Rurouni Kenshin Fan Fiction ❯ In the Wind ❯ Leaves ( Chapter 1 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

By: Kellen

In the Wind:

Leaves

by Kellen

Author's Notes/Summary: This is the first in a series of stories chronicling the legacy of the Himura and Kamiya family. Perhaps the idealism behind "the sword that protects" was a family heirloom rather than mere idealism? And how does a family that traces its roots back to these two "protective" people succeed or fail in its bid to keep the legacy alive? Each vignette is a separate story.

Rating: Collectively, PG-13. This vignette is the same.

Leaves

It was said that once upon a time, a sakabatou had rested on this wall. It had also been said that a family of legendary swordsmen had protected the peace of Japan. Now, the wall was derelict, dust gathered around what had once been a small alter. Kammie swung her small lantern in a wide arc, bathing the large room with dim light. The corners held shadows that seemed to refuse the light. Recently disturbed dust - the dust Kammie had kicked up - danced in the lantern's light.

Kammie shook her head. "There's been no one here in years," she said to no one but herself. She snorted. The man she'd hired to look after the ancestral home had called her away from her own life and home with reports of people disturbing the old dojo. Judging by the years of grime and dust built up, not even old Masuyo, the caretaker, had been here. She looked down at the dirty floor in disgust. "This place needs cleaned."

Kammie turned to face the wall, lantern held high as she regarded the broken shelves that once held bokkens, shinais, and, if legend held, a sakabatou. Her hand wavered as she turned, sending light skittering along the edges of the floor and dancing about her shoulders. Auburn hair fell in her face, and she shoved it aside as blue-grey eyes narrowed. She stepped forward, fingers lightly tracing the edge of the small shrine.

She knew the family legends; she may live half a world away and London's streets differed greatly from Tokyo's, but this place was her's and had stayed in the family for generations now. She knew them, she had a certain reverence for them, but she wasn't sure if she believed them.

"Even so," she said aloud, bowing deferentially to the shrine, "whether I believe or not is not the issue. We'll get this place cleaned come morning." She turned on her heel, and purposefully strode out of the main room. Had she bothered to look behind her, she might have seen the dust swirl around a ghostly shape, and she might have seen a smile in the dark.

Kammie shut the shoji without looking back, and took comfort in the eerie whisper as it slid across the floor. It meant the place wasn't completely silent, wasn't completely without life or sound. "In the morning," she promised. She stepped down into the yard, careful of broken and rotted wood on the porch. Laughing softly at herself and her overly romantic mood, she looked up at the crescent moon and smiled at the stars. She shook her head at her own drama, and wished her son and husband in London a good night. Maybe one day soon, she could get them to come out to see this place, and she could tell Kenneth the family legacy. It shouldn't die with her.

She turned to make her way out the main gate, but the shed caught her eye. Its steps were broken, but the shoji was open. In just a few jogging steps, Kammie was at the door, hand up to touch the broken lock and chain. She frowned. Perhaps Masuyo had been right after all. Either way, she was still going to get onto him for letting the place go like this.

She grabbed the chain, suddenly angry that anyone would disturb this place. Cut. She swore, and dropped the chain on the ground. The loud clanking seemed to echo through the quiet night. In the echoes of the chain dropping, Kammie heard a footstep behind her. She froze, eyes wide and mouth open, not quite daring to believe that any intruders would be here the same night she came. Kammie turned quietly.

He stood at the corner of the dojo building, near the shoji she'd just come out of. From where she stood she could see him frowning at the shoji. Footprints, she realized. She would have left footprints. As quietly as she could, she stepped backward, awkwardly climbing up the broken steps and into the shed. Once inside, she crouched, putting out the lantern and scooting backward into the dark, cramped recesses of the shed. There was a cell phone in her pocket, but she'd ran down the battery talking with her family earlier. She ran down her rather short list of options. Her only one now was wait.

She hated waiting. In the dark, she reached out with her right hand, hoping to find something she could use as a weapon. It might not do her any good, but she'd feel better with the weight of some sort of club in her head, should Ugly decide to come inside the shed. Her fingers brushed against cloth and reflexively, she closed her hand around it.

