Chapter Text
“May this note act as your stele, for it was your own misdoings that brought upon your fate.
Unworthy, is your blood, to trickle down my slender throat;
It stains my lips.
Who you were is nothing but a cherry-red memory –
On my eyelids, on my cheeks, on my mouth.
Pray that your spirit rots with your flesh beneath the soil; the proper resting place for people like you.
Else, you will be reborn afresh to a vision of my face.”
To Ryoma’s left, Nagakura sets the scripture, written in delicate cursive on a blood-stained washi, down in his lap and looks up.
The room full of men who have slaughtered countless of not only their own, but strangers and felons and thieves alike, look around in silence. As if they’re surprised at the tone in the writer’s note, digging through the depths of their memories to relate to something they had witnessed or heard about second-hand.
A rogue housewife, perhaps. Jealous and wrathful, the last rumor of her husband’s affair being the very last before it turns into gossip of where she might have buried his body. While tales of such things weren’t out of the ordinary – every person in Kyo had spat out the same rhetoric at least once in their lives; entertainment at the risk of one’s livelihood – that possibility couldn’t fit in with the rest of the puzzle even if you smashed it with your fist. On the assumption that the note was true, that she wanted to be rid of him that horrendously, it was hard to believe that she would have wanted to wear his blood after the deed was done.
On the other hand, an assassination would be too obvious. Foremost, assassins hardly write a novella before slaughtering someone and placing it on their split-open, bloody chest. No, that just didn’t make any sense.
Ryoma cups his chin in thought.
Regardless of his firsthand experience with assassinations, at least witnessing them, this is the first of its kind that he had ever seen or heard of. It was calculated. It was planned. It was a threat. Whoever did this wanted someone to find this note. They wanted someone to find the body.
True to that, the body was far too easy to find. Ryoma knew, because were it not for his patrolling of Gion and its establishments the evening before, someone else easily would have and the commotion would have been greater tenfold.
It didn’t make sense.
Hijikata inhales like an inward sigh before he speaks. Like he’s already bored of the subject.
“This certainly appears to be pre-meditated, I think we can all agree.”
Beside him, with the chief’s empty seat filling the space between them, Ito nods.
“Yes. However, I see no cause for concern here.”
The pack of Mibu Wolves break free from their reverent gazing and lurch with piqued interest towards Ito. Ryoma joins them in doing so, far less animatedly.
“Is that right, Ito-san?” Harada inquires. “Albeit far from a threat to Kyo itself, it’s still a handwritten letter on a corpse, indicating that someone wore that man’s blood. Are you saying that we should just ignore it?”
“Of course not. What I’m saying is that the man that Saito-kun found dead was identified as a lousy, hell-raising drunk – a good-for-nothing. Therefore, I would understand if the locals decided to rally together and take matters into their own hands. It’s not ignoring, Harada, rather the opposite.”
“The opposite? Really? Sure sounds like the definition of it.”
“I am simply acknowledging the problem without presenting a solution, since there’s already a solution that’s proven effective. The man’s dead,” Ito says.
Ryoma’s gaze darts over to Hijikata. He knows that Ito’s comments aren’t going to be sufficient before the words even come out of the man’s mouth; like the problem itself, it causes more questions rather than providing answers.
First, while killings were not necessarily an uncommon occurrence – take away ronins and half the problem would be gone – they still happened. When the higher authorities would locate a body in a dark corner of the city, they would find them with their throats slit or their hearts skewered. Quick and easy. But not like this. This was done intentionally, like a warning.
But a warning to whom? Others whose behaviour mimicked that man’s? Was it really so awful that he had to be killed over it?
Seated like a carved statue, Hijikata calmly offers the second reasoning as if he took it straight from Ryoma’s mind.
“Ito,” he says, “you heard Nagakura read the note, did you not? I find it hard to believe that a mob of cityfolk would leave this on that man’s body, proclaiming to wear his blood like an accessory, just for the sake of having an unbothersome evening.”
As Ito’s eyes dart to the side, Todo chimes in, leaning in enthusiastically.
“Sorry, Ito-san, but Hijikata-san, you’re so right. This is some clear cut deliberate stuff here. I mean – oh, Nagakura, could you –” he motions to raise the note. Nagakura does. “Thanks. Look how clean that calligraphy is. It’s almost like it was written before the murder happened.”
The Shinsengumi collectively peer at the note held mid-air.
“Good eye, Heisuke,” Hijikata agrees. “If it were a mad group, there’s little likelihood that something so thought-out could be written so pristinely. They would want the job over and done with.”
