Author's Note:
Just a tentative toe dip into the fanfiction world of Rurouni Kenshin for you guys to enjoy. After watching the OVA: Reflections, where we are retold the story of Kenshin in a more dreary light and introduced to Kenshin and Kaoru's son Kenji, I felt a little fluff without point or direction was needed. I am aware that many fans find the OVA depressing and most are unhappy with it, I personally find it extremely enjoyable- it tugs in the right places and the art work is astounding- one must remember while watching it that it is no more canon than fanfiction and should not been considered as though it is. The only thing that truly confused me was the strenuous relationship between Kenshin and Kenji, where in the anime (I'm still working through the manga) Kenshin is very devoted to his friends and eventual wife; he also has a very close bond with Yahiko and the two granddaughters of the doctor, taking both the fatherly and brotherly route with each. I personally feel that when presented with his own flesh and blood, Kenshin would make an astounding father, so I tend to find that Kenji's bitterness unfounded, and his father's need to wander odd, especially as Kenshin states several times in the anime that he is tired of wandering. So, with that in mind, perhaps this is more how fans wished the Reflections OVA to truly play out.
Disclaimer: Despite wishing that any and all anime/manga/book/ect characters that I love were mine, it does not make it so. That being said, Rurouni Kenshin/Samurai X is not the brain child of myself, the story I have written here however, is.
Reflections: Promise to an End.
It was ending now and the sounds of frightened citizens who had hurriedly fled inside could once again be heard, somewhere along the row an infant wailed. The vicious cries of fighters had softened to the mournful sounds of the wounded and dying, once thick and stifling and palpable as mist rain, now barely ghosted over the churned earth and crumbling walls of the poor homes that lined the unlikeliest of battlefield. Several ruined corpses that once housed the spirits of proud men, warriors, samurai, lay scattered in the streets not unlike meat destined for the butcher's board. The chilling clash of steel on steel no longer swallowed the roar of thunder and the flash of lightening only caught upon the handful of blades still flying, wielded on by hands strong only with the will of living or the fear of death.
One such blade swung down, biting through soft and yielding flesh of the throat easily even as its wielders waraji clad feet slithered further apart, betrayed by the loose mud birthed by looser soil and rain, insisting upon disrupting his balance.
The man, the wounded-now-dying man, crumpled even before the steel had completed its carving. Life blood pumped and pulsed over fingers that struggled to clamp parted flesh together, their strength fleeting with every drop of the precious fluid lost. But even as his life ran free and his knees buckled beneath him, the defeated warrior swung one last defiant scowl at his murderer; his hazing sight filled with the gleam of predatory gold, and his voice gurgled, his final insult thick and wet upon his tongue. "Demon whelp…" And then the fire of life in his eyes dampened and the strength left in the body was gone, lost into the crimson stained mud around him.
The victorious swordsman simply turned away from the corpse without seeing it and fluidly sheathed his blade. He felt no elation in killing another, no satisfaction and no completion. And yet, he felt no remorse either, he simply acted as he had been trained since he was a boy. If he were to be honest, if he were to attach a name to what he felt as his sword robbed others of life, he would name it as monotonous. Slaying his fellow man, be he warrior or of political standing, had become routine and that revelation unsettled him. Every flame of life that he extinguished drew a little of his own fire from him, leaving him more hollow and more broken than even the lifeless vessels that sank deeper into the mud.
The battles, the risks, the knowledge that if he were to falter in his attack or react a second too slowly it would be he who lay there feeding the earth his life blood instead of the other man had once frightened him. Now he found himself envious of the corpses that he created. There was a peace to be found in death, a limit to the numbing feeling in ones chest. It was scarcely beyond the point where the mind surrendered all emotion, moments before the body relinquished its strength to death, where a calming sense of serenity would dominate hopelessness. And it was a luxury that was cruelly deprived of the victor to be instead selfishly lavished upon the dying. Every man he slue, became a new face that haunted his dreams. Every dying voice still echoed in his ears, causing him to question his actions and the orders of his commander. Though his apprehensions were never addressed and his questions were stomped down, remaining unanswered as his orders still found him, he had never once thought to refuse the chaste instructions. Instead, because of his youth and naivety, he blindly trusted that the men he allowed to aim his blade to be honorable in their intent as each new target was continuously delivered to him, bound within an envelope as dark as this path he had found himself upon.
War was a tricky beast to define beyond its baser nature, drawing a fine line between justice and simple greed. And politics served only to further confuse the actions of the just and greedy to the eyes of the common citizen. While the poetic words of one man's dreams and ideals would appeal to the hearts of some, flattering a poor man's pride enough for him to take up his sword in the name of all that was just and fair, those very same words could also stir the fury in others, leading them to destroy those whose ideals threatened their already established and stable existence. As long as there is unbalance, inequality and vulnerability, war will always thrive. Flaws such as these do not sit well in either the heart of a man or the creation of a new government.
