Summary: A circle has no beginning - at least, none that one would remember. A circle has no end. It is made up of only a single line...there was no room in its strict plans for anything, or anyone, else. Fated to forever chase its own tail, to trip over the same stones in the same well-worn path. So what happened this time?

I have to stop writing so many oneshots .

Eh...not sure where this one came from. I think it just flew out of plot-bunny-land and decided to fall on my head...

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: I don't own Wolf's Rain

How many times have I gone on this journey? he wondered, trudging down yet another worn street in yet another run-down city. How many times had he walked down this road?

Too many times to count, that was for sure.

His clothing - still sodden from the lake he had pulled himself up from - offered no protection from the wind.

And still he went on.

Perhaps this was the nineteenth time he had set out on this journey. The nineteenth time he had gone to find Paradise, had fought and killed and ran for this oasis, only to die on its doorstep. Nineteen lives. Nineteen deaths.

The memories were clouded in his head by now, muddled by too many fights. Sometimes he caught snatches of the older ones, of running, of saving a brown-haired girl, of drowning by the sea, of burning. And of newer ones, of a sweet-smelling flower maiden, of fights won, of lives lost.

And running. Always of running.

You'd think he'd memorized the route to Paradise by now, had learned from past mistakes. But every time was different; every time was harder.

This time, in this city, he had caught glimpses of the others. Of a tall, tanned man with silver hair; of a carefree boy in a yellow sweatshirt; of a young boy with red hair and a love for life. He'd passed them all.

They would have no memory of him. He wouldn't help them remember. Lest they were caught in the same vicious cycle as he was, trapped with no way out but forwards.

Perhaps he would find some companions to accompany him this time. Maybe. Maybe not. He'd traveled both ways.

They always died.

Everyone had always, always died, no matter what he chose to do. Each and every person. He had witnessed the world end more times than he cared to count. More than once, he had been the last.

He had always ended up dying, too.

No, it was better if they stayed forgetful.

But what did that leave him? Nothing but an old, time-worn body and a tired pride.

And searching. Always searching.

He'd once told the tall, tanned man - Tasume, he reminded himself - that there were many of the white flowers where he came from. Where he was born.

That was no lie. Where he came from...it was like that. Millennia ago. Eighteen lives ago.

He shook black hair out of his eyes and stuck pale-skinned hands into the pockets of his jacket. He never changed. Every time he died, he was simply moved to another place, to restart the gears of a machine which had trapped him for so long. He didn't scar. He didn't age. He didn't change.

It was not always like that, of course, he mused as he crossed another street. Once, a long time ago, he was different. He could fall asleep every night dreaming of Paradise. He could run and hide all the while hoping - all the while knowing - he was getting closer to his goal.

Now...he wasn't sure what he was chasing after anymore. Paradise was simply a wistful dream of the cursed, of the ones forced to live hateful life after life, forever trudging down the same well-worn path, destined to trip over the same obstacles, fall into the same problems. But each time reaching closer to the finish.

Last time, he was literally on the doorstep of this so-called Paradise, he thought ruefully, ducking into a dark alleyway. Maybe he would actually get there this time.

That was what he was supposed to think, of course. Forever fated to hope for an end, to dream of a better tomorrow.

Not that he could stop. The beat of the road, the pound of his feet on the path to Paradise, it was drummed into his blood. He could not not do this.

Cursed. To search and search and never succeed.

What was he?

He was the one who slipped in and out of the pages of history. Disappearing, reappearing, a shadow flitting through the sands of time. A cursed soul, unable to shake the chains of captivity.

You could find him anywhere, if you simply stop to look. He was the one fated to shape the future, over and over again and never quite finishing his task.

Searching, forever searching.

Running, forever running.

"Oh, sorry. Didn't see you there, dude!"

He looked down at the boy he had just bumped into. The teenager grinned through messy brown hair, hands stuck deep into the pocket of his yellow sweatshirt. He squinted up at the taller teen. "Hey...do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar...oh wait...Kiba!"

"What?" Kiba frowned. "How do you know my name?"

The boy shrugged. "I dunno. I just came to me." He pulled out a stale hotdog out of his pocket and began munching on it thoughtfully. "You're hungry, I bet. Want one?" He offered another hotdog with his free hand.

Automatically, he accepted, without even thinking of what may become of this acquaintance. He took a bite and mumbled, "This tastes bad," the words leaping out of his mouth without his permission.

The boy chewed. "It's the best food they have around here," he replied. "I never told you my name, didn't I? I'm Hige."

Kiba nodded in greeting. "I'm Kiba."

"I know."

"Why are you helping me?"

"I don't know. Feels like I should, though. Feels like there's something I still need to do. Doesn't that sound crazy?"

"Not at all."

Pale moonlight washed over the two.

Kiba didn't know what happened. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what happened.

All he knew was that something had changed. Something big.

Hope rose in his chest as he stared up at the moon, framed between two towering walls of neighbouring buildings.

Maybe, this time, he would actually make it.

Maybe, this time, they would all make it.

Who was he?

He was the sinner, he was the cursed. His pure white heart had long since been stained black. He wove his way through the past; he untangled troubled knots without even knowing it. He was here, had always been here.

But maybe something had changed.

Maybe, out there, there was a silver-haired gang leader with a scar on his chest reaching down for the scuff of a towheaded young boy, pulling him out of a life of desperate scavenging and hopeless guilt.

Maybe, out there, there was a black wolf - yes, a wolf, no matter what she insists - called Blue, cherished by a heart-broken old man.

Maybe, there was a scientist and an investigator, in love and out of love, circling each other knowing that, sooner or later, they will fall into one another's arms.

Maybe, just maybe.

Yes, they might all make it.

This time.