe this was why she wasn’t afraid of him now. Why she still took care of him when it might have been more reasonable not to. But she was sure that this wouldn’t reproduce.
Not with him, at least.
The thoughts of her ill-fated marriage invaded her. Her husband wouldn’t look at her like this, or call her “my wife” on that tone. He was a dog, working for the government, and could hence only be rotten to the bone. Her father had told her that Matsudaira-sama “owed” that man. Surely, he was one of those Ishin peasants who realized that their newly acquired social rank would never replace the nobility of samurai, and were buying or pressuring families, in a pitiful attempt to gain it by marriage. Fujita Goro was even worse, a cop, like those who bullied the population in Aizu; agent of the repression of the Meiji monsters.
She had stopped talking to her brother when he had entered the department of Justice, being a prosecutor for the hatred regime, one year before...her father could say whatever he wanted, for the sake of the family heir, but she would never forgive Morinosuke. Neither would her mother: they both refused to hear a word about it. Her brother’s betrayal had even pushed her to been more active, to compensate. And it was to end up marrying one of the Meiji valets. At least, her dear mother understood her, and had done all she could to avoid to her the humiliation. They had had no choice, and Tokio knew that they owed Matsudaira too much themselves to refuse. She would follow her duty, whatever it cost her, and would show what being from the samurai class was about. And maybe more…maybe she could use him.
That was because of Fujita, if she was in this mess in the first place. Learning that he would finally come, and that their marriage was going to be official, she had obtained via her mother the authorization to go to their mountain house, under the pretext to prepare to face her future. In fact, she had hoped to get information, and then…
She finally shook her head, putting an end to her reflections. She would have a lifetime for unpleasant thoughts. She was also too tired to find out what had gone wrong with the meeting.
Yamaguchi was still sleeping, and she took off the handkerchief that she had placed on his forehead, realizing that the fever had significantly dropped. She decided to repeat the kind of cataplasm a last time, to assure that the temperature wouldn’t reverse, and replaced the fabric on him, after having plunged it into the hot water. He hadn’t reacted to the heat before, but this time he clenched his jaw, still he didn’t wake up. Fine, she would have the time to distant herself more with the *incident*, and now that she had rationalized it, well most of it, it would be easier to pretend that she hadn’t been affected the least. Not too much.
That left her quite idle, though.
She looked around for something to do; inactivity was no good for her state of mind. Finally, passing a hand into her hair in annoyance, she realized how messy it was. That would surely get her busy for a certain time to brush and untangle it with her ornamental comb, and the repetitive, mind-emptying task was just what she needed.
***
Saitoh had the feeling to be in a very advanced state of inebriety, and victim of the worst hangover at the same time. An iron bar was circling his head, and the rest of his body seemed as pliant as cotton. Nevertheless, he had the contradictive quasi-certainty that he was better.
His eyes fluttered opened, and he felt something…somebody next to him. He turned cautiously his head towards the person, to see…Takagi Tokio. The situation came back to him: lost in the isolated shack, with a woman who was his wife.
She was holding the points of her hair into her hands, obviously finishing brushing it. He stared at her a moment, the shadows on her face as she was back to the fire, and the long mass of ebony hair, shining with the flames’ reflects, and which seemed even longer now that it was properly ordered.
He frowned, the light from outside showed that it was full day. He searched his mind, to find only a blank void. His last memory was her settling next to him, and he had fallen asleep almost immediately. And then…nothing, a bunch of strange impressions, maybe, but nothing clear. Dreams, surely, or rather nightmares; the impression left was odd.
“How long did I sleep?” That was replaying the scene of the previous day, or almost, and he had a weird feeling…deja-vu.
She let her comb fall, obviously startled that he was awake.
“I hope that you didn’t think that I was dead…combing your hair would be quite a strange reaction to a cadaver,” he quipped. His voice was hoarse. He was thirsty.
She was still gaping at him, and he began to think that indeed, he had been right on. She finally got a grip on herself, and turned towards the fire, bringing a bowl to him.
“Some tea. I could make you drink a little, but not much…you must be dehydrated, with the fever.”
“Fever?” That was why he was feeling as weak as a newborn? He frowned more, noticing that it was mirroring her expression.
“You don’t remember?”
“Not the least. I fell asleep, and woke up just now.”
She had turned her back to him once more, to get a bowl of okayuu, this time. “You got feverish before dawn, you were delirious, and obviously in much pain. Luckily, this isn’t due to an infection of your wound. Exhaustion, probably.”
He was vexed: he had been through worse than this, and he was collapsing with a little cocktail of cold and a shallow wound. Maybe his moronic colleagues were right about never resting. Nevertheless, something else preoccupied him. “What did I say? When I was delirious?”
She widened her eyes. His tone had been too sharp, damn.
“You said nothing intelligible, you were more looking like suffering,” she answered, her gray eyes detached. “Only…”she finally added, as he was still staring inquisitively at her.
“Only?”
“Oh, at one point, you called your wife.”
“What?” He was certainly delirious again.
“Yes,” she repeated, shrugging, “you said “my wife”, that’s all. All that wasn’t mumbling, at least.”
He considered her. She was telling the truth. His job and secrecy were safe, but obviously, not his sanity.
“Where are my cigarettes?”
He really needed one.
***
The man whom Tokio knew as Yamaguchi Hajime had been dozing off the rest of the afternoon, still exhausted by his access of fever.