“Right? And plus, we would’ve caught wind of a bunch of folk rampaging through the streets to find this guy, no?”
As Nagakura lowers his arm, he hums quietly to himself in thought.
“Heisuke, that’s enough hearsay,” Ito interrupts, sharply. “At this point, we’re doing nothing but hypothesizing the logistics of a murder that has already happened. We can all agree that this is clearly pre-meditated; it’s already done. We are all well aware that regular killings happen more often than things like this, so I don’t believe anyone in Kyo is at risk of this happening to them. We shouldn’t be wasting time on cracking the code on something that is likely as basic as a –”
“– Revenge killin’ on a cheatin’ husband?”
Nagakura’s head shifts to the side to peer over at Okita, who’s lounged sideways on his seat as usual. He nods.
“Yeah… that’s what I thought at first, too.”
“But that doesn’t make much sense, either,” Ryoma says, glancing over at the note in Nagakura’s lap.
The strokes of ink were feathery and light, delicate almost. But confident. Whoever wrote it knew what to write, and in what order to write their lines in. Like they had done it before.
Although he couldn’t read himself, Ryoma was one for indulging in listening to poems being read aloud. Oryo had a book full. They hadn’t quite reached the end of it, but from what he gleaned, poems used intricate words and language. They were rhythmic. He recalled a certain type that he could quite literally tap his hand on his leg to – what was it? A haiku? – but this note certainly met none of that criteria.
He agreed that this couldn’t possibly be the work of a furious mob, but he had a difficult time trying to make sense of this coming from a single person. It wasn’t by any means an artful note. Yet the language was just complex enough that a simpleton likely wouldn’t be able to navigate writing it, either. It had to be someone fairly knowledgeable about phrases, punctuation, and reading. It looked like it was written slowly and with care. They must have been proof-reading as they went.
Ito’s face went stone cold.
“Well,” Inoue says, “Hijikata-san. How would you like us to proceed from here? Regardless of how and why it happened, this was still a murder that took place in our city. I think we should still consider that fact.”
Hijikata nods. “You’re right. This is not something that we can ignore.”
His attention redirects to the lines of men seated before him.
“For the next three days, your Divisions will monitor each sector of Kyo through the night. If there is any overlap, ensure you use your space wisely. Cover all bases. If any murders happen again during that time, we will regroup. Until then, we shall meet again this evening where I will assign out your sectors.”
This time, Matsubara throws himself forward, planting his palms on the floor in front of him.
“Hijikata-san! With all due respect, you know that the Fourth Division has been anticipating and training to raid the last local bandit hideout tomorrow for days!” He exclaims.
Takeda rolls his eyes and bites down on a growing smirk. Under his breath, he murmurs, “Idiot.”
“Oh, shut it, Matsubara,” Tani spits in response, loud enough to cover Takeda’s remark. “This is a fantastic opportunity to enjoy the nightlife in ways we haven’t before. So quit bitching. The bandits can have their throats slit another day. You’re wasting our time.”
Matsubara splutters. He looks between Tani’s lecherous smirk and Hijikata’s unimpressed stoicness and finds no answers in between.
“Tani…” he mumbles, slipping back into proper posture. “For all we know, you’re the one who did it.”
Suzuki, quiet until this point, laughs. In doing so, he catches Tani’s attention. Tani’s face contorts into a wicked sneer.
“What was that, you spineless little bellyacher?”
“You heard me crystal clear.”
“Tch! You son of a –”
“That’s enough.”
Hijikata, ever the saviour to the argumental plague that wreaks havoc on the Shinsengumi, remains unmoving. The mere power of his tone temporarily soothes the men’s quarrel.
Ryoma starts to imagine Hijikata as a shrink, or a doctor.
But he can’t really see it.
“Have I made myself clear?” His question is flat. Clearly, it’s not meant as a question at all. “You have orders. I needn’t remind you all that, as the Shinsengumi, we have a responsibility over the people of Kyo. The Bakufu have absolute faith in us to keep order. You will all ensure to do your best to snuff out any suspicious individuals, and you will report directly to me with any findings. I assume I am understood.”
Ryoma joins the small handful of other men acknowledging their task with a nod, including Nagakura and Okita, despite the latter doing so while picking at his fingernails.
But that settles it.
The Shinsengumi agree that, at the very least, an individual had carved through the flesh of that man’s chest and left him to die with someone else wearing his blood. Not without leaving a note, like a sort of gift wrap. Like whoever had done it left it there with the expectation of someone finding him, and soon after as well.
