Join the dying

"Triage the wounded and the dying," I ordered. "Then get some rest. I'll see to the food." Three of my seventeen men jumped up from their tired slouches and bowed stiffly, hurrying to obey. Fools, I thought bitterly. Why were they listening to me? Why would they rush to decide which of their friends were going to die today just because I told them to?

I turned and began walking slowly to the gate leading me into the old temple we had made our temporary base. Blisters on my feet had blisters of their own, and all of my muscles complained, wailing pitifully with every movement. Still, I had come out lightly. Some scrapes and bruises but no wounds. Just a lot of blood.

I should have stayed with my men and seen to them personally. The captain would have done it, but I was not the captain. The captain was dead. I was just the poor bugger who was next to him when it happened, the one closest to the centre of action. So when I started giving orders, people must have assumed they were still coming from him in those first few, confused moments. Afterwards, there was simply no time for them to argue with me over command.

This is what people called a field promotion. This is what I called a baptism in blood.

Seventeen men, the remnants of our unit, obeyed as they were taught to. Obeyed as though the captain was with us, speaking through me. I looked down my body, still clad in armour. The captain was right there, spilled all over my chest, his brains caught in my collar, his guts staining my fingernails. Did they think blood conveyed will? Maybe they were right. I don't think I could have brought them home, my ragged bunch of seventeen, had it not been for the hot shock of it on my face. Maybe there was something magical about the red liquid after all. Maybe it was the essence of life, the place in which the soul resided. If you touched it, if you drank it, the soul would tell you about itself. If so, the Amanto must have learned all there was to know about us by now…

"Mikkun!"

I reacted to the nickname with confusion and irritation, spinning until I could see two figures crossing the courtyard to greet me.

"Mikkun, you heard the news?" Aizawa approached me with his hand raised in welcome. Behind him, Murakami followed with a limp. His usually frowning face was even sharper around the edges this morning, as though he was only a rough sculpture of himself. I frowned at the crutch he had anchored into his armpit, at the new bandages Aizawa was sporting around his chest. A strong smell of alcohol, puss and urine trailed after them both. They had just been to the death rooms, I realized.

"What news?" I inquired. My voice came out a little bit too harshly. I didn't want to listen to news, I wanted to crawl into a dark hole and disappear, run away into the black warmth.

Aizawa did not seem to mind my lack of courtesy. There was so much bitterness to go around, we barely noticed it spilling over any more. "Newcomers," he explained. "A bunch of men with equipment, some supplies. They just came in this morning, straight from Hagi."

"Hagi? Are you kidding me?" I shouted, grabbing for the sword at my waist as though I could do something with it. "And you let them in?!"

"Itou let them in," Murakami grunted. I steadied myself with difficulty. Aizawa and Murakami were both squadron leaders, the same as me. I was allowed to question them. But Itou was our commander, now that Saigou had left us.

"Nobody comes in from Hagi!" I growled. "They're fucking spies, how did they find us?"

Aizawa shook his head. "Their three leaders have been with the commander for over an hour now. Got here just before word came in you had to backtrack."

Backtrack, huh! Aizawa was a kind man. He would not say, 'you had failed'.

"Nobody comes in from Hagi," I repeated, redundantly. Hagi was scorched earth. The purges had struck hard down there. We had accepted refugees from Hagi in the first months, dragging them along northwards, as we made our slow bid for Edo. But not all the refugees were sympathetic to our plight. Some of them were just normal people who wanted an end to the war. Some were petty criminals, looking to lie low among our ranks. Some of them were just out to make a name for themselves, even if it meant killing a famous rebel. And some were smart little cunts, figuring they could buy forgiveness (and maybe some land and money to go with it) with a head of just such a famous rebel. It was a bad time, those first few months. We had stopped accepting refugees since.

"In any case, all the captains are to come to the temple ASAP," Aizawa continued. "Commander must have made up his mind about them. So we're either looking at an execution, or a welcoming party."