It had left her once more alone with her thoughts and speculations, and her nervousness. She had checked on their clothes at least ten times per hour, bond to be disappointed on the rapidity in which they dried. The fabrics were thick, and the process was desperately slow. She had had to go on the engawa and get a new bucket of snow, and even though she had worn only her upper kimono and his coat, both were back to their first state of humidity. She tried to convince herself that if she didn’t forget the fire during the night, this time, she might be able to wear the intermediate layers the following day.
Except for these tasks, she had had nothing to do. It had left her plenty of time to wonder about him.
He didn’t remember anything. She couldn’t say whether she was relieved or bothered. Relief made sense. She could pretend that nothing happened, and she congratulated herself that she had been able to look at him in the eyes and look distant when she had talked about his delirium. Plus, she had concluded that indeed, it had been a result of fever, and that it would hence not happen again. Being bothered was ridiculous. Yes, she didn’t receive apologies, but as she had decided that it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t like he had to present some. Being spared the acknowledgement was a way better option than apologies.
She nevertheless had been a bit taken aback by his attitude. He had looked…dangerous again, when she had revealed him the two little, insignificant words that he had said. Not that he seemed any nice or kind, even now, peacefully sleeping. Merely relaxed, like a wolf resting after a hunt. She had observed for hours the sharp features…and to be honest, her mind had wandered to his wife, what kind of person she could be and how he was with her. Funnily, he hadn’t come to her mind one second that he could be married, until he hinted it. A wolf, indeed, a lone wolf, that was the impression that he gave. He was arrogant and demanding, that she had seen. Brutally honest, too, in his way to deal with her; and when he had killed the kidnapers, she had seen a ruthless fighter. There was some no-nonsense, down-to-earth realism to him, and in this he was paradoxically inspiring some kind of trust. She could imagine that in spite of his difficult temper, a woman could be reassured by his presence…and in the morning, he had been…attractive? She had been terrified at first, but there was something in his attitude that had made her overcome it.
She spent her afternoon building theories on his contrariety about his slip. She could explain it again by his need not to have his real identity revealed. Maybe that was why he had looked so puzzled about having talked about his wife, maybe he had a family that he wanted to protect. Maybe there was something about her kidnappers that he knew and didn’t want her to…though she was still sure that he wasn’t a criminal.
There was something else, though, and she was resentful of him for that. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, and even more in the light of the things that were to come. She had always been sure that she would go through her marriage as she had been through the war, the siege, and the fall, focusing on completing her duty and helping the best she could. She had always been conscious that, aside for her rank to keep, she was luckier than many, who had ended up without roof upon their heads, without food, and even worse, without family to protect them. She hadn’t had the roughest time, the poor girls that she saw in the streets, before from commoner, but comfortable families, now having to sell their bodies to survive, when they were not forced to by brutes like this Mitani…
Yet, Yamaguchi Hajime had made her realize that her own life wouldn’t be that much different, in spite of material advantages. She would have to let a man that she wasn’t the least attracted to, that she despised and hated, touch her and treat her as he wished. Maybe he would be violent…and if Matsudaira owed him, she couldn’t expect any help from him or her father.
She had *known*, but she had had no idea…no idea that a touch could affect like this, that she would be so scared and so shaken, that she would be unable to think about anything else. It hadn’t be so awful, because…because it had made her feel good before she realized, before she had been so helpless, prisoner and aware that she couldn’t escape. But the man in the cabin wasn’t her husband, and he had stopped.
She would hate it and she would have no way to stop it. She had thought of it as an unpleasant chore, that she would have to close her eyes and that she would forget about it just after, how naïve and stupid she had been. She had merely paid attention to her friends’ discussions, and them telling how they had suffered through their wedding nights, even when they had what they called “caring husbands”. Tokio had had so many things more important in mind than this, especially since last year. She had thought that she wouldn’t marry, less now that she was too old, at 24, to be the first choice of an arranged wedding. She had thought that she would devote herself to her parents and to the cause.
She had *known* that what happened to the girls in the streets was the most terrible thing that could happen to a woman, but she hadn’t realized. She had pitied them, but now only, she could begin to imagine what their lives were like. She would merely begin to imagine, and never would she be in that state of misery, but she would have a more accurate idea in a few days, when she would have to let her future husband put his dirty hands on her.
Yamaguchi made a sudden move, groaning something that she didn’t get, the blanket falling to his waist. She bent over to place it back over his shoulders, her hands inadvertently touching his chest, and stilling. She let go of the fabric, a bit astonished at the strange reaction that she had, the weird vibration of her nerves. As if possessing a will independent from her own, her fingers went to design the definition of his collarbone, and the muscular curve of his shoulder. He sighed in his sleep, groaned again, and realizing what she was doing, she backed off.
Yes, she couldn’t know yet, because even though she had been terrified, it was more under the effect of his unexpected behavior, in the morning. The man on the futon didn’t repulse her, and she had felt warm and secured in his arms, not disgusted. That wouldn’t be the same with the Meiji dog. She knew nothing about him and hated him already.
Whoever was Yamaguchi Hajime, his wife was surely a luckier than her.
She gave a last glance at him, getting finally a grip, before preparing the next meal. She had to stop her train of thoughts, and wondering about her enigmatic companion’s identity was a safer topic, diverting her inappropriate curiosity about him. She would try to know more, but that seemed impossible tonight. Tomorrow would be better.
To be continued
Author’s notes:
Itadakimasu: Japanese equivalent of “good appetite”.