He had failed in hiding his own vulnerabilities, a child with his own simple sense of honor is easy to manipulate. And so, to protect the delicate balance of his young mind as he stalked and ambushed and killed, he learned to sever his emotions from his actions. Trust is quickly given to he who flatters a young man's talents and feigns interest in his ideals. A kind word, a shared goal and then, no matter how vague the connection between the commander and the boy, the young warrior is ready to blindly believe that his slayings are just and his victims were deserving of their fate. And in doing so, he had lost his tenuous grasp on his humanity, reverting him to a hellish beast that preyed upon the meat of men. He had become the hushed curse that hid amongst noble soldiers country-wide. The whispered rumors amongst veteran warriors and the slurred gossip of drunkards.
His shoulders sagged with an exhale even as his fingers tightened their grip around the worn leather wrapping of the hilt. He would allow them the luxury of their ignorance. He had long since decided that the truth was far more terrifying than any fairy-tale superstitious minds could produce.
"There you are," The sound of stealthy feet slapping on mud had reached his ears long before the rasping words of an exhausted man. "The demon of the Imperial army. Turn and face your final opponent. Here your legend en…" A boorish sound interrupted the taunt as he ignored the instruction to turn. He'd grown accustomed to the derisive snorts of the larger swordsmen. He understood that his small, slender form did not project the desired sense of awe and intimidation men had imagined him to possess, nor did his age. The fictions weaved of him in the light of the campfires were simply that, fiction. He understood that he lacked the air of threat at first glance, but it was also to his understanding that in battle, the first warrior to fall is he who underestimates his opponent.
Such as the brute, his latest targets final bodyguard, snickering before him did so now. With hard biceps as thick as his own waist and meaty fingers clutching the leather wrapped hilt of his blade, this man was a beast in the truest sense, and far more so than he, deserved the reputaion of the Battousai. A mindless animal bred for war even down to the widened eyes and nostrils that flared with every horsey breath that thundered about the younger swordsman's ears. Even the voice that sneered at him now was that of a simpleton who placed all of his faith in assumptions and half-truths. "You, are no demon warrior, boy." Exhaustion was evident, his tongue slurred the words but yet his body still held taunt as though he were fresh to battle.
Gentle, lavender eyes threaded with gold flickered over a slight shoulder, interest piqued.
"Go home boy! I want to fight the Imperialist's rabid mongrel, not a child playing war. I want the man-slayer!"
Slowly he turned, chin lifting and a quiet confirmation. "I am he."
A snort, then a rumbling as the brutish man hawked and spat pink tinged phlegm from the corner of his mouth, his flat and dull eyes never shifted, never left those of the smaller swordsman. Then he barked a single dry laugh. "Gutsy little shit aren't you?" When the youth offered him no response his eyes narrowed and the momentary humor drained from his face. "You're little more than a graduate swordsman. A little boy scarcely weaned off his mother's nipple." He tapped the flat of his katana against his meaty calf, considering the young swordsman standing before him. His gaze flickered briefly to the corpse at their feet. He had watched this slip of a boy gut his employer and slit the other swordsmen without so much as flinching where even he had turned away from the sticky rush of blood and entrails flood from the gaping wounds. Despite what he thought, this boy was interesting…
…And deadly.
Without even a warning twitch, the smaller samurai was moving, zigzagging toward the larger man, hand on his sheath and the other crossing his body to grasp his katana's hilt. There was no time for thought to process, no time for instincts to insist he dodge, the only warning given of the lightning fast attack, of the motions executed, that mercilessly ended the brutes life was a flash of lavender bleeding with gold, and liquid silver of slashing steel that was quickly stained crimson.
Kenshin's body had hurled him from the nest of blankets that had shielded him from the crisp bite of the early winter air with the sounds of battle still ringing in his ears. Weight balanced evenly on the balls of his feet and shoulders curled over taunt legs in a defensive squat and, before the heavy pull of sleep had even fully left his drowsy mind, his hand instinctively groped for the katana- now sakabatou- that was strangely absent from his hip. Sleep gave way to concern, as he circled on the spot further tangling himself in his sleepwear and bedding, his warrior's senses reaching for confirmation that he was indeed away from danger, and then confusion as the former assassins vision sharpened and scanned his surroundings, searching for the enemies that he was so sure lurked in the darkness of unfamiliar territory.
His brow creased and he shuffled awkwardly through his thoughts, separating dream from reality, recalling the now diminishing sounds of battle and shunting them aside, back into the depths of his past where they belonged, as they were replaced with the now familiar sounds of the Kamiya home, his home, and the sense of comfort that was carried with them. The overwhelming sensation of panic that had his heart hammering and his throat dry only fully relinquished as his sight fell upon not the split corpse of his latest victim at his side, but the gentle curves of Kaoru as she slept on peacefully, her chest rising and falling in soft and steady breaths of one whose heart beat strongly deep within her breast.
