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Over the empty field, the sun spilled light like blood, orange and red, drenching the trees and earth in a hazy panic. The boughs sought comfort and peace inside themselves, release from the hell of that place, and curled against each other, fearful of letting their roots touch the hallowed burial grounds. The earth, brown tainted crimson, cracked from the heat of the barren sun that bled down onto it, drowning, screaming, stained with death, carnage, the scent of camphor rotting in the heavy air.

Corpses, all of them - save one.

The cries, the gasps, the screams of the tormented earth did not reach his deaf ears as he dug. Fingers raw, broken, and arms numb from exhaustion, he toiled on, small body wracked with spasms of pain, fear, disgust, loneliness. He was just a boy.

The earth was torn, dried, and hard, and he had to claw and scrape it off with his blunted fingernails - the dark brown soon stained as red as his hands. With every chunk that he ripped off and threw to the side, one more body was found hidden in the grass, limbs limp, face white, eyes rolled back in the sockets, cold, clammy. Some were cut to shreds, and he could not differentiate what belonged to whom. That grave was behind him. He had dragged all the arms, fingers, toes, elbows he found - even a leg - and dumped them in, covering the shallow hole with mud and mounting a cross made out of pieces of fallen wood and tied together with rope from a bag he found that he had had to rip from a dead man’s grip.

But, still, there were bodies. Hundreds of them, littering the ground, spilling blood and putrescence and an energy that left him numb and vacant. Another mass grave, he was digging; one more to litter the fields in front of him.

Weak, wasted, the boy grabbed another pile of dirt, planting his hand on the jagged edge of a hidden pebble - it lodged in his palm, and he slowly winced, but continued to press on it, levering another chunk free even as his hand split open. It was barely as deep as his arm’s length, but the hole would have to hold three of the dead - he had no other way, no other choice. Dumbly, he continued pulling, pressing, coaxing the dirt free and imbedding the rock further into his skin. It would not come, though, and he cried out sharply, finding the pain in his arm suddenly alive and roaring inside his head. Dizzied, he tumbled over into the abyss he had dug for himself, curling into a tight ball and wheezing, bloody fist clenched by his chest.

Had it always been like this? Mother, Father - they had left him, in a field, fallen prey to something invisible. He had watched, helpless, as they withered away, ghostly skeletons, the dark green grasses that he could hide in and the black and grey skies overhead churning with demons and dangers that he could not fathom. His mother, lying absolutely still in the small hut, lips stained bright red with the blood expelled from her body every time she had coughed; his father, face down in the crop, hand still clenching at the earth, as if he was holding himself down there, refusing to leave. The rain came, then, but he had not noticed it. His crying would have been enough to drown the world those few days.

running through the grass feet jabbed by rocks and stumbling over the tilled earth as he went on crying and screaming and calling and searching no one there no one waiting no one replying no one alive as he ran his voice choked he dodged stalks of grass as they whipped at his face the clouds rumbling the sky churning where was everyone mother father where did they go what was he to do all on his lonesome and tripped over a body on the ground screaming calling for help calling for father but it was but that was but he had tripped over but father was dead

Not old enough to recognize the difference between life and death except in measure of a person’s activity, but knowing more about the latter then most would their entire lives, the little boy, tenderly aged less then ten years, was buried alive by his own fear, his own pain, his own disgust and sadness and his own wish to die.

The man came to the boy. The graves were finished - and in front of one, he had dragged three marker stones. The man poured sake on the graves, and then asked the boy what his name was.

“Shinta,” he said simply, most of his heart beyond touch.

“That’s too weak of a name for a swordsman. Your name is Kenshin,” the man said firmly, no room for argument. The boy never would have argued, anyway.

Kenshin started training under Hiko Seijurou, thirteenth master of Hiten Mitsurugi, the technique he was to learn. Hard work led to determination, and, slowly, determination led to sometimes success, and mostly failure. The persona he had buried inside himself under the dirt and bodies started to climb free again, through a smile, or a laugh, or a tear, or a shout.