Before she could register that she had, in fact, grabbed an ankle, her wrist was grabbed and she was pulled upright. She couldn't help it; she screamed. Her left arm flailed as she tried to furiously backpedal. She tried to pull away, but whoever had her was strong. Her wrist was yanked and she fell forward, landing painfully against stacks of crates, trunks and boxes. A flashlight came on, and the first thing Kammie heard was the horribly familiar sound of a gun being cocked. Frightened eyes turned into the light, and Kammie was greeted with a man who seemed twice as big as she was holding a gun and flashlight.

"Was wondering when you would notice me, lady," he told her, a wry laugh in his voice.

Kammie shook her head as she pushed herself off the boxes. She squinted, trying to see past the light. No good; the flashlight was too bright for her to see his face. The gun waved. "No, no, no," he said. "You stay where I put you."

Kammie stilled. Her heart was racing, her knees knocking and hands trembling.

"Well, well."

This voice was behind her; it took every ounce of self-control Kammie possessed not to whirl around the see the man standing in the shed's doorway.

"You found our intruder, did you?"

The first man nodded as anger welled up in Kammie. Them? Calling her the intruder? Her hands stopped trembling as her fists clenched.

"Who are you?" the second man asked.

Kammie's anger broke through her fear. Once before, she'd been threatened at gunpoint. Never again would she allow the fear to rule her as it did that day. When fear ruled, people died. "Who's asking?" she retorted.

The first man laughed while the second stepped into the shed, lantern in hand. "Common thieves," he answered, shrugging. "Just curious. Thought this place was empty."

Had he not been in cahoots with the man with the gun, Kammie might have thought him charming and easygoing, the way his voice rang inside the shed.

"So," he continued. "Who are you?"

"Kammie," she relented. "I own this place."

"Kammie who?"

"Stone."

He stopped within feet of her. The first man still had the gun trained on her. "Stand up, Kammie Stone." His voice had lost the easy-going charm; it was hard and menacing. Kammie found her hands trembling again. Dry-mouthed, she stood. "Face me."

She swallowed, turning slowly.

"Don't forget the gun still on you, Ms. Stone."

She bit back the fierce rejoinder that came to mind and faced the second man silently. Without a word, they stared at each other. Kammie's hands were pressed tightly against her thighs, her knees threatening to give out at any time. He faced her impassively, flashlight held loosely in his right hand.

It seemed they stared for far longer than necessary. The man didn't flinch; his expression didn't change an iota as he swung his right hand up. Kammie brought her hands up, but couldn't block the flashlight as it cracked against her cheek. She fell sideways, back into the boxes she'd just got off of, hands over her head. Her vision swam. Her eyes were tearing up, and she couldn't tell if the wetness she felt through the pain on her cheek was blood or tears.

The men were talking, but the words were surreal to Kammie's ear. They were distorted, strange.

"What should I do with her?"

"No one will ever find her."

"No one comes into this place. Not even that old caretaker."

"…worked too hard..."

"…won't get caught now…"

Tears fell onto Kammie's swollen and split cheek. Fear may not have killed anyone today, like that day so long ago, but anger had not saved her either. She may not have frozen in front of the gun this time, but it still hadn't saved her. Blood dripped onto her hand… just like that day. This time, though, it was her own blood, and her own actions. Somehow, it felt different. Last time, it had been his blood. His blood had been flowing onto the floor because of her actions. She felt a little redeemed, if confused. She hadn't killed anyone by freezing up. No one had to lose his life to save her.

Just her life now. But she hadn't frozen. She could be proud of that at least, in the end.

The wind was picking up outside. The old shed rattled. She could hear the tree branches swaying, the leaves falling and rolling in the wind. Never touching the ground. She wondered if that's how her soul would make its way to the afterlife. If she would dance with the wind.

She could barely see the gun that now aimed for her head.

"Not that, idiot. Someone will hear."