The note was left half-tucked into the man’s kimono, after all. For all they knew, a breeze strong enough could have blown it off his body. And yet, they took that risk.
Was that on purpose? Did they want a specific person or group to find his body?
Was it their intention for the Shinsengumi – for Ryoma – to find him?
Ryoma continues to wrack his brain as the morning meeting adjourns. Most of the men meander out, met with the sun, the birds, the tall grass swaying from the spring breeze. The draft flows through the barracks’ meeting house and rustles the loose strands of hair on Ryoma’s forehead.
This time of year, the aroma of syrupy-sweet ume and sakura fills the air until it’s thick with perfume. Like a sweets shop is there at your every other step, wafting the scent of its delectable treats into the street. It’s a haze, the spring: both warm and wet from the breeze gathering up the humidity from the surrounding ocean and carrying it into the mainland.
While it is something Ryoma had gotten long used to, it still manages to distract him sometimes. Thus far, spring is different in Kyo than it is in Tosa. Here, specks of pollen tickle his nose, meadows and fields of flowers and grass wave at him – more frequently than at the home he just returned to, only to leave again, not too long ago.
No.
He can’t start thinking about home. Not now.
Becoming one of the Shinsengumi was already a successful task; he has one foot in the door. He can’t start backpedaling now with memories of better times. Simpler times.
No.
There were two mysteries to solve: first and foremost his father’s assassination, and now this drunk buffoon who got himself killed, possibly by a budding psychopath. Who knows, maybe the person or group that collaborated on the letter sitting like a paperweight in Nagakura’s lap is connected to his father’s killer.
He has to see this through.
“Hell-o? Earth to Hajime-chan.”
Ryoma startles, blinking back his focus in Nagakura’s and Okita’s direction. He hopes that he doesn’t look like a cat in the way of a palanquin as much as he feels like it.
“You good, Saito?” Nagakura prompts him.
Blinking once, twice, he nods and glances away. “Yeah.”
“What, this shit gettin’ to ya or somethin’?”
“No, it’s not like that.”
Nagakura’s gaze lingers a bit longer for comfort. For once in every one of their interactions in these few short days, Okita does something actually useful.
“Anyway, this whole shit’s kinda grim, don’t ya think?” He chimes in. Nagakura leans back on his palms and Ryoma gets a great view of him gnawing at his hangnails. “Without those monkeys around slingin’ dogshit ideas, whaddaya really think we’ve got on our hands here?”
It goes without saying that Okita, despite the brashness and despite the fact that ever since Ryoma’s first day as the Third Division’s captain he hasn’t been the most personable, seems to harbor little to no care for anyone or anything else aside from bloodshed. The red stains on his haori like autumn leaves speckling a summer sky drive a stake down Ryoma’s throat, holding him back from any snippy remarks. Whether it’s Nagakura or Hijikata himself telling him that Okita is trustworthy and one of the Shinsengumi’s most loyal men, Ryoma doesn’t buy it.
Like everyone else, of course he had heard the fables of Okita’s ventures over the years. Women on the streets of Tosa would gossip loud enough about him in front of their favourite tea parlour that the entire city could have started to recite his accomplishments, from most to least impressive, off the top of their heads.
Rumor or not, before leaving for his training, Ryoma inevitably caught wind of one of his escapades: ten successful bandit raids in a single night. The tale struck awe in samurai-in-training, and envy with the local ronin. How many of the details began to change over time was beyond him, but one constant was that he went in alone, nothing in hand but his trusty blade. The other, far more minor addition, was that he was the most handsome man that Kyo – debatably, all of Japan – had ever seen. And somehow that contributed to the undeniably impressive feat, if it was ever at all true. Ryoma didn’t care to ask.
Regardless of how long those stories had repeated in his head for, seeing him now was like comparing a lion to a moody housecat.
Sure, Ryoma couldn’t deny witnessing that hunger for bloodshed in his eye the day he became a member of the Shinsengumi; nor could he deny that that story, which had been a constant for who knew how long at that point, played in perfect synchronization as their blades clashed. But what had really clawed gashes through him, what really stung, was realizing that Okita Soji may have been his father’s killer. He maintained the crazed behaviour of a rogue wildebeest, and when he wasn’t fighting, he could have been mistaken for a ronin, bored and out of luck on gambling with how lax and uncaring he was.
As Ryoma glances down at the note in Nagakura’s lap, he can’t say that the thought of Okita being the culprit of the murder doesn’t cross his mind. Someone (or honestly, for all he knew it really could be more than one person) who somehow had the time to carefully illustrate where that man’s blood was going to go after death had to be a dedicated one. Ryoma knows both firsthand and through the grapevine how dedicated Okita could be when fighting. He wore his victories on his sleeve for all to see, to remember who they were dealing with.