The relief that flooded Kenshin's senses as he dropped back down with a sigh was cleansing, it had been some time since he had endure a dream so vividly and needed such lengths to bring him confirmation that he was no longer fighting in Kyoto. The fact that he had needed such reassurance that he had only been caught up in a dream, a grim reminder of his previous bloody life as the Battousai of the revolution, startled and repulsed him. He was no longer the youth that his treacherous mind had shown him, that all seemed so very long ago now. Or, at least, it would if not for the fact that people found it so very difficult to forget his past where as he, the man who had lived it, was more than happy to tramp down it down and begin living anew. Taking only a moment to shove a hand through his thick, knotted bangs, dampened with sweat despite the season, and recompose himself as his lips quirked upwards and he leaned over Kaoru's, now his wife, sleeping form.
His fingers tucking a fly away strand of hair that had tangled with her eyelashes safely behind her ear before ghosting over her clothed shoulder. The barely there touch followed the firm line of toned muscle and strong bones of a sword wielders dominant arm, yet it was carefully encased within the softness of female flesh. Had it only been almost three years since he had been confronted with this woman? Three years almost since he had felt the first tug of belonging to just one place instead of wandering as he saw fit. She had been a girl at the time of their meeting, a strong, vibrant and somewhat reckless girl, with little patience for anything that she deemed as unimportant. He felt the quirk on his lips stretch into a soft smile as he recalled her swinging at him with her little bamboo sword without fear or hesitation within moments of gaining his attention. She had, without doubt, spotted his katana at his hip and charged him, claiming him to be the Battousai and a murderer despite not knowing his personality or how close to the truth she really was.
'Reckless girl, that you are.' He chided softly in his mind as his lashes slipped partway over his gaze and he shifted closer, fitting his form against the contours of Kaoru's back easily.
Kaoru sighed at the increase of warmth pressed to her chilled skin, snuggling further back as Kenshin's fingers skimmed along her arms and finally settling around hers as he supported and cradled her arms inside his own. He pressed his nose into the thick ebony gloss, twisted into a neat braid, and inhaled, breathing in her scent and finally grounding himself fully in reality, her essence fully chasing away his thoughts of hopelessness that had lingered since his awakening. Closing his eyes, Kenshin felt the seductive touch of sleep brush his consciousness, though he resisted, content to continue basking in the warm glow of belonging, he must have slipped into a semi-doze because as he lifted his head at the sound of a single soft complaint emitted from within his protective clasp, he felt the sudden rush of awareness swirl through his mind.
He blinked, gaze immediately falling onto his wife, checking that she was still nestled in blissful slumber and blinked again as he confirmed this. Carefully he lowered his head again, waited a moment with a held breath as the soft sound rose once more, this time he felt a shifting movement against his hold. He moved carefully, shifting his hip back and tilting his form enough to tuck an elbow under himself without releasing his hold on his sleeping wife. Propping himself high enough to peer curiously along his arms that edged hers to where, nestled safely within their entwined limbs, lay a small child -their child- fidgeting and shifting with the first throes of distress.
His heart clenched. This was his life now, a new and bloodless path for him to wander as a husband and father.
Kenshin considered the child carefully as his little mouth pulled down and his little face crinkled, the next sound that came was a single cry of a baby whose initial snuffling and whimpers had not gained him his desired result. Kenshin's mind suddenly caught on the cry, on the whimpers that filled the silence between one wail and the next. These were the sounds that he had heard in his dream. The single wail and the soft whimpers of the dying, these were innocent sounds his son had made and his own guilt had twisted them into something far more morbid.
He cringed internally, even as he reached his hand down to his son, a babe and the embodiment of new and pure innocent life which he had slain for. He suddenly felt unworthy to tarnish such a creature, as though his flesh was still stained with the blood of his victims. He rubbed his fingers over his thumb hesitantly, considering carefully his next move, until the boy opened his mouth and uttered the first true warning cry of an impending tantrum. "It's alright now, that it is." He crooned softly to the child, his touch moving to the soft, round cheek of the squirming child before lowering to the tiny, fragile body and sweeping in long and smooth strokes. "It is still very early and time for you to be sleeping." As if to emphasize that point, Kenshin found himself hiding a yawn behind Kaoru's shoulder.
"Then you should be sleeping as well."
Fatigue dark lavender met sleep bright blue as Kaoru shifted over carefully until she lay on her back with the still fussing Kenji making indignant sounds against her chest. She offered her husband a soft, exhausted smile in exchange to his bewildered expