Another oneshot. And I’ve got some new news. I’m not at all happy. Three reviews for Winding Roads? THREE? After what…four or five days? And those three could hardly be called “reviews” in the first place. Sure I admit it wasn’t very good and was pretty short…but THREE? Honestly people, you’re not doing any author any kind of good with this, especially when the three “reviews” happen to be pointless anyway.

No, I didn’t mean that in a nasty way. Please, read, enjoy, review.

OoOoOo

I still…
I still believe.
You will return
I know you will,
my heart
against all odds
holds still.

Yes, still
I still believe.

oOoOoOo

Misao rolled and twisted into her sheets one spring night; Pale skin glowing under the moonlight rippling seamlessly into her room. The dark, raven mass of her hair was unbound, pooling behind her in waves of black velvet. She lay on her back, the white yukata sticking to her slimness from the sweat soaking her body. Her pretty face was pulled down with worry, despite her sleeping state. One lip was clenched between her teeth, turning a shade of pink as she gnawed upon it vigorously. Her smooth hands, laying limp at her hips were clutching her moist sheets; Trembling as if she were seizing something in her dream world, desperately.

Her entire upper half catapulted off her futon completely, her lips caught with a gasp. Her ivy-green eyes were wide and bright, glittering like fire opal in the pearly moonlight. She didn’t even realize a name was on her lips before it echoed throughout the vacant night air. It was that memory again. A memory and a nightmare both. Which one, the oniwabanshu girl couldn’t decide which. Falling back onto her wrinkled futon with a breathy sigh, she raked an ever-trembling hand through her bangs. Ever since that event, that damnable memory would keep coming back. To taunt her, to remind her every night for a year and a half of what happened. Not only that, also of what had happened prior.

“Damn.” She cursed, slamming her fist down into the futon. Finally regaining enough will power to lift herself, she sat upright again. Her expression was quite nonchalant, her lips tugging down into a grim line. Her eyes held the very same motion, although a bright flame still burned within those ovals of jade. A bright, glowing flame that refused to diminish through the roughest of times. Curling her fingers loosely in her lap, her eyes flickered for a moment—not with tears. What flashed through her soul was far from tears; It was hope. Even after more than a year of no word from him, she still hoped. She prayed, wished, and knew with all her being that this was not the end.

It was far from it. Makimachi Misao, at nineteen years old refused to accept that he was gone forever. Even more so after her family members kept telling her, trying to convince her that this was so. She was always like that. If someone insisted with all their might that something was hopeless, she would insist with all her might that it wasn’t. Misao was absolutely certain that he would return. Although it had indeed been more than a year since he bid farewell, Misao wasn’t about to give up because of time. And that time was not simple. Those long, lonely months were filled with such occasions, waking up in a sweat, a name in her mind.

Wanderers were such a hassle.

At this, a slightly amused laugh came from her throat. Indeed, wanderers were more than what they were worth. Sometimes. If you were patient, you would find that wanderers are worth much more than they seem. No matter how penniless, how ragged, or how annoying they seem there is always a reward for your patience. Who knows? They may even turn out to be your husband. Like Kaoru and Kenshin. Misao thought, bitterly. She was nineteen years old, and had not had her first kiss. No man had held her in his warmth, cherishing her and comforting whatever woe’s she had. No man had whispered loving phrases into her ear like a true lover should. No man had treated her like a woman.

There was still hope for that, too. Much more than she let herself think. If Kaoru could get such a husband, then so could Misao. However delayed that relationship may be. The closest thing she had to a lover was that wanderer. The wanderer that was causing all this blissful turmoil within her heart, mind, and everything else in between. The penniless, ragged and slightly annoying wanderer turning up at the restaurant she tended to. At first, nothing sparked between them. She was still infatuated with Shinomori Aoshi at the time. However, that nothing soon became a tiny light. And that tiny light grew and grew, all the while her silly obsession grew dimmer and bleaker.

He stayed there for approximately three months. No more, and no less. Even through such a short, carefree period of time he had changed her; and for the better. And though he could not tell it, he was changing day by day also. If it was such a task as taking her to the market, she could see his eyes brighten. If it was strawberry sweet napping out in the grass with candy blue skies, the two were changing. They were altering, not only in personality, but many uncountable and cherishing things as well. The two—the wanderer with a smile slowly mimicking his eyes, and the oniwabanshu girl with boundless emotion and caring were beginning to live. Live, as in finding something that wasn’t there.

What that something was, she had not found an answer to. Perhaps he knew, now that he was off wandering again, in search of that something she could not name. Wandering, to where God only knows. If even, he was doing that much. Part of her, a dark little part in her mind feared he never completed his journey. Or perhaps he did. Perhaps he had found a beautiful and thoughtful wife. Thos thoughts were always ludicrous, however. She knew he would not meet his end by the way he looked to her. She knew he had not married by the way his voice took on a softness all its’ own when speaking her name. Misao was positive he wouldn’t do that by the way he said goodbye.

O, she was fortunes fool.

Closing her eyes, Misao stood to her feet, her sleek silhouette framed by the waning moonlight. As if weightless, she strode to her bedroom door, opening it silently. Shutting it, her eyes had to adjust to the gloom outside her solitary shelter before she began walking again. Yet once again, her thoughts were turned to the happy days she spent time with her wanderer. She could remember vividly one autumn day when he had thrown her into bright red leaves, laughing with such intensity as hers was. She remembered with stark detail how his warm indigo eyes gleamed with mirth, something he had lacked. There was very little she knew about his past, but Misao could tell such a thing was a blessing to see.

