As such, the young swordsman had not been paying attention. The darkened corridors that surrounded him bore no threat, but the memory of the bloodbath in the Ikedaya Incident had made itself clear in his mind. In fact, those corridors looked just like these, only without so much of the blood.
And speaking of blood, he knew it was coming. Ever since the first time he had coughed up blood, it had been coming intermittently, crimson splatters against a battle-roughened hand, hastily hidden before any of his men could see. It was a terrifying disease, but Okita Souji would not allow himself to dwell overmuch on it.
Except when it came, of course, and he was left staring down at the droplets of blood that stained his hand. The same disease took the lives of so many people, and the Miburo had known that he would be next.
He would not fall to the sword, but to a disease that ate him from inside out.
No, he thought desperately even as he felt the familiar tightening of his chest; it was only the beginning. Not now.
Unfortunately, diseases never discriminated. It would not spare the ones in it's deadly grasp, and Okita succumbed to a violent bout of coughing, his hand clamped over his mouth to muffle the sounds even as he doubled over, his lungs burning and clenching all at the same time. It was pure hell, the mere seconds becoming agonizing hours as he struggled not to cough his internal organs out.
And finally, it was over, the sudden attack leaving him momentarily off-balance. And there it was, the dark splatter of blood that seeped through the material of his handguard, and the familiar taste of blood in his mouth. The metallic tang that was in his mouth threatened to choke him, and he swallowed hard and clenched his fist, wiping at the telltale streak at the side of his mouth swiftly, hiding all the traces of the attack.
None of them needed to know that their newest guest was slowly dying.
no subject
As such, the young swordsman had not been paying attention. The darkened corridors that surrounded him bore no threat, but the memory of the bloodbath in the Ikedaya Incident had made itself clear in his mind. In fact, those corridors looked just like these, only without so much of the blood.
And speaking of blood, he knew it was coming. Ever since the first time he had coughed up blood, it had been coming intermittently, crimson splatters against a battle-roughened hand, hastily hidden before any of his men could see. It was a terrifying disease, but Okita Souji would not allow himself to dwell overmuch on it.
Except when it came, of course, and he was left staring down at the droplets of blood that stained his hand. The same disease took the lives of so many people, and the Miburo had known that he would be next.
He would not fall to the sword, but to a disease that ate him from inside out.
No, he thought desperately even as he felt the familiar tightening of his chest; it was only the beginning. Not now.
Unfortunately, diseases never discriminated. It would not spare the ones in it's deadly grasp, and Okita succumbed to a violent bout of coughing, his hand clamped over his mouth to muffle the sounds even as he doubled over, his lungs burning and clenching all at the same time. It was pure hell, the mere seconds becoming agonizing hours as he struggled not to cough his internal organs out.
And finally, it was over, the sudden attack leaving him momentarily off-balance. And there it was, the dark splatter of blood that seeped through the material of his handguard, and the familiar taste of blood in his mouth. The metallic tang that was in his mouth threatened to choke him, and he swallowed hard and clenched his fist, wiping at the telltale streak at the side of his mouth swiftly, hiding all the traces of the attack.
None of them needed to know that their newest guest was slowly dying.