What makes history (Hijikata x OC)

Snowballs

Saitō knelt in seiza in a corner of the room, back ramrod straight. If someone was the embodiment of Japanese traditions, it was he. I lowered myself to the ground as well, knees locked together as I sat upon my legs. From what I had gathered, the cross-legged posture I had assumed the first day was reserved to men.

"Your exercising seems to show otherwise."

Saitō's voice was low, so discreete that I sometimes wondered if I had not dreamt his words. There was a calmness to him I found soothing, as if the air stilled around him. For a man so young, it was definitely unsettling.

"Don't get fooled. I can't do half the things I'm supposed to. But I can still work on flexibility ... if it doesn't require my right arm."

The Captain nodded again, not one for many words. Below the fringe of very dark hair, the ecchymoses around his nose had turned yellow. It still looked pretty angry, but not broken.

"I'm sorry about your nose," I blurted out.

"Injury sustained during a fight is honourable. Do not apologise for besting me."

This was such a Confucius thing to say. Or a piece of the Bushido code, who knew? Strangely, Saitō didn't seem sour about his defeat. If anything, he seemed rather curious.

"I don't think I would have won a fair fight. I've heard of you. They say you are unmatched."

"Hijikata-san and Okita-kun match me. I only beat them because I'm left-handed."

Was it self-depreciation, or the warrior's bluntness? His face showed no emotion whatsoever, and I wondered if I would ever see him train or fight another swordsman.

"I guess left-handed Samuraïs are scarce."

Cries rose from the courtyard, and I heard Chizuru's characteristic squeak. The other voice was Heisuke, for sure. The sound of snowballs hitting the engawa caused me to smile; the girl wasn't coming back too soon. I poured a cup of tea, and handed it to Saitō. He bowed his head to me, and accepted the recipient to warm his hands.

"Left-handed stance is frowned upon."

"That's ... too bad."

His eyebrow shot up; I took it as my cue to explain my point of view, mindful of not offending his culture. Even though he had probably suffered from it, he'd quickly defend it on front of a foreigner.

"I mean, it gives you a clear advantage, and you seem to be terrific with a blade. Why waste such talent?"

"The codes of Bushido are ancestral."

And he proceeded to teach me how, when a Samuraï met another, he laid his weapons on the right to indicate trust. I listened to his slow, quiet voice, fascinated by the history. How could I judge, when French children, in the '70s, were still forced to write with their right hand even though they were left handed ? The young man sipped his tea, steam rising to warm up his cheeks, with the poise of a sage.

"Hijikata-san and Kondō-san were the first to accept my peculiarity," he eventually confessed. There was such fondness in his voice for his captains, unwavering loyalty as well. This was the look of a man who'd go to hell for his commander. Silence stretched for a while, and I realised how shunned Saitō had probably been, in the past. What a waste of talent !

Saitō eventually set his cup down on the tray.

"But you are right, it gives me advantage because people don't know how to counter reversed strikes. Except for you."

This was a question. Subtle, but a question nonetheless. I had no qualms answering it.

"I've sparred with ambidextrous people before. They taught me danger came from both ways, and how to counter it. They used twin swords."