The gun was put away, but she didn't care. Either way, she was dead. They'd probably beat her, or break her neck. Hit her head harder, maybe.

The wind gusted harder, beating against the shed. A swirl of leaves blew through the door as the wind changed direction. They danced in frenzy inside the shed.

"The hell?"

"Close the door!"

The man turned to do so as another gust of wind brought a sea of leaves into the door. Taken by surprise, the man stepped backward and tripped, dropping to the floor with a loud thud.

Kammie turned to look, out of instinct more than anything else. The leaves covered the man and blew toward her. Enthralled for a reason unknown to her, she watched as a single leaf seemed to stop in front her face. Before she could blink, it snapped, and the two pieces floated gracefully to the floor.

Kammie blinked. Not possible. Another leaf snapped next to her ear. She turned her head and saw a wooden handle near her right hand.

An old bokken, displaced by the her fall, was just within reach.

You have to live.

Whether the voice was real or not, she didn't know. Images of her son, and husband flashed before her. The dead man, who she hadn't known, who stepped in front of a bullet for her. Friends laughing, family crying… And finally, a redheaded man with a scar and a gentle smile.

I don't know you.

You have to live, he told her.

She grabbed the bokken and rose to her knees in a fluid motion, driven by anger and fear and love. As she moved, the wind intensified. Leaves blinded the man with the gun, and Kammie drove the bokken into the side of his head. He fell sideways, leaves falling around him. Kammie whirled, looking for the second man.

Her cheek throbbed, and her vision was still blurred. She went to where the man had fallen, bokken held warily in front of her. She stood, leaves flowing gently around her, searching. The man had gone. Relief throbbed through her; he must have run. The tip of the bokken lowered and Kammie reached up to cradle her bruised and bleeding cheek.

She didn't know what warned her.

Her own lantern flew through the air toward her. Acting on instinct, she brought the bokken up one-handed. The lantern's glass shattered and Kammie yelped.

"Some short little bitch," was the yell, "won't beat me."

He charged.

Kammie stepped backward. Bravado and lucky shots aside, she had absolutely no idea how to use the bokken. Desperately, she sidestepped his charge and barely ducked out of the way of the board he'd picked up. She swung the bokken, and was surprised when she felt it connect.

He stumbled, clutched at his side. He snarled another curse at her, and charged again. This time, Kammie stepped forward, angry enough to meet the charge with one of her own.

She yelled, swinging the bokken down with all her strength.

The man yelled, bringing the wooden club around.

A sharp crack echoed in the dark night. The broken and splintered board fell to the ground. Kammie stood panting, bokken in hand, and turned quickly. The man stood, looking at her wide-eyed, before groaning and pitching forward.

Kammie let the bokken fall. It clattered at the ground near her feet. The leaves settled on the ground as the wind died.

Live.

The morning sun shone brilliantly. To Kammie it seemed as if it couldn't be that bright, not after the long dark night. One investigator still stood near her, asking a few last questions about the night.

"Kammie Stone?" He asked.

"Kammie's just a nickname," she corrected. "My full name is Rose Kamiya Stone."

He nodded, smiling a little. "You're the owner of this dojo?"

She nodded, looking around. "Yeah, the Kamiya Dojo."

"It's been empty for awhile," he remarked.

"Not anymore," was her prompt answer.

They finished their conversation, Kammie promising to stay out of trouble. She watched the last policeman leave, smiling as she surveyed the leaves that littered the ground. Before her eyes, one tore itself in half, and her smile widened into a grin, then a laugh.

"I promise," she said. "The Kamiya Dojo will have laughter and life in it again. Does that appease the restless spirit?" Still laughing, she promised to clean.

Wind swirled the leaves around again. Kammie bowed. "Thank you."

And she resolved that Kenneth - her beautiful son - would know and believe the family legends.

The next time she came to the dojo, her husband and son accompanied her, and after placing a specially forged sakabatou on the wall, she told them the story of the hitokiri, Himura Battousai, who found redemption in the arms of the fiery kendo instructor, Kamiya Kaoru.

Until next time…