What makes history (Hijikata x OC)

The comb

The night was cold and wet; it smelt of snow, once more, but the temperature wouldn't drop enough. It left us with a little hail, and those horrible icy winds that froze people to the core. Thus, we sat, face to face, hands hovering over the hibachi. Both lost in thought in companionable silence. For once, Toshizō's paperwork didn't pile up.

"He's gone," he rumbled. "Left for Ōsaka with his men. Stay close to Harada during patrol, and refrain from looking magical," he instructed.

Refrain from looking magical.

I almost rolled my eyes, but kept silent; I respected Toshizō's worrisome nature. None of us wanted the Shōgun to lay his hands on me after all. Separation would be painful to both of us, and with the war brewing... The fact that the Vice Commander of the Shinsengumi would hide me in the first place was an immense show of trust. Was it payback for keeping Ochimizu secret ?

I knew Fukuchō was meeting Yamazaki this evening, and realised he had put the Watch over the matter of Iba Hachirō's visit today.

I liked the tengu, and I hated that my presence nearly caused strife between him and the Vice commander. Fukuchō didn't have so many friends; his role in the Shinsengumi prevented him from gaining new ones. Being at the top always came at this price; either you could rely on figures of the past, either your path remained lonely.

Well, except for people like me who loved to pierce masks.

"I'm sorry, Toshi."

He directed a playful glare my way.

"Don't start. I have enough apologising from Chizuru."

I nibbled on my lower lip, wondering if I should push the issue. Then, I decided that I couldn't help who I was. Every decision had been done in good intelligence with the Shinsengumi's commanders. I abided by their will after all.

Dark eyes watched me intently, probably wondering how spooked I was by the notion that the Shōgun might have wanted me to hold a banner. Or worse. The Shinsengumi had slaved for years for the very same goal after all. Pop up with a magical sword and red hair, and the deed was done. How unfair !

The truth was that I had many questions to ask, and didn't quite dare. Even though he looked exhausted, Toshizō was in a much better mood than this afternoon. The strife between Kondō and himself seemed resolved ... or at least, put to rest in the light of more urgent matters.

Namely, Iba Hachirō's visit.

"How many languages do you speak, Kitsu?"

The deep, rich sound of his voice washed over me like a gentle wave, warming my insides more efficiently than the pitiful ambers lying at my feet. I bet Toshi referred to my ridiculous attempt to speak something remotely Viking ... which had, by chance, been deflected by Iba's thoughtfulness.

"Er... I'm not sure."

His eyebrows nearly collided in a comical heap. "You don't know?"

Actually, no. I loved languages – much more than maths - but tended to pick up a bit of this and that through the course of my travels and studies. Which meant I cross-referenced, and knew the basics of numerous languages. Three of them I mastered truthfully, the rest, not so much.

"I speak French, English and Spanish fairly well. A bit of Latin, a tad of Norwegian and Sindarin."

"And Japanese," he added.

I cringed. "Well, not really."

His bafflement escaped in an adorable squeak, and I launched into a hasty explanation that had so many holes in it that it was a wonder he didn't commit me to the nuthouse.