With him, the question of “why” could easily be excused in two ways: he likes to fight, and because he wanted to.
The handsome part, though…
Ryoma promptly files that thought away. Now certainly isn’t the time to analyze that.
“I don’t know,” Ryoma eventually responds to Okita. Frankly, he doesn’t want to talk to him at all. “Nagakura, you seemed to be really thinking about it during the meeting. Any ideas?”
Nagakura glances at Ryoma and grunts. “Well, first off, this is the first time I’ve seen something like this, so I can’t say I can compare it to anything. Though, I stand by the opinion that it’s too dramatic to be a vengeful housewife.”
“That so?” Okita prompts.
“Yeah. If I were to put myself in a woman’s shoes, blind in anger, my first thought sure wouldn’t be to write a note for the bastard. I’d cut his dick off, stab him through the heart, and leave him to bleed. Not a care about what’d happen with the body.”
“Damn, Shinpa-chan. Cold as ice,” Okita hisses, hovering a hand over his nethers.
“It’s true,” he reaffirms. “If my sister ever caught her guy cheatin’, I’d give her the sword to do it.”
“Hold up! Yasuko-chan has a guy?!”
Nagakura chuckles. “No way, are ya kiddin’? No man out there’s good enough for her. Not on my watch.”
Okita laughs in response and shoves at Nagakura with his foot. “Watch out, kyoudai. One day she’s gonna come to ya ‘n preach about me and how her ‘n I are gonna run away together.”
Ryoma’s not even involved in the conversation at this point, but he can feel the lightning strike of a glare he sends Okita’s way.
Okita simply waves him off and says he would never do that anyway, Yasuko is the sister he never had. Then, Ryoma just catches something about how he would do the same if it came down to protecting her.
That, Ryoma files away for later as well.
In the meantime, the men’s conversation fizzles out, and Ryoma takes back the note and tucks it into his kimono. By the time they get to their feet and meander out into the barracks, they are the only captains on the lot. At some point, Hijikata and Ito had both taken their leave, and judging by the heat of the mid-morning sun, the others had chosen to enjoy the day elsewhere before attending to business tonight.
In the training grounds, a handful of grunts take turns training their sword arm on a burlap-sack dummy stuffed with hay. The swish of their blade cutting the air accompanies the drag of the men’s sandals across the dirt, and the warm residue clings to their ankles; it’s hot. Possibly the hottest spring they have ever had.
Between Nagakura and Okita’s musings, the short path they take to the barracks’ entrance is interlaced with greetings from men of varying divisions. Ryoma’s nice, but the heat and chatter and fact that he still doesn’t know who to trust in this pack of wolves while delegated to solving a murder he never wanted to stumble upon in the first place is frustrating. He barely withholds from snapping back. He settles on clenching his teeth, ignoring them.
He just needs some time before tonight to figure out a plan.
Just past the Shinsengumi gate, Nagakura halts Ryoma’s stride with a gentle but firm, “Saito.”
“Hm?”
The position of the sun in a cloudless sky sets a shadow upon the gate, casting Nagakura and Okita in shade. The relentless light beats down on Ryoma’s shoulders, his back, the top of his head.
“Look, yer new meat around here,” Nagakura continues. “We’re going to expect ya to have answers we know ya might not have. Some advice: don’t take it personally. Some of the others might have a certain opinion of ya now, but as long as ya weren’t involved, don’t worry yer head about it.”
Ryoma adjusts his posture. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The murder. At the end of the day, I agree with Hijikata-san. It’s not the worst thing to happen to Kyo, but it’s something we have to make sure doesn’t happen again.”
“So, I’m the main suspect. Is that what you’re saying, Nagakura?”
“It’s however ya interpret it. Ya just need to make sure that the answers ya might get don’t cloud yer judgement of yerself,” he clarifies. “Be sure to hold yer head high, even if ya might be misled. Doubt fosters self-loathing. If yer not proud of yerself, imagine what the rest of us’ll think of ya.”
By his side, Okita crosses his arms over his chest. His gaze holds firm on Ryoma, not quite a glare but not just nothing either.
“I didn’t do it, so I think I’ll be fine, thanks.”
Nagakura sighs and scratches the back of his head. “Alright. Well, we’ll regroup again in the evening. Hope ya don’t get Mukurogai, Saito.”
With a nod, Nagakura turns and a plume of dust from his sandals acts as a smoke screen.