And then he heard of the war.

He simply could not stand for it. A boy seeking to change the world, to save lives, to make a difference, left his master, well adjusted and balanced from his years of training.

But when he got there, it was different.

“Are you willing to kill for your ideals?”

It was not a question any child should be put to answering. It was not a question anyone at all should be forced to answer. But answer he did, with the truest thoughts from his heart, even though it would cause him pain to no end for the rest of his life.

He never thought the day would come. Training with the other Ishin Shishi, gleefully accepting their challenges only to beat them without contest, he stayed naïve and innocent - until the black letter came. As he woke up from a peaceful night’s sleep, a stranger invaded his room and gave him an envelope - he already knew what it was. He had heard enough stories.

But he never thought it would come to him.

The streets were dark, damp with the last rain. Drunken choruses of old folk tales and songs echoed from the restaurants that were still desperate enough to keep their doors open to the public, and the air smelt heavy of wet soil and wood. The moon refused to shine on such a night as that, the dark foreboding clouds providing a security blanket around the cold light. Even the stars were hard-put to appear, flashing behind the cloud cover whenever the sky presented them to the sinful land below.

He knew that with every step he took, a group of men stealthily followed, making sure to seem inconspicuous while remaining completely intent on every action he preformed, every step he took. Completely aware of every mistake he made.

With his swords at his side, one hand resting hesitantly on the handle of the katana, he paced the streets, silent outside. Inside was another matter - he questioned himself, whether he would be able to, whether he could go the job right or well enough to please, or if he would end up making a dreadful mistake. What if he found the wrong person? What if he got hurt himself? These issues had all been made aware to him, but now they seemed to hover in front of his eyes, teasing, taunting, crying, howling.

He did not have time to think, as it turned out. He stopped at this appointed meeting place, and waited, fidgeting and nervous and confused by his inner turmoil.

The man appeared, though. “Who are you?”

And nothing mattered. “It doesn’t matter.”

Blood splashed, bright crimson against the black, and the man fell, his head rolling off in a different direction. He had screamed before - and now, something they had not been prepared for, a swarm of new men came running, swords out. “Who are you!?” They asked again, and he did not bother to answer. They were all dead within a few minutes.

picking through the grass feet slippery with blood and guts and stumbling over the bodies as he went on digging and finding and heaving and fainting no one to help no one to stop no one to cry no one alive as he dug his hands bleeding he ignored stabs of pain as they clawed at his heart heat bombing from the sky burning why was everyone slave traders bandits what did they do where was he to go all on his own and fell over a body on the ground mumbling wishing for help begging for his sister-like saviours but it was but that was but he had fallen over but they were dead

Not old enough to recognize the difference between life and death except in measure of a person’s blood, but knowing more about the latter then most would their entire lives, the teen, roughly aged in the teen years, was buried alive by his own hatred, his own confusion, his own pain and disgust and his own wish to die.

The man came to the teen. The job was finished - the man commented on his ability and sent the others to cleaning up, and then asked the teen what his name was.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said simply, most of his heart beyond touch.

“That’s no way to answer. Battousai. You’ll be Battousai,” the man said firmly, leaving no room for argument. The teen wouldn’t have argued, anyway.

Battousai started killing under the guise of night, swift, noiselessly, perfect at his job. He did not let himself feel, or care - he merely did as his orders commanded him to. The deaths grew more and more routine, the dance of his sword ending numberless others, a simple detached nonchalance protecting his heart from the pain he created - and the blood that stained his hands.

And then he met the woman.

Silent, mysterious, cold, she was the perfect wife - good at cooking, sewing, cleaning, quiet unless spoken to, respectful. When the Ishin faltered for a moment, they ran together into the woods. With her, he felt something in his heart - and with that one emotion came fear, pain, longing, and love. The persona he had drowned so long ago in the blood he took had started to resurface.