Saitoh took the name Yamaguchi Jiro when he was the leader of the Shinsengumi in Aizu. When he took the name of Fujita Goro isn’t clear: I found several dates prior to 1877. His real name was Yamaguchi Hajime, though in other sources (including Kenshin Hiden) he is referred to as Yamaguchi Yousuke, before he left Edo (maybe he is confused with his father, Yamaguchi Yuusuke)
The stay of the Shinsengumi in Aizu lasted from spring to September 1868, hence Saitoh having no knowledge of the winter’s weather conditions can make sense (I didn’t include his stay in Aomori here, bad me).
Tokio’s little brother, Takagi Morinosuke, was nicknamed “Goro”, he was a Aizu Hanshi during the war, and he entered the Justice department later. He was a “drinking buddy” of Saitoh’s, according to several reports. One of Goro’s daughters has left a description of Saitoh and Tokio, in their late years, when they were visiting the Takagis in Aizu. (The historical sources come from different Japanese websites and books. For Japanse speakers, the most complete one is『新撰組・斉藤一の全て』新人物往来社, November 2003)
“Let’s count the clichés game”(2)…Yes, I dared to use the “arranged marriage with a man she thinks is scum but is in fact the attractive guy she just met” classical misunderstanding (RIP Barbara Cartland), the hero not telling his identity, and the hero making his move while having fever…I think that it should be all for this one. (^-^)
Chapter 3: OK, they have to disagree, you know, being off balance is better if one has to fall (cliché 1)…Tokio reveals her true colors and gets a reality check.
Odds and Ends
Chapter 2: The end justify the means
Tokio turned to the man again, handing him the bowl of rice and the pair of chopsticks.
“Can I ask now who you are?”
He was frowning deeply, and she would have thought that he wasn’t happy with the food, if not for his gaze focused on her face, with the same weird intensity as he had had at first; as if he was passing a judgment on her. He seemed to realize that she had talked, and retrieved his noncommittal expression.
“I heard that name before, I think. Itadakimasu,” he shrugged, attacking the rice.
She knew that whether he had or not, it wasn’t from the others, but there was still an explanation. She bit her lip, as she was about to say that it was because her father had been a support to the Shinsengumi, an official to Matsudaira Katamori, daimyo of Aizu and protector of Kyoto. His role had been mostly in the shadows, but it wasn’t unlikely that it had been pronounced in their ranks. Yet, it was better to shut up. The man had said nothing about him yet, and she had told him too much already. He didn’t seem prone to hurt her, and maybe he was an unexpected ally, yet she preferred that he saw her as a relatively helpless thing, just in case. Being underestimated by her kidnappers, who hadn’t even looked for her dagger and tied her up with thin cords, had been another proof to her that it was better not to be revealed as capable.
“I still didn’t hear *your* name,” she pointed.
“Yamaguchi…Hajime,” he answered, between two mouthfuls.
She had to make an effort to hide a commiserating smile. He was lying. Even if she hadn’t been so in the know, everyone in Aizu knew that the Shinsengumi there had been under the leadership of a certain Yamaguchi Jiro, who was no other than the infamous third captain, Saitoh Hajime. The man had chosen a combination of the two, his hesitation was telltale. His lack of knowledge of the environment, in spite of his deductions and his being a fighter, had made her deduce that he wasn’t from the region. It was a definite certainty, now. He wouldn’t have tried to fool her with such an awkward choice. Everybody knew that Yamaguchi/Saitoh had been gone for the last battle, and had not come back. He hadn’t been with Hijikata in Hokkaido, either.
It awoke some defiance in her, once more. Yet, she tried to consider all the options. He could be a criminal, an ex-member of Mitani’s group, gone after them for revenge. Nevertheless, it didn’t fit what she had witnessed of the fight. He had referred to Justice. He had said to Mitani that he would end his criminal career. He didn’t say anything about personal revenge…and men were always saying to their victims why they died, in case of duels.
The explanation occurred to her, suddenly. Indeed, he was a criminal, but in the eyes of the despicable Meiji government. Of course, the few survivors living around Aizu had all changed names, and hid their past. She could understand that he didn’t want to trust a stranger with his real name. Her weariness faded somewhat. If the choice was representative of the kind of men whom he looked up at, he was certainly an honorable one. The Shinsengumi was despised or forgotten already as a group of losers, everywhere…but not in Aizu people’s minds. The way the new government made them pay for their loyalty to the Bakufu had gained no sympathy. It had won them hatred…including hers.
“You’re not eating?” he asked, taking her out of her thoughts.
“There is only one pair of chopsticks. I’ll have my rice after you.”
***
The night had fallen while he had been eating. Saitoh gave a look to his cigarette pack, and though he had decided to spare them, not knowing for how long they would stay, he eventually took another one.
She was having her share of food now, gazing once more at the fire. She had gotten closer to it, and indeed, the room’s temperature had gone down a little. The snow was still falling furiously, and it seemed that the storm had enough ire to last indefinitely. He laid down again, watching her, the hands bringing the chopsticks to her mouth in a gracious move, and the small bites of her lips.
Saitoh had never believed in fate, but he had to admit that this one seemed much like an irony of destiny.
She was his wife, the reason why he had had to come to Aizu.