Ryoma should be left alone to stew in his thoughts – should he really be suspicious of Nagakura instead? – and to contemplate what should be done until evening, but he isn’t alone.
Okita remains in place with a flat face and an unwavering eye. Not that he figures another fight would break out, but Ryoma could recognize a look of distrust when he saw one.
“Need something else?” He asks, placing a hand on the hilt of his katana. Not as a threat; as a reminder.
“Ya sure this shit ain’t gettin’ to ya?” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Ya sure had balls when it came to joinin’ up, so it makes me wonder where all of these… bad vibes are comin’ from, all of the sudden.”
“Bad vibes? What are you talking about?”
“Yer just… quiet. Quieter than normal. Makes a guy think what’s knockin’ around in that head of yers. Shinpa-chan’d never say that aloud to ya, but he’s sure thinkin’ it, too.”
Ryoma blinks, then sighs.
“I’ve always been like this, Okita.”
The rest of his mouth turns up and he flashes his teeth in a wide grin.
“Oh yeah? Mr. Show-Me-Your-Tennen-Rishin is dead silent. All the time. Sure, and yours truly’s the Emperor.”
“Look,” Ryoma says curtly, “I can see where all of this is coming from. To an extent. I found a body and now we’re keeping watch to see if we can identify who might have done it. It’s that simple. You’re looking into it too much.”
In response, Okita, with emphasized exaggeration, cups his chin between his fingers and strokes his goatee. He throws each leg out in a slow pace back and forth, gaze still firm on Ryoma – observing, pondering. Ryoma can almost hear the gears turning, and it’s so obvious that the heat combined with the dirt clinging to his skin and perhaps the fact that he hasn’t eaten since last evening is all starting to prod at him like hot irons.
The tea parlour is just right down those stairs.
Maybe if he could just… find an excuse –
“Eh,” Okita interrupts. “Maybe yer right, maybe not. Time’ll tell. All I know is that shit’s gotten a lot more fun with you around, Hajime-chan.”
Ryoma nods. “Are we done here, then?”
As giddy as a child with a bellyful of mochi, he cackles, throwing his head back. The force of it shifts his beaded necklace to the base of his throat.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Okita waves his hand. “Go be broody somewhere else, yer bringin’ the mood down!”
“We’re talking about a murder here. It’s not exactly a chipper subject…”
Laughter subsiding, he murmurs some vague acknowledgment and turns on his heel back towards the barracks, following in Nagakura’s footsteps.
“Unlike my bro,” he calls over his shoulder, “I hope ya get Mukurogai! Wouldn’t that be a laugh! Hee-hee-hee!”
Gradually, as Okita disappears around the corner near Ryoma’s room, he eases the chokehold grip on the hilt of his katana that he didn’t realize was there. He takes his wrist in hand and flexes his fingers, pensive and blood-boiled and sick to his stomach with hunger all at once.
Although he reserves little brain capacity for thinking about what just transpired, the frustration only grows within him as he debates his own notions, regardless: Nagakura isn’t one to talk much, but he couldn’t keep his jaw shut after taking leave from their morning meeting.
In fact, Ryoma knows hardly anything about the man, except that he apparently has a sister, is learned in the Tennen Rishin style, and that he has some level of compassion towards the chief. Further to that, he deduces that Nagakura and Okita had become sworn brothers long ago; it wouldn’t have been during the year thus far, no, they were too comfortable with each other for that to make sense. There’s still, what they call, a “honeymoon” phase with those sorts of things. Ryoma knew firsthand how electrifying it felt to swear to a life with another person. They must have not only known each other for a while, but swore up long ago, too.
That deduction only raises more and more questions in Ryoma’s mind, and he mulls them over as he carefully trods down the ratty wood steps to the tea parlour.
At the very least, it’s a nice change of pace to see that the livelier part of Mibu is awake and vibrant as usual. The palanquin carriers stand at attention in their usual spot while the local children holler and laugh in play around them. The elderly couple that found peace with their dog’s death at his and Haruka’s home wander around serenely in their yard. That familiar spring breeze wafts the mouth-watering scents of the sweets that his body aches for, that the kind woman manning the shop beckons him closer for with a wave and smile.
Did Nagakura leave Mibu often?
Were Nagakura and Okita in this scheme together?
His warning earlier starts to sound more like advice to stay away from him (or Okita), the more Ryoma can’t get his mind to quiet about it.
Was it the truth? Did they care at all about Ryoma’s safety?
Somehow, the woman is able to wipe his mind clean with a simple, “good afternoon, Hajime-san. The usual?” and he is as good as checked out.