But there were circumstances he was unaware of. His wife left, and he followed her dutifully, through snow, blade, trees, barriers that left him senseless - until he got to the small cabin.

But there, it would not be any different.

Through the bare treetops shone the sun, icy and sharp in contrast to the thick, mulling clouds that swirled overhead, barely missing the edge of the star’s cold glow. White powder floated on the ground, a mist of ice, as the wind shifted precariously. The air was frost, freezing everything that it touched, giving no concern to the numbing powers it owned. Winter did not care.

The snow sprayed around them, father and his son-in-law both suffering wounds, the latter bleeding from his ears where the first barricade had blown his eardrums, his vision swimming. He fell onto a knee, the cold wind howling regrets around him, shrouding him in it’s cold escape, begging for him to surrender. But he could not surrender.

This next attack would be the last. Shifting the katana in his hand, Battousai felt all his body cry out for cold, eternal sleep, while his soul screamed to kill, to murder, to save his beloved. It was a hard combination, one half of him sobbing for release from pain, the other revelling the pain, knowing that soon it would be placed on someone else. Could he do it? Did he have the energy? The power? He was weak - it was cold, and he had lost his ears and his vision was dimmed, blurred. Would he be able to?

The man lunged, and he sprang forward, eyes closed, the only senses he could use - his instincts and bloodlust rushing through his veins.

Resistance met his blade, more then the one man would have produced - and as he opened his golden eyes, he saw the long black hair, the familiar kimono - the scent of white plum strangling him.

He screamed, pulled his sword out of her chest, held her in his arms as they fell in the snow, staining it red with her blood. A scar on his face that she already had part in was crossed by another, the tanto in her hand leaving a permanent reminder of his failures on his cheek.

She died in the cold, where he should have, instead.

walking through the rain feet cold with water and mud and passing over the cobblestones as he went on trudging and thinking and fearing and fidgeting no one to tell no one to change no one to take his place no one alive as he saw his heart racing he quieted cries of agony as they ate at his mind moon cowering in the sky crying why was he Hitokiri Battousai what did they want when was he to stop all by himself and sliced through a body in the alley killing obeying for change waiting for his heart to beat but it was but that was but he had stopped but it was dead

Not old enough to recognize the difference between life and death except in measure of love, but knowing more about the latter then most would their entire lives, the teen, roughly aged in the adolescent years, was frozen alive under the snow by his own pain, his own loss, his own love and depression and his own wish to die.

The woman left the adolescent. Her body was burned in the flames he created - the fire burned less and through the years dwindled, and then was snuffed as he left the war. The rurouni traversed his country, leaving behind the sword and it’s ideals of blood and pain behind him, a sakabatou slung at his hip. He would never again take a human life by his hands, and was content to sleep under the stars at night and eat what he could find or make due with. He stayed many confused blades through his travels, always willing to lend a helping hand and to save innocence and prevent death, never once flipping the sakabatou to it’s sharp side on his quest for salvation.

And then he met the girl.

She was the charming, witty, excitable young kendo teacher and adjutant master of the Kamiya dojo. On the dark streets of Tokyo, as he walked silently by, she called out the name he had left behind so long ago and attacked with nothing more then a mere bokken. Easily he had dodged her strike, but not without suffering another kind of affliction that she had brought down upon him. He saved her numerous times, and she offered him a home of sorts in her dojo, where she taught Kamiya Kasshin Ryu to a young Tokyo samurai and fed one rurouni, one punk eleven year old, and one free-loading rooster head. Strong, pure, amazing, she captivated him, and the rurouni began to fall deeper and deeper into to her snare. With each passing enemy that would try to get to him through her, he would revert bit by bit to his old self, the persona he had buried in the snow and blood breaking free, sharp-edge of the sakabatou ready to deal the deathblow to whoever hurt her.