He had been quite displeased about the trip, considering that he was working on a case of corruption that was giving cold sweat to his superior, Kawaji, which made the small man annoyingly prone to throw tantrums. Saitoh had never liked hotheaded people, and notwithstanding getting rid of the object of his investigation, he was eager to get rid of Kawaji’s ridiculous outbursts, too. He had delayed the trip as much as he had been able to, without offending Matsudaira, who had played the matchmaker for him. The daimyo, ex-daimyo, forgot a debt as much as Saitoh was, the letter had said, referring to Saitoh’s reasons for staying and defending Aizu instead of leaving for Sendai with Hijikata, 6 years before. Saitoh was kind of thankful for his intervention, considering that Kawaji was planning something similar, as soon as he would officially enter the police forces, instead of working undercover. The imbeciles thought that marrying the daughter from a dignitary of the new regime would assure his loyalty to the new powers in place.
Morons, double morons, triple morons. Never Saitoh would be loyal to *them* as individuals or as politicians, they were, and would always be, traitors in the first place. He had joined because as they were the new order, and, if he relied on the numerous security crises that they didn’t seem able to solve without him, very incapable to take care of the country correctly, he had followed his duty: assuring that if the Shinsengumi had lost, it wasn’t to chaos. Times changed, systems changed, leaders changed, but the ultimate purpose of Japanese independence and stability was surviving. As long as it would be their goal, Saitoh would be on their side. It was ridiculous to think that a personal advantage or link would be of any weight if in the balance against this superior reason.
Moreover, Kawaji had thrown names, and they were ex-*peasants*, enriched on the political situation, or merchants, money-obsessed group that Saitoh despised above all. Saitoh was a samurai, whatever they decided to abolish casts, and precisely because of it, he would marry into a samurai family. He would be away almost permanently, and it wasn’t to let the education of his offspring to a woman or to in-laws unable to educate them in the principles of his class. It wasn’t with the Meiji fluffy discourses that you made men out of your sons. The young women of Meiji, and in particular of the lower classes, were as worthy of a comparison with a samurai woman of Edo, as those young thugs of nowadays could have survived the Bakumatsu with their poor skills. Their arrogant, childish and demanding stance was finally rending them utterly unattractive to Saitoh.
He didn’t know how Matsudaira had learnt of his situation, yet the proposition to find a decent wife for him had arrived by the end of summer. Because of the ill-timing, the Daimyo knowing of his current charge, Saitoh had thought that they would agree on the wedding, and that it would be done without him. He just had to apply his signature on the paper. He would get to see his wife, and a celebration, if they wanted, once he had the time. He had been satisfied with the outcome, until the insistence that they would proceed the traditional way had unnerved him. Even taking the pretext of the winter hadn’t been enough, and finally, he had found himself, grumbling and reluctant, on the way to Aizu, to make the acquaintance and marry that Takagi Tokio, whom Matsudaira has praised as beautiful, intelligent, educated in the pure tradition of the samurai class, and above all dutiful. Saitoh had thought that he had exaggerated greatly, but now he had to admit that some of it seemed to correspond to reality. On the first two, that was sure. Matsudaira, indeed, wasn’t an ungrateful man.
Saitoh had understood better when he had received a message from the Daimyo, on the way. Part of his insistence was surely rooting in Mitani’s presence…
He grinned, the gesture provoking a numb pain on his crackled lips. That coincidence gave him an occasion to observe her, and her lack of knowledge on the situation would reveal him more than an official meeting. This was partly why he didn’t give her his identity. She married him under his new name, Fujita Goro, as he wanted to judge her before revealing or not his past as Saitoh Hajime to her…reason why he had not given it to her earlier, either. The stupefaction to learn who she was had erased from his tired brain the fake identity that he had come up with in prevision of her question. Maybe being near to Aizu, his old name of Yamaguchi Jiro had come back to him, and it was at the last moment that he had thought that she might have heard it. He had gone with a combination…which was after all his *real* name.
It was a funny irony, too, especially as she had not seemed to believe it, yet this time, he couldn’t even lift his lips. He moved a bit, his body slow to answer, and he felt the beginning of a headache. Damn, he was tired.
She was washing the bowls and the chopsticks now, and observing her hair swaying rhythmically with the moves, sleepiness invaded him. He had just to assure one thing before he could rest, at last.
***
Even the proximity of the fire wasn’t warming Tokio, just burning her hands and her face, creating an aching contrast with her freezing bones. With the steam, the room’s humidity had increased, and now it was only heightening the cold sensation. Her teeth were shaking, her lips trembling under the little shudders. Her under-kimono didn’t dry the least, the collar and front were even more humid with sweat, and she began to worry that it would take more than the night for her clothes to dry enough to be worn. She stayed still, gazing at the flames, wondering what to do.
“What are you waiting for? You’re going to get a cold, moron.”
His voice was an odd mix of laziness and order, dry as always but also faraway. She turned to him, and noticed signs of exhaustion, on his face and in his stance. He had awoken rapidly, but still he had undertaken the effects of the cold. He was definitely not from Aizu: she was so frail compared to him, yet her habit of the weather made her more resistant.
“I’m not a moron,” she said dryly. She was getting a bit tired of his attitude.
“I have no time for discussion. There is one futon and one blanket, the temperature is going to go down more, and you’re still in your half-wet clothes, *outside*. Now, if you want to die with hypothermia…”
He knew this, at least. When winters were really hard, especially after the defeat, when they had to spare wood, she slept with her mother, her father and Goro-chan, because human heat was the best source of warmth against the deadly cold. But, with a stranger, a man, it was different…she couldn’t help to hesitate.
She stared at him again; he really was exhausted, so much that his eyes were shining. She was ridiculous; still, maybe if she kept her yukata, she would feel less…vulnerable. She made a move towards the futon.
“I don’t want to be chilled, take this off” he uttered, and then, with a contemptuous sigh, he turned his back on her.