"Oh," I said stupidly. The captain was dead. The first time I tried to say it, no sounds came out of my throat. I only managed to whisper it on the second try. "The captain is dead."

Aizawa looked stricken, Murakami, even more glum. They looked at my breastplate and overcoat, glistening red, and made the connection.

"He made me…" I started. "I mean, I was there…" This was ridiculous. "I am captain now."

"Then better go to the temple," Aizawa said gently. He was not foolish enough to congratulate me.

There were eight of us, captains, lined up along one side of the temple room. In days of old, monks would sit in our places, moving their lips minutely as they offered prayers to the Buddha. I could remember the peaceful, throaty quality of those songs, vibrating in endless suspension, like the sound of creation. Now, there was only one monk who was lending us his home as a temporary base and hospital. He sat at the front of the room, beneath a ruined statue whose cracked, flaking fingers were raised in a sign of peace. There was something intensely ironic about that statue.

Opposite the old monk sat Itou. His back was straight, his grey trousers neat, his hair styled to traditional perfection. After Saigou, who could hardly care for formality, Itou's stern style divided the troops into those who found his rigidity comforting, and those, like me, who found it irritating. Still I supposed it was his way of showing us that there was an axis of constancy in our chaotic war. Even I had to admit that, from afar, Itou seemed as though the world could use him for the hinge upon which it could revolve.

Seating myself, I closed my eyes to several inquisitive looks from the other captains. They knew better than to ask. Itou would do their work for them.

"Mikuni," he called from the room. "Captain Tsunezawa is no longer with us?"

"No, sir."

"He named you?"

I thought about lying just to make things easier for everybody. I couldn't do it. "No, sir. I was merely the closest man when he fell."

"So you took over command?" Itou's nose furrowed to match his disapproving frown.

"Somebody had to lead the retreat," I shrugged then added quickly, "As the Captain ordered."

Itou's furrows loosened. "Very well. How many of you have returned?"

I gulped, looked to the centre of the room, looked to Itou, to the other captains, then back to the centre where three young men sat with their backs to me. To give away our numbers in front of them when they could be spies…

I cleared my throat. "I would rather give you my report in private, Commander."

Itou understood the reason for my hesitation. He shook his head, waving fingers at the three silent figures. "These men have come here to become our new comrades, Mikuni. And the rest of you!" he addressed the other captains. "I am of the mind to allow this. However, we must find places for them in your units, and thus, the captains must have a say."

The proper captains nodded their heads. I sighed, not sure whether that meant Itou had accepted my promotion. I couldn't know what they were talking about during that one hour the Commander had questioned them, but it must have been to the old man's liking for he allowed them to keep their swords. I eyed the lacquered scabbards suspiciously. They were dented and chipped here and there, but I could tell they were well cared for. The same went for the newcomers' clothes which were clearly worn out, their colours faded and grey, yet they were carefully patched and clean.

"Young men though they are, they understand the critical times in which we live. Understand that if we do not stand up now to protect this land and its people, there will never be a second chance. They have travelled from Hagi with twelve others to seek us out," Itou was saying. "They hail from the school of Yoshida Shouyou."

There were appreciative gasps around the room. I did not join in. "Yoshida's school was burned to the ground," I said loudly.

One of the men from the centre of the room turned abruptly, with the agility of a cat. His eyes found mine. They were green and venomous, stealing my breath as effectively as though he had struck a blow to my chest. The man smirked darkly, satisfied with my reaction, and looked away while I continued to stare, hypnotised. My eyebrows collapsed into a tense frown, and I carefully closed my parted mouth. At first I thought what I had seen in his face was rage and bloodlust. Then I realized it had been pain; bottomless pain. The other two did not move.

He is young, I thought. He is so terribly young. He will die that young.

"What Mikuni says is true. The school was destroyed, the students dispersed," Hashimoto was saying from across the room. He was an older and experienced warrior, and a contender for the position of Commander. He fixed the newcomers with steely, grey eyes. "Or were slaughtered."

Mumbles erupted around the room.