But there were times when he could not help her. An old enemy appeared, white-haired and smiling through his pain.

It would not be any different.

The smoke filled the grounds, blood split from many sticky in the dirt. The sun shone bright and cheerily overhead, wind gusting loudly, spinning the thick grey air in circles, shifting reality as, elsewhere, the marketplace bubbled and the children laughed and the birds sung.

He ran, pain flowing through his person as he chanted her name in his head, needing to save her, one half already fearing he was too late while the other knew it was impossible that a light such as hers could ever be extinguished. The scent of white plums flared in his mind and he stopped to see the man, waiting for him. He screamed, and the man laughed - merely telling him his objectives, and where his answer would lie. Then he disappeared into the smoke again.

His feet crashed on the ground, his chest burning from the effort of panting for air, his heart beating faster then anything in his panic. He had to save her, he had to find her, there was no other choice. She was his light, she was his home, she was his everything, she had helped him win over his dark side, the Hitokiri within him, and he had fallen too deeply for her. He needed to find her, had to find her. Where was she? What did he do to her? Was he too late? He was scared out of his mind, running, almost screaming her name at the top of his lungs - was he too late?

The smoke cleared, and the dojo opened in front of him, one wall blown out. He sprang for it, tripping over his own feet, jumping onto the raised floor before skidding to a halt, his heart stopping, his whole body running dry.

She sat against the wall, sword pinned through her heart, wonderfully blue eyes dead, vacant, empty. A cross-scar cut into her cheek, her blood sprayed on the wall behind her.

They both died there.

trudging through the snow body frozen with blood and gore and passing through the pain as he went on fighting and bleeding and longing and wanting no one to sheathe no one to comfort no one to warm him no one alive as he smelled his body screaming he cried tears of sorrow as they emptied his soul snow falling from the sky cleansing why was she Tomoe her fiancé what did she do when was he going to die all alone and cut through both their hearts in the winter sacrificing pleading for her life begging for his pain to stop but it was but that was but she had came in between but she was dead

Old enough to recognize the difference between life and death in measures of love, life, and faith, and knowing less about the former then most new from birth, the man, too old to continue by himself, stopped living because of his own love, his own loss, his own sins and repentance and his own wish to sleep forever more.

He sat in Rakuninmura, sakabatou chained, heart stopped, mind replaying his life in a never ending chain of events; the loss of his parents, his saviours ringing clear as bells; his first kill, and the strike that ended the life of his wife acting out in his mind; and the picture of his Kaoru-dono dead on the wall of the dojo imprinted to the back of his eyes.

wading through the rain water and snow body bloody, aching, cold with a ribbon in one hand and the sakabatou in the other and wasting away in the land of the fallen as he remembered and remembered and remembered and remembered no one to take care of a little boy no one to be his sheath no one to beat him and worry him and about him he was not alive as he remembered his body and soul exhausted he remembered the empty crops the bloody fields the wet cobblestone the cold snow the dojo as they drained his conscience snow falling from the sky vanishing why did he kill parents his first Tomoe Kaoru what did he do when was it all going to end killing himself and ending everyone’s life in the process dying dying for her death dying for his life to stop but it was but that was but they all had but he was alone

The person who most wants your smile is still awaiting you Please wake up quickly and meet her.

And she was alive

And, as he awoke in the dojo, bandaged and cleaned up by his friends, he knew that every part of the man known as Himura Kenshin - Shinta, the child; Battousai, the Hitokiri; and the Rurouni needed not hide any longer, and as the door opened and he looked over to his friends, a smile rose on his lips. This was Himura Kenshin. This was him - and this was the man that would save his Kaoru-dono from the brother of his dearly departed wife.

“I’m sorry for causing you so much trouble. I’m alright now... so, let’s go! Take me to where Kaoru-dono is!”

The person who most wants your smile is still waiting for you. Please wake up quickly and meet her...