She didn’t know whether it was a show of delicacy or of exasperation, but it made her forget her reserve and comply. She suspended the piece of clothing next to the others, some cold shudders still coursing through her, and finally, after placing another log in the fire, she slid under the blanket, next to him. Luckily, it was quite big, probably to allow one person to be rolled under several layers. They would have to do with one, but they were completely covered, at least. She shivered as her skin was in contact with the rough, uncomfortable and slightly damp futon, and the blanket was rugged against her flesh, but it was a little bit better. Her muscles were sore, she realized, exhaustion falling upon her, too, using insidiously the relief sweeping over her.
She had hoped that he would make the move, yet after several endless second, and although his respiration told her that he wasn’t sleeping yet, it was blatant that he wouldn’t. He wasn’t making things easy for her. He had called her prudish, well, maybe that was the word. She wanted to spit to him that he could be more understanding. It was only normal that she was so awkward; she had never slept in the same bed as a man. Though she had rather get used to it, she thought bitterly.
Her nervousness disappeared quickly, she banned the grim thoughts; she was too tired to stay angry, and finally, she moved towards him, joining her back to his. The part of the futon where she was now had been previously warmed by his body. The skin of his back was not so cold, his thighs were warm already, and she was stupidly reassured by the bandages, which made a small belt preventing the contact from being complete. She couldn’t help but letting out a sigh of well-being. He still didn’t move, and finally she was able to relax.
She stared at the fire, thinking that she shouldn’t sleep too long: the new log would last only a few hours. The flames grew in intensity in front of her tired eyes, soon she could only see an orange blur, until her lids closed and she fell into a deep slumber.
***
He was hot, his body was on fire, and his head banging as if it was going to explode. Why was he feeling so bad, all of a sudden?
He tried to change position, the form into his arms moving reflexively in answer, with a little content sigh. Smooth flesh against his hard frame, soft skin under his wandering hands, and fresh, delicate scent…a woman…why was he with a woman? He should be at the office, examining the last reports on that case…
He searched into his mind, thinking was painful and he couldn’t even grasp a clear memory, until a lasting impression finally brought a word to him, wife, and then an image. Long black hair, a graceful body clad in a revealing white yukata, and clear eyes…Yes, he was with his wife. He didn’t remember being married…maybe he had been too drunk at the wedding party…he didn’t drink that much since the new era…or he would want to kill people. Kill…the war…no, the war was over now…the fire…he was on fire…
He tightened his hold on her, trying to focus, to hang on to reality. Her breasts were round mounds tentatively pressed against his chest, and her skin was so, so soft, especially when the bedding was so uncomfortable. He couldn’t help his hands to trace the definition of her curves, trying to get familiar with her again…his muscles were sore, he must have made love to her many times…that wouldn’t be surprising, she sounded so welcoming. He felt desire mounting, that wasn’t a good idea, he was in too bad of a shape, but he couldn’t fight it. He moaned as he managed to touch the interior of her thighs, delicate skin…
She bolted, exclaiming something that he couldn’t get with the blood pounding into his ears, and he attracted her on top of him. The move hurt his flank…he groaned in pain, how weird, and he held her closer, trying to open his eyes. He could only manage to half lift his heavy lids, and he could discern nothing but her mouth. She was talking, and he couldn’t get it, either, too distracted by his numbing state and the view. It was a beautiful mouth, the bottom lip full, the upper lip graciously curved. He had to know what she was saying…
“…please…fever…me…”
Oh, she was so sweet. Her tone was pleading, and she bit that tempting lower lip as he placed one hand on her bottom, molding her to him. It wasn’t a good idea, he was too tired, but if she wanted it too…With his other hand, he brought her face to his, and kissed her, not taking the time of teasing touches, his tongue invading her mouth voraciously. She tasted good, he wanted more, but she went all stiff in his arms, and he could feel her shock…that was odd…she didn’t respond, even when he tried to coax her, more slowly and tentatively…
She had never been kissed. The thought flashed through his mind, and he released his grip somewhat. She placed her hands on his torso, trying to keep a distance, that wasn’t right, something wasn’t right…If only his headache let him remember…Maybe that was it. The image of her half naked in her yukata, and in his arms, had made him think that they had consumed their marriage, but maybe not…
Certainly not, he could feel her panicked respiration. He tried once more to gather his thoughts about her, but she was talking again, too fast now, and he couldn’t focus on both, not even on one…she was worried, he could get this from her tone…that was it, she was still a virgin, and she was worried…
He lifted his hand to caress her hair; it was a silky mess, odd and nice to touch. All in her was nice to touch. He wanted to tell her that it would be nice for her, too.
“My wife…”
It was all that he managed to utter, his arm was horribly heavy, and he let it down, exhausted by the effort. His head began to spin, still pounding, and he released her completely. His whole body was stinging, he was burning alive. He saw red, then black, and then there was nothing.
***
Tokio was unable to make a move. She was still kneeling, just next to him; she had gotten away as soon as he had released her. She was in utter shock, physical and mental, a hand on her heart, which was pounding like mad, her body scorching where he had touched her, the feeling of his rough hands lingering.
He was now tossing his head, unconscious, beads of sweat pearling on his forehead, moaning as his restless moves were tearing at the wound on his flank.
She stayed there a minute, until the panic and disturbing feelings disappeared, and she realized that the room was freezing again, and very dark, though the slight whitening of the scenery behind the shoji told her that dawn was already pointing.
He had fever, and…oh, no, the fire!
