What makes history (Hijikata x OC)

Japan - state of the art

He was such a gentle soul, the Captain of the Shinsegumi. Isami Kondō – for such was his name – was referred to by his peers as Kondō-san. An honorific title, the equivalent of our "sir". Open and kindhearted, he instructed me in the most basic traditions of his people. Now, I was getting the hang of those diminutive suffixes. – san – chan – kun – sama – sensei had no secrets for me, and, as I tried very hard to find an equivalent in either French of English, I realised the way of thinking was far too different to do so.

Better to embrace the culture, rather than compare it to mine. It was alright, though. Japanese traditions were incredibly complex, and just as fascinating. Luckily, the magic of my necklace also embedded in my brain whatever knowledge was needed to speak and write Japanese. It wasn't that I was translating; the words came in my mind in Japanese, as if it had been my mother tongue. That was a nifty trick; thank the Valar for this piece of technology. After all, given they threw me in all sorts of situations without instructions, they also provided me with the means to blend in.

Well... aside from the whole brush thing. Even though I wrote with a calligraphy fountain pen – a rottring, the technique was way different from using a brush. Kondō-san caught my potential soon enough; seeing that I could read, and synthetise any of his reports with ease – scientific mind forever – but couldn'y, for the life of me, write anything, he taught me how to trace the patterns. If the discrepancy between my knowledge of writing Japanese and my inability to use a brush puzzled him, he didn't show. Patiently, he showed how to hold it and trace them, and allowed me to train in my room.

I never got tired of tracing the Kanji, Hiragana and Katakana with a brush. It felt as soothing at shooting the bow. At length, Kondō-san soon grew fond of my rounded style, and got me to write letters for him.

Whether he felt guilty for my reception at the hands of his men, or didn't want to push me, Kondō-san didn't interrogate me further. By then, I'd learnt that gaijin – foreigners – were forbidden in Japan. Simple as that. Except for a few Dutch traders who resided on a guarded island in Nagasaki, and dragged to the Shogun every year to renew their licence.

Hence the Kitsune joke. Fire hair, as they called it, was unheard of in Japanese population. My henna wavy hair looked like the Kistune's numerous tails because they naturally gathered in ringlets after a while.

The nickname stuck. To them, I was Kitsu, Kondō's page. Kitsu, condemned to hide and stay away from the rest of the compound because of her foreign features. People still guarded my door, and I wasn't in any shape to escape anyway.

"You cannot let Itō-san and his followers see you," Kondō told me, a week after my arrival.

I was drafting a letter for him, and the name 伊东甲子太郎武明 got me sticking my tongue out. He was one of the military advisors of the group, albeit I had not seen him yet. I laid my brush down, and frowned; was there any good reason for me not meeting the fourth member of the leaders? Actually, Kondō had strictly forbidden me to mention Sanan-san as well. Weird, but I wasn't in position to ask questions. Not those, at least.

"Itō ? Why not?"

Kondō's eyes lowered, as if he was ashamed.

"He's close to the Chōshū Sonnō jōi"

Right. Great.

"Eh?"

His eyes crinkled at the corner, as if laughing at my less than ladylike exclamation.

"I forget how you don't know much of our politics. Ten years ago, black ships came to Edo and forced the Shogun to open trade. As a result, some rebels turned against the shogunate, and adopted the Sonnō jōi doctrine: Revere the emperor, expel the barbarians."

I nodded. I could understand the extremist's point of view. An epidermic reaction to a less than tactful move in the first place. What money brought into the world... I had the grace not to ask Kondō if he shared those views; the very fact that he was hiding me in plain sight was confirmation enough.

"I never thought I could be a symbol, but I guess my foreign features are nearly an insult to those guys, right?"

Kondō nodded thoughtfully. In Kyoto, I would be a rare sight. And without official papers... I shouldn't even be free to walk around.

"Have you been living under a rock?" came a harsh voice as the shōji – the sliding door – was forced open. By now, I was rather used to that deep voice, so often laced with anger.

"Where do you think a Kitsune lives?" I retorted hotly.

Hijikata narrowed his eyes at me, irked by the smile that lifted Kondō's lips. I suspected the Captain of missing his family in Edo – Tokyo, at least a week's journey away – and to use me as a past time. His fatherly behaviour was welcome enough, even though he was probably thirty-five at best – seven more than I. Wars and responsibility aged people fast.

Hijikata was about to respond when Chizuru's voice echoed from outside.

"Sumimasen. I am bringing tea."

Chizuru got in, a tray balanced in her hands, then knelt with her knees stuck together. Conversation died as she poured the green tea expertly; a deferential silence for the simple act of serving tea. I thanked her profusely for her thoughtfulness.

"Thank you, Chizuru-Chan."

Her eyes widened for a moment, and I wondered if I had messed up my suffix.

"Demo ... how do you know?"

"Know what ?"

Oh... It'd called her a girl. Did she really think I was fooled by her wearing hakamas? Her voice, her manners, her subdued looks and posture were just so feminine. And despite her silhouette being still very androgynous, there was no mistaking the lines of her face.

"Er. Perhaps you can shed the pink hakamashita, it might do wonders for your disguise."

Her doe eyes opened wide, a blush creeping up her cheeks.

"But... pink is a man's colour !", she squeaked.

"Really ?"

She nodded, her face totally flushed. Ooops. Mortified, I watched Kondō reach out to pat her hair in a very fatherly move.

"Do not worry, Chizuru," he said gently.

Their protectiveness was cute. Warriors, turned into guardians.

"Your secret is safe from the men," Hijikata added, glaring at me. And despite the animosity, I couldn't help but relish in the lilt of his voice. It was like a storm washing over the countryside, fierce and benevolent as the same time. A force to be reckoned with; no wonder his men feared him.

Three hundred; this was the average of the Shinsengumi's forces from what I'd learnt from the Captain. Truthfully, I was pretty amazed that he allowed me in his room, even if he kept all strategic letters to himself. I, mostly, was kept to mundane tasks; the most boring ones to him. To me, writing letters with a brush was a wonderful exercise.

"Hai!" Chizuru responded to Hijikata, skin flushed and bow stiff.

Her squeak was so cute, akin to a mouse's. The little lady left us with the tea, and I waited for the Demon commander to reach for his cup before I picked mine. I was learning that, in Japan, everything had an order and a protocol; drinking before the higher ranked officers could be an insult. Or not, who knew?

Flustered by my blunder, I inhaled the rich, sencha tea that Chizuru always brewed perfectly. I'd never smelt such a soothing scent; almost mesmerising. My mind blanked, a wave of peacefulness washing over me.

Perhaps luck was on my side, after all. There I was, safe from extremists and officials. A foreigner, protected by an honourable man in the midst of a warrior's compound. And even though I wasn't out of the woods yet – Hijikata might still decide to execute me – I felt relatively safe. I'd feel even safer with my sword and bow, but water would go under the bridge until I could wield them again.

By my side, the Vice Commander sighed. His features softened as he took a sip. How cute. The demon, appeased by a brew of green tea. I smiled in my cup, trying to enjoy that beautiful moment of peace.