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The shivers wouldn't stop running down Hijikata's spine, his teeth jittery despite the warmth of the evening under the setting sun. It was a pleasant night, not a night for ghosts. Ghosts liked cold nights where the full moon was hidden under a cloth of cloud, not warm nights like tonight. At least, that what he kept muttering to himself. He trod onwards at a snail's pace down between the remnants of a village. The village had been burned away, mostly, and what remained was charred black and crumbling. It had been a while since the fire had died, maybe a year in fact. Long enough so that the passing winds had built mounds of ash in corners of houses. There would be no ghosts tonight. He would find the damn tree, bring back the sword Harada had dropped earlier in the day and return the damn thing back to that sadist with not a sheen of sweat to be seen.
Ghosts didn't exist anyway.
Whatever Harada had seen wasn't real, it couldn't be. It was probably a cat or something. A small child with silver hair? No, a dog, Harada. That's what it was. That's all it was, he prayed.
“I would go back and get your katana for you, Harada, but I injured my ankle playing Kabbadi with Yamazaki. I'm sure the vice commander will go look for you.”
Damn Sougo. And he couldn't say no, either, because that made him seem scared - which he wasn't. After he had berated Harada for abandoning his sword, a samurai's soul, over seeing some scraggy white-haired mutt … He had to go. But now he was bitterly wishing he'd said no. This abandoned village upon the brink of nightfall was bad enough as it was. As he turned the final corner towards the tree which Harada had described, his fingernails dug deeper into his palms.
Grab it and run. He thought, desperately.
His footsteps quickened, skittering across the dusty path, kicking up clouds of dirt into the air. There, the sword. He could see it shining at the foot of the -
That wasn't a sword shimmering. The very air seemed to bend in one spot beside the tree trunk. Hijikata froze, watching with wide eyes, heart pumping. The more he looked, the clearer the image became. The image of a young child nestled into the nook of the tree, white hair floating in the gentle evening breeze became bright in the dim light. The child looked at Hijikata with a plain expression. Hijikata was a few seconds away from fleeing, regardless of Harada's sword and Sougo's teasing. There was a GHOST. A GHOST.
What should he do? Would it get angry if he ignored it?
“H-hello. Good aftern-n- evening.” The ghost looked kind of surprised, lifted on hand and casually began picking his nose. Bad start? Was that wrong? Was he about to be eternally cursed? Maybe he should explain why he was here. “I just came to pick up that k-k-k-k-atana. If you don't mind. Sorry.” The child shrugged. It could be that the kid didn't care. Or maybe he was being annoying. Either way, grab the damn sword and leave. He shuffled forwards and the ghost made no move to stop him. The sword was only five paces from Hijikata … but two paces from the child's ethereal glow. The situation worsened significantly when Hijikata tripped over thin air and fell majestically onto his face.
“Pfft.”
The ghost child had just laughed at him. Hijikata flared as red as the line of blood dripping from one battered nostril.
“What a clutz.” Hijikata scrubbed at his face, rolling onto his elbows which brought him near enough face to face with the child ghost.
“ … Are you a cursing ghost?” Hijikata didn't know where he got the bravery from. Perhaps it was the smirk on the child's face which so eerily mimicked Sougo's.
“What are you on about? I'm not a ghost. I'm waiting for someone.” The child replied, scratching his nose with one finger and staring off into the distance. He was very much transparent - Hijikata could see the ridges in the bark of the tree through the silver mist. He was certain that the child wasn't human despite what he said.
“Waiting for who?” He asked, curiosity overpowering fear. This ghost didn't seem vicious. In fact, the heavy air around this area was choking Hijikata with sadness. It wasn't him, it was definitely something about this place that tugged at his chest. For some reason he felt like crying. He was sure that the ghost was having some sort of effect on him. The child was frowning, however, oblivious to the curling fog around him, sticking to Hijikata's throat.
“I don't remember.” The child replied forlornly, and subsequently vanished. The image of distress had imprinted itself on Hijikata's retinas.
…
It was three days before Hijikata mustered the courage to return. Harada's sword had been retrieved so there was no reason for him to go back, just burning hot curiosity. One of his evening walks had taken him there, to the foot of the tree. And once more, the child was nestled in amongst a thick mist. He felt his eyes begin to water again and old memories hidden at the back of his mind were bubbling up. The darkness surrounding this child was infectious – and he had to know why.
“If you're not a ghost, what are you?” The child looked across, apparently having not noticed Hijikata approach. He shrugged.
“I'm waiting for someone.” He repeated. “Who the heck are you?”
“You met me a few days ago, don't you remember?”
“I'm pretty sure I'd remember your shitty face.”
“Oi-!” He barely refrained from snapping at the child. What helped was the sobering fog which swelled to swallow him whole. All of a sudden his eyes were burning. He felt sick but not ill - nervous. Worried. Of what? Of being alone. Hijikata had to stumble backwards out of the misty air and gasp in fresh oxygen to sober himself. The child drew his knees up to his chest and set about staring into the horizon again.
“What is this mist?” Hijikata coughed, but the mist enveloped the child in thick smoke and once more, he vanished.
No matter how many times Hijikata returned to that spot, the same events repeated over and over again. The child would be sat under the tree, staring off into the distance with a wistful expression. When interrogated, he would reply very little other than, “I'm waiting for someone” but he had no recollection who. Then, after several minutes, the ghost would dissipate into fog until there remained less than a shadow on the ground. Intrigued and oddly attached to the story behind this child, Hijikata asked around. There were barely any survivors in the village, but it became apparent once they found someone willing to talk that the ghost child was pretty infamous. As the tale began to unfold, it seemed the ghost was of a child of the battlefield, an orphan who became a monster. He was known as the white demon, a scavenger of corpses, bloodstained yukata with barely the ability to understand speech, let alone talk. A feral creature. A demon.
Eventually, the child had died. His corpse was found where it belonged – the battlefield. Starvation or disease had taken the child's life and the crows had finished the job. Now he haunted the village, appearing beneath the shade of a tree, waiting for someone. The villagers didn't know who. They stayed as far from the area as possible, only passing by to throw charms by the foot of the tree in hopes of warding away the demon. However Hijikata returned immediately to the tree, certain he knew who the child was searching for.
Or, more accurately, what .
“Hey kid,” he called. Little red eyes glanced over with exactly the same vacant expression as their first meeting. “Come with me,” he announced.
“Who are you?”
“It doesn't matter, because today you're going home with me, little demon.” Hijikata forced steady his beating heart, unclenched his fists and opened his palm towards the child. “Let's go home.” The child was dumbstruck. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, his brain fumbling for a response. “What's your name?” The mist was retreating. It melted back towards the child, taking with it the strange sadness that clouded the air. The villagers had never strayed close enough to feel it, so they had never known. Hijikata had.
“I don't have one,” the child said, getting to his feet and though Hijikata could see straight through him, suddenly he wasn't afraid. There was one word flashing in his head, a name, and somehow he knew all these strange forces and phenomenons were correcting themselves, slotting into place.
“Gintoki,” Hijikata said. “From now on, you're Gintoki.”
The child's tiny hand slotted into Hijikata's. A smile crept onto the child's face and his eyes were shimmering. A second later, he disappeared.
This time, for good.