She rushed, desperate, hoping that there was something to save. There was a small piece of log still glowing under the layer of ashes, but it wouldn’t be enough. She grabbed the match box, and heaved a sigh of relief as they were still dry. She re-lit the fire as fast as the shaking in her arms and legs allowed her to. She prepared another pot of boiling water, and other bandages, getting warmer and more optimistic as the flames splattered across the room again, until she turned to him. He was still delirious. She un-wrapped the bandages to see his wound, and fortunately in a way, he was too feverish to struggle or turn away, so that she could manipulate his tall body rather easily. She observed the trace left by the katana, sighing with relief as she saw no sign of frosting, and it was of a deep red, there wasn’t any trace of infection either. Maybe the fever was only due to the cold and exhaustion.
She hoped so, because she had no medicine with her, and she wouldn’t be able to do anything, then, she regretted, as she finished her care by replacing the blanket correctly around him.
***
Hours had passed, and it was the beginning of the afternoon, according to Tokio’s estimations, when “Yamaguchi Hajime” seemed to calm down a little.
The storm had also lessened, during the morning, to be back with a vengeance, winds hurling outside louder than a hundred wolves. Her negligence had slowed the process of drying the clothes, and they had just been engorged with humidity again.
She had nevertheless put her yukata on, grimacing whenever she was moving, as it was sticking to the skin of her breasts. The foreign contact made her thought of the way he had touched her, and to her disbelief, it made them tense. She looked at the bowl of okayuu that she had prepared a bit earlier, and had tried to feed him with, without success. Maybe she should try again…He was sleeping like a stone now, his respiration at last regular, it was no use. She was just trying not to think of the events of the morning. She had managed to avoid it until that moment, busy that she had been with the state of the ill man, but…
She stiffened. She’s better address the issue, or she would finally be unable to take it out of her mind. It was simple. In his fever, he had confused her with his wife, and had behaved as he would have with her. He had been utterly delirious: hence he wasn’t really responsible for what had happened. He would surely apologize when he awoke, she would accept it, and that would be the end of the embarrassing incident. Yes, that was it. Of course, she had been terribly shocked, and she didn’t know how she would spend one more night naked next to him…but as long as he didn’t have fever anymore…
She felt herself blushing to the root of her hair as her mind signaled to her that she was refusing to acknowledge the most embarrassing.
She had been in his arms before she awoke…and after she awoke, all right. She hadn’t been supposed to sleep for so long, she never could when she was not comfortable. Yet, she had been feeling so well. She guessed that they had changed position during the night, she looking for more warmth, and he out of habit, since he had a wife. She couldn’t forget that she had drifted out of her sleep, to feel that hot and solid body holding her close, and that she had snuggled even closer. She had felt his hands caressing her, knowingly stroking her back, her hips, her shoulders, and the delicious feeling that they were creating. It hadn’t seemed the least out of place; it was only good and natural. He had murmured some words, and she hadn’t gotten them, not clear-minded yet; but his voice had been low and so…tempting, the combination of all the sensations, touch and sounds and also his scent, all that could have made her just purr with pleasure. It was only when…oh, she couldn’t even dare to *think* where his hands had wandered.
She had been taken abruptly out of what she was half-convinced was a wonderful dream, and after a moment of sheer panic, she had realized in what state he was. His body was too hot, and his face flustered. She had tried to tell him, but then…She had been truly scared when he had yanked her on top of him, holding her so close, she had thought that nothing would prevent him to do whatever he wanted, and then the kiss, so fierce at first that she had been frozen with shock. It was only after…he had softened at the very moment when she thought she was going to burst into tears with despair, puzzling her because she didn’t feel so afraid anymore, and he had stopped very soon, letting her at loss, torn between contradicting feelings, and even more after she gazed into his eyes.
He had seemed to realize that something was wrong, and his amber gaze was perplexed behind the veil of fever that was tarnishing it. She had been still afraid that he would try again, and her first move had been an attempt to get away from danger, to be once more bewildered by his reaction. His gesture had been so soft, blatantly soothing, his hand caressing slowly her hair, and his expression, for a second, had softened, it had been…indulgent, his voice full of bemused assurance.
Maybe this was why she wasn’t afraid of him now. Why she still took care of him when it might have been more reasonable not to. But she was sure that this wouldn’t reproduce.
Not with him, at least.
The thoughts of her ill-fated marriage invaded her. Her husband wouldn’t look at her like this, or call her “my wife” on that tone. He was a dog, working for the government, and could hence only be rotten to the bone. Her father had told her that Matsudaira-sama “owed” that man. Surely, he was one of those Ishin peasants who realized that their newly acquired social rank would never replace the nobility of samurai, and were buying or pressuring families, in a pitiful attempt to gain it by marriage. Fujita Goro was even worse, a cop, like those who bullied the population in Aizu; agent of the repression of the Meiji monsters.
She had stopped talking to her brother when he had entered the department of Justice, being a prosecutor for the hatred regime, one year before...her father could say whatever he wanted, for the sake of the family heir, but she would never forgive Morinosuke. Neither would her mother: they both refused to hear a word about it. Her brother’s betrayal had even pushed her to been more active, to compensate. And it was to end up marrying one of the Meiji valets. At least, her dear mother understood her, and had done all she could to avoid to her the humiliation. They had had no choice, and Tokio knew that they owed Matsudaira too much themselves to refuse. She would follow her duty, whatever it cost her, and would show what being from the samurai class was about. And maybe more…maybe she could use him.