"And, besides, the students were all children," another captain pitched in. I could not tell which one, but I thought, yes, and the children are here now. I looked at the green-eyed one's back once again. His rigid posture belied what I had glimpsed in his gaze. From the back he looked like a man.

Hashimoto nodded. "Yoshida himself was taken hostage." More mumbles followed his statement.

"Do you think I have not questioned them about such things?" Itou cut over Hashimoto, somewhat irritably.

"I have no doubt you have, sir. However, my concern is…" Hashimoto faltered, obviously changing his mind about his phrasing. "It is such a convenient story, commander, that I cannot help but doubt it. Is there any sort of proof these men may present to us?"

"Their supposed teacher is imprisoned, their school is ash," I murmured. "There is no proof."

Itou frowned. "I was convinced by their words, and their motives," he announced ceremonially. "But if my captains express doubt, then my captains may question them."

One of the young men shifted in his seat nervously. I could only see his long black hair falling half-way down his back. It looked a little bit worse for the wear, but very soft, shiny. Womanly, really.

"My Lord Itou," he addressed the Commander. "Lords captains. What you say is true. Shouka Sonjuku was burned to the ground, most of the students were dispersed. We are all that remain. Master Shoyou," his voice trembled barely perceptibly when he continued, "was indeed taken. We can offer no witnesses, no records, no official seals. Then again, if we could, would you suspect us any less?"

There was a hush over the room. I stared at the three, pondering what the long-haired one had said. Indeed, a man claiming the truth does not think he would be doubted, while a liar must always assume so. Spies would have most likely come with some sort of proof ready to hand.

Having given us time to reflect, the man continued speaking. His voice was surprisingly cultured for a kid from the countryside, and a poor one to boot. Yoshida was famous for inviting anybody whatsoever to become samurai, not just kids from samurai families. "The proof you seek is in the doing, not in the saying. We only ask you the opportunity to do."

"The risk is also in the doing," Hashimoto said. "You are asking us to risk." I could hear his tone acquire that note of academism it was sometimes want to. Hashimoto used to run a dojo, and thus always treated his soldiers as though they were students. I knew well – I used to be one. I also knew that there was a gentle edge in that academism. The long-haired one was getting under his skin.

"The risk is, if you will forgive me, greater for us than it is for you," the young man retorted. "We may only betray you. You may shame us."

The silence was absolute once more as the captains digested this. Itou's mouth escaped upwards a bit. He looked at Hashimoto, who was staring at the floor. Then he nodded a very tiny nod. That was it; no matter what the other captains said, Hashimoto and Itou agreed, and the three stray dogs would stay. I found myself wondering what their names were. Then I frowned at myself. Idiot! I did not want to know their names. I did not want to know their faces, their histories, their ages. I did not want to know their bodies, lest they spill their red souls all over me. The others had not seen what I had seen; not the youth, not the honest intensity of that pain, not the crazy edge to it. These boys may not have been spies, but they were not soldiers either!

"This is all very beautiful," I said, mouth running away with me before I could stop myself. "But can they fight? How long? I returned with seventeen men, Commander. Seventeen of the fifty five Captain Tsunezawa had started out with, and there is no telling how many of the wounded will make it through the night. How many could have been saved if I had three men who could swing their blades with purpose? How many had been lost because I had three who could not?"

"I invite you to test my swing. Captain," the green-eyed one spoke up without looking at me. His voice was chilled. This time I heard his rage very clearly. He had not moved towards the black scabbard next to his thigh, but I could tell he knew where it was, knew how quickly he could draw it.

"Calm down, Takasugi," said the long-haired one, turning towards his companion. This one was young as well, his profile smooth and clean. I could imagine features being carved away from that pretty face with terrible ease. He would die too…

"This is not a refuge for strays who seek revenge," I told him coolly. "If you have the stupid wish to die for your country, go and find it elsewhere. Here, I need men who are willing to live for it."

Some of the captains nodded, some of them looked at me in disgust. Itou grunted. Hashimoto said nothing.