She recalled, with amusement, a day they had shared a western treat called “ice cream” and had it splotched all over themselves before they were done. Misao could swear those were memories she would hold to her grave. She dared not share them with anyone, they were theirs and she was not going to let that go. Misao had let him go, and she’d be damned if the only thing of them was tainted by others’ ears. The oniwabnshu girl stopped at the beginning of the small, wooden staircase leading to the second floor. It was lighter on the second floor, for patches of white light illuminated it from the shoji doors and windows.

Padding downward with lax grace, Misao occupied herself by braiding her own hair. No matter how strongly her recollections came on, she wouldn’t allow herself to reminisce about them any longer. Because when she did that, she would regret it. Misao hated the after effects of such thoughts, the way her heart would grow heavy and she no longer cared about anything else. She didn’t even care that Shinomori Aoshi was completely distant to her, still meditating in the same old temple. Of course, she no longer brought him his tea. She quit soon after Seta Soujiro had left. If the man wanted tea that much, well, he could make it himself.

Her fingers were working faster now, tugging at her hair in an attempt to will more of those memoirs back into her consciousness. So much so that the girl nearly tripped on the stairs if she hadn’t seized the wall first. That was when a different memory jolted her being yet again, despite her efforts. It was in the afternoon, curtains of yellow-gold sunlight filtering through the building. She was awake, dressed in her usual clothing; braid swishing behind her as she paced down the staircase. He was there, too, of course, a happy smile at his lips and russet hair gleaming from the sun. She had greeted him a good morning, stepping clumsily onto the last step, and toppling forward.

Only to be steadied by arms that were much stronger than they looked. If Makimachi Misao lived to be one hundred years old, she would always remember that moment. The girl would remember how she looked up, dazed, her nose nigh a half-inch from his own. How his eyes were almost as surprised as she herself felt, or how she swore her cheeks were flaming. Misao recalled clearly how his slender hands were placed upon her shoulders, and her own grasping his clothing out of instinct. Some of the greatest things, though, were felt not with the body. If those parts of it faded away, Misao was sure that the other things couldn’t.

The other things were how that one accident had brought to life an unexplored portion of their friendship. Shaking the thing away, Misao stood upright again, pursing her lips and finishing her braid, swinging it around her shoulder. At last, she stepped onto the second floor, light spilling into her gaze. Her gaze all the while holding a light inside. Each time she remembered, which was rarely scarce, she could feel her hope building and growing. Growing and becoming so large Misao feared she would simply burst with it. Surely such hope was not in vain. She knew it. Misao couldn’t remember a time she was so certain of something.

So certain that something precious was going to return to her. Never, not even when Aoshi went away and joined the Juppon, Kenshin promising his return. Closing her eyes and letting a sincere smile touch her petal-pink lips, Misao pulled her yukata tighter around herself, walking up to the front door of the Aoiya. Sliding it open with ease, she breathed in the crisp midnight, thankful for the starlight and refreshing air. The entire vicinity was peacefully quiet, the buildings and dirt paths shining like expensive silver. The sky was darker than pitch, setting aglow the heavenly bodies that shone down tenderly upon her face.

This, too, was a sure sign of her desire for him to return to her. For it was not only hope that bound her dreams, her memories, her very thoughts to her blue-clad wanderer named Seta Soujiro. She came to realize, it was much, much more than that. What’s more, she knew it was so greatly more than love. If that was even possible. Misao had always been taught that nothing, however false it sounded, was stronger than love. Up till the past two years or so, Misao claimed such words were rubbish. Rubbish that now, seemed startlingly true. The girl was surprised, to say the least. It seems hope was not the only thing she possessed for Soujiro.

Closing her eyes one last time, Misao decided it was time for bed again, opening them, and freezing. Her entire body froze, her mind with all its whirling thoughts froze, everything froze for a moment. She saw, very, very clearly, a moonlit shadow coming down the street. No one was out this late at night. And her mind, sharp as it was, had never once before played such a thing on her. Misao knew who it was, instantly, as if something had activated inside her soul once more. Before she knew it, she was darting as fast and as strong as her body could possibly go toward her wanderer. The wanderer who had left a year and a half ago, leaving her with their memories and her need.

It seemed her hope and love was not futile, after all.

OoOoOo

Yes I know. That was probably the most boring thing you’ve ever read. As well as the cheesiest. First I want to make something VERY clear to my wonderful reviewers whom I do appreciate:

1: Please, don’t tell me this was corny. I KNOW it was corny, okay? Okay.

2: Please, don’t tell me to continue or die. This is a oneshot. It won’t be continued in another chapter.

3: Please, if you have something to say, make sure it has a POINT. I don’t want to hear if you thing so and so is shy or bossy or whatever. That’s great that you noticed, but it doesn’t do me any good.

4: Please, if you liked this, tell me. I mean really, what do you think will make me update more? A “cute story!” or a “I-really-enjoyed-this-story” Kind of review? You do the math, peoples.

And don’t take this the wrong way. It’s not that I don’t…enjoy the reviews I got (or…more so got irritated by) but I’ve been on here for three years. I’ve gotten 5-6 good, worthwhile reviews. That’s it. The rest I hardly remember an hour afterward. Make me happy! You’ll be happy too, you know!