That was because of Fujita, if she was in this mess in the first place. Learning that he would finally come, and that their marriage was going to be official, she had obtained via her mother the authorization to go to their mountain house, under the pretext to prepare to face her future. In fact, she had hoped to get information, and then…
She finally shook her head, putting an end to her reflections. She would have a lifetime for unpleasant thoughts. She was also too tired to find out what had gone wrong with the meeting.
Yamaguchi was still sleeping, and she took off the handkerchief that she had placed on his forehead, realizing that the fever had significantly dropped. She decided to repeat the kind of cataplasm a last time, to assure that the temperature wouldn’t reverse, and replaced the fabric on him, after having plunged it into the hot water. He hadn’t reacted to the heat before, but this time he clenched his jaw, still he didn’t wake up. Fine, she would have the time to distant herself more with the *incident*, and now that she had rationalized it, well most of it, it would be easier to pretend that she hadn’t been affected the least. Not too much.
That left her quite idle, though.
She looked around for something to do; inactivity was no good for her state of mind. Finally, passing a hand into her hair in annoyance, she realized how messy it was. That would surely get her busy for a certain time to brush and untangle it with her ornamental comb, and the repetitive, mind-emptying task was just what she needed.
***
Saitoh had the feeling to be in a very advanced state of inebriety, and victim of the worst hangover at the same time. An iron bar was circling his head, and the rest of his body seemed as pliant as cotton. Nevertheless, he had the contradictive quasi-certainty that he was better.
His eyes fluttered opened, and he felt something…somebody next to him. He turned cautiously his head towards the person, to see…Takagi Tokio. The situation came back to him: lost in the isolated shack, with a woman who was his wife.
She was holding the points of her hair into her hands, obviously finishing brushing it. He stared at her a moment, the shadows on her face as she was back to the fire, and the long mass of ebony hair, shining with the flames’ reflects, and which seemed even longer now that it was properly ordered.
He frowned, the light from outside showed that it was full day. He searched his mind, to find only a blank void. His last memory was her settling next to him, and he had fallen asleep almost immediately. And then…nothing, a bunch of strange impressions, maybe, but nothing clear. Dreams, surely, or rather nightmares; the impression left was odd.
“How long did I sleep?” That was replaying the scene of the previous day, or almost, and he had a weird feeling…deja-vu.
She let her comb fall, obviously startled that he was awake.
“I hope that you didn’t think that I was dead…combing your hair would be quite a strange reaction to a cadaver,” he quipped. His voice was hoarse. He was thirsty.
She was still gaping at him, and he began to think that indeed, he had been right on. She finally got a grip on herself, and turned towards the fire, bringing a bowl to him.
“Some tea. I could make you drink a little, but not much…you must be dehydrated, with the fever.”
“Fever?” That was why he was feeling as weak as a newborn? He frowned more, noticing that it was mirroring her expression.
“You don’t remember?”
“Not the least. I fell asleep, and woke up just now.”
She had turned her back to him once more, to get a bowl of okayuu, this time. “You got feverish before dawn, you were delirious, and obviously in much pain. Luckily, this isn’t due to an infection of your wound. Exhaustion, probably.”
He was vexed: he had been through worse than this, and he was collapsing with a little cocktail of cold and a shallow wound. Maybe his moronic colleagues were right about never resting. Nevertheless, something else preoccupied him. “What did I say? When I was delirious?”
She widened her eyes. His tone had been too sharp, damn.
“You said nothing intelligible, you were more looking like suffering,” she answered, her gray eyes detached. “Only…”she finally added, as he was still staring inquisitively at her.
“Only?”
“Oh, at one point, you called your wife.”
“What?” He was certainly delirious again.
“Yes,” she repeated, shrugging, “you said “my wife”, that’s all. All that wasn’t mumbling, at least.”
He considered her. She was telling the truth. His job and secrecy were safe, but obviously, not his sanity.
“Where are my cigarettes?”
He really needed one.
***
The man whom Tokio knew as Yamaguchi Hajime had been dozing off the rest of the afternoon, still exhausted by his access of fever.
It had left her once more alone with her thoughts and speculations, and her nervousness. She had checked on their clothes at least ten times per hour, bond to be disappointed on the rapidity in which they dried. The fabrics were thick, and the process was desperately slow. She had had to go on the engawa and get a new bucket of snow, and even though she had worn only her upper kimono and his coat, both were back to their first state of humidity. She tried to convince herself that if she didn’t forget the fire during the night, this time, she might be able to wear the intermediate layers the following day.
Except for these tasks, she had had nothing to do. It had left her plenty of time to wonder about him.
He didn’t remember anything. She couldn’t say whether she was relieved or bothered. Relief made sense. She could pretend that nothing happened, and she congratulated herself that she had been able to look at him in the eyes and look distant when she had talked about his delirium. Plus, she had concluded that indeed, it had been a result of fever, and that it would hence not happen again. Being bothered was ridiculous. Yes, she didn’t receive apologies, but as she had decided that it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t like he had to present some. Being spared the acknowledgement was a way better option than apologies.
She nevertheless had been a bit taken aback by his attitude. He had looked…dangerous again, when she had revealed him the two little, insignificant words that he had said. Not that he seemed any nice or kind, even now, peacefully sleeping. Merely relaxed, like a wolf resting after a hunt. She had observed for hours the sharp features…and to be honest, her mind had wandered to his wife, what kind of person she could be and how he was with her. Funnily, he hadn’t come to her mind one second that he could be married, until he hinted it. A wolf, indeed, a lone wolf, that was the impression that he gave. He was arrogant and demanding, that she had seen. Brutally honest, too, in his way to deal with her; and when he had killed the kidnapers, she had seen a ruthless fighter. There was some no-nonsense, down-to-earth realism to him, and in this he was paradoxically inspiring some kind of trust. She could imagine that in spite of his difficult temper, a woman could be reassured by his presence…and in the morning, he had been…attractive? She had been terrified at first, but there was something in his attitude that had made her overcome it.