The green-eyed one, Takasugi, stood up, hands already slinging the sword into his belt. "Let's go, Zura. These men," he made the phrase sound like an insult. "Are not what we are looking for. Besides, I told you. We don't need armies."

"Sit back down," the long-haired one – Zura? What sort of name was that? – told him. "We cannot fight alone. We cannot-"

"Men who would live for the country?"

It took me a moment to realize it was the third man who had said that, the one who had been sitting by silently. Now that he had spoken up, I found myself wondering how in the world I had not noticed him before. His hair was scruffy, sticking out at odd angles, and prematurely white. No, I realized. It was silver. He slipped out of the formal pose with a grunt, one hand stabbing the ground behind him to rest his upper body on it lazily. He turned his face to me and gazed at me with half-lidded eyes.

"Bullshit," he continued, voice slow and deliberate. "If you think you're living for anything, something's gone wrong under that stylish turd on your head. You're killing. You ain't living for a single fucking thing."

"Gintoki!" Zura protested, sounding exasperated.

"I've been around delusional morons my whole life. I can smell one coming from a mile away," Gintoki went on in that bored tone. "So I guess some of you really are killing for the country. That's fine. I don't mind delusional morons. As for me, I couldn't give the first fuck for the country, or the Shogunate, or the bushido. They all belong on the same pile, as far as I am concerned, and if you haven't realized that yet no amount of living for it, or dying for it, or killing for it can make a difference, I promise you. But I'll tell you something else…" Something happened in his eyes, and it was forcing me to look at him. Not just me, I realized vaguely. Everyone was staring at him, and it seemed he returned each man's gaze with equal intensity, as though he was looking into their souls. It was bearing us, making us feel naked. Just as I thought I could stand his stare no longer, he turned it the ceiling.

"If you need three men who would kill to save even one of those delusional morons, bring them back here to live for the country, we'll swing whatever you want, swords, cats, hips, or dicks."

It took me a moment to shake off the white noise in my head. I could not tell how long it had been since he had stopped speaking. The only thing I knew was that maybe, just maybe, this one would not die.

Maybe, just maybe, neither will anyone else in this room. Anyone else in this temple. Anyone at all.

A chuckle woke me up. It was the monk, silently seated beneath the ruined statue. We looked at him in surprise but he said nothing else, raising a hand to apologize for his outburst. Takasugi was still standing in the middle of the room, but his shoulders were not rigid, and the hand that had come to rest against the hilt of this sword was relaxed. Zura too had unstrung the taut bow in his back. His hair had come around his face, hiding it and whatever expression was there.

I looked to Itou. I had expected him to shout in indignation, to stand on principle. Instead he smiled, merely saying, "Shall we put it to the vote?"

It was not unanimous. Four captains voted against accepting the new recruits. After a moment, I voted yes. So did Hashimoto. In the end, it came down to Itou, who gave his 'aye' without hesitation.

"Well, then. That settles it," the Commander spoke. "Katsura Kotarou. Takasugi Shinsuke. Sakata Gintoki. I welcome you to the Joui faction."

Second attempt at publishing this. Because I failed epically the first time around.

This is what I have been doing while I was not writing my other story on Fanfiction... or my job. Apart from this, I was writing porn for my own personal consumption.

I am a crazy fan of Gintama - have been for, erm, ten years now, actually. Usually, when I write fanfiction for it, I either end up with something quite comedic and sexy, or something quite dark and nihilistic. In this story, I tried to capture some of that wonderful hope that Sorachi has in abundance, which is never mushy and sentimental. It is sometimes painful, and resigned, and humorous, and noble, and foolish, but it is always awe inspiring to me. Hopefully, I manage to convey some of that.

This chapter was full of dialogue, and I hate writing dialogue. It only rarely comes out right, shyly, like a badger comes out of its burrow. The next one is all action, I promise. (I would sell my soul for a ghost dialogue-writer. That way I could only do the fun bits...)