She spent her afternoon building theories on his contrariety about his slip. She could explain it again by his need not to have his real identity revealed. Maybe that was why he had looked so puzzled about having talked about his wife, maybe he had a family that he wanted to protect. Maybe there was something about her kidnappers that he knew and didn’t want her to…though she was still sure that he wasn’t a criminal.
There was something else, though, and she was resentful of him for that. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, and even more in the light of the things that were to come. She had always been sure that she would go through her marriage as she had been through the war, the siege, and the fall, focusing on completing her duty and helping the best she could. She had always been conscious that, aside for her rank to keep, she was luckier than many, who had ended up without roof upon their heads, without food, and even worse, without family to protect them. She hadn’t had the roughest time, the poor girls that she saw in the streets, before from commoner, but comfortable families, now having to sell their bodies to survive, when they were not forced to by brutes like this Mitani…
Yet, Yamaguchi Hajime had made her realize that her own life wouldn’t be that much different, in spite of material advantages. She would have to let a man that she wasn’t the least attracted to, that she despised and hated, touch her and treat her as he wished. Maybe he would be violent…and if Matsudaira owed him, she couldn’t expect any help from him or her father.
She had *known*, but she had had no idea…no idea that a touch could affect like this, that she would be so scared and so shaken, that she would be unable to think about anything else. It hadn’t be so awful, because…because it had made her feel good before she realized, before she had been so helpless, prisoner and aware that she couldn’t escape. But the man in the cabin wasn’t her husband, and he had stopped.
She would hate it and she would have no way to stop it. She had thought of it as an unpleasant chore, that she would have to close her eyes and that she would forget about it just after, how naïve and stupid she had been. She had merely paid attention to her friends’ discussions, and them telling how they had suffered through their wedding nights, even when they had what they called “caring husbands”. Tokio had had so many things more important in mind than this, especially since last year. She had thought that she wouldn’t marry, less now that she was too old, at 24, to be the first choice of an arranged wedding. She had thought that she would devote herself to her parents and to the cause.
She had *known* that what happened to the girls in the streets was the most terrible thing that could happen to a woman, but she hadn’t realized. She had pitied them, but now only, she could begin to imagine what their lives were like. She would merely begin to imagine, and never would she be in that state of misery, but she would have a more accurate idea in a few days, when she would have to let her future husband put his dirty hands on her.
Yamaguchi made a sudden move, groaning something that she didn’t get, the blanket falling to his waist. She bent over to place it back over his shoulders, her hands inadvertently touching his chest, and stilling. She let go of the fabric, a bit astonished at the strange reaction that she had, the weird vibration of her nerves. As if possessing a will independent from her own, her fingers went to design the definition of his collarbone, and the muscular curve of his shoulder. He sighed in his sleep, groaned again, and realizing what she was doing, she backed off.
Yes, she couldn’t know yet, because even though she had been terrified, it was more under the effect of his unexpected behavior, in the morning. The man on the futon didn’t repulse her, and she had felt warm and secured in his arms, not disgusted. That wouldn’t be the same with the Meiji dog. She knew nothing about him and hated him already.
Whoever was Yamaguchi Hajime, his wife was surely a luckier than her.
She gave a last glance at him, getting finally a grip, before preparing the next meal. She had to stop her train of thoughts, and wondering about her enigmatic companion’s identity was a safer topic, diverting her inappropriate curiosity about him. She would try to know more, but that seemed impossible tonight. Tomorrow would be better.
To be continued
Author’s notes:
Itadakimasu: Japanese equivalent of “good appetite”.
Saitoh took the name Yamaguchi Jiro when he was the leader of the Shinsengumi in Aizu. When he took the name of Fujita Goro isn’t clear: I found several dates prior to 1877. His real name was Yamaguchi Hajime, though in other sources (including Kenshin Hiden) he is referred to as Yamaguchi Yousuke, before he left Edo (maybe he is confused with his father, Yamaguchi Yuusuke)
The stay of the Shinsengumi in Aizu lasted from spring to September 1868, hence Saitoh having no knowledge of the winter’s weather conditions can make sense (I didn’t include his stay in Aomori here, bad me).
Tokio’s little brother, Takagi Morinosuke, was nicknamed “Goro”, he was a Aizu Hanshi during the war, and he entered the Justice department later. He was a “drinking buddy” of Saitoh’s, according to several reports. One of Goro’s daughters has left a description of Saitoh and Tokio, in their late years, when they were visiting the Takagis in Aizu. (The historical sources come from different Japanese websites and books. For Japanse speakers, the most complete one is『新撰組・斉藤一の全て』新人物往来社, November 2003)
“Let’s count the clichés game”(2)…Yes, I dared to use the “arranged marriage with a man she thinks is scum but is in fact the attractive guy she just met” classical misunderstanding (RIP Barbara Cartland), the hero not telling his identity, and the hero making his move while having fever…I think that it should be all for this one. (^-^)
Chapter 3: OK, they have to disagree, you know, being off balance is better if one has to fall (cliché 1)…Tokio reveals her true colors and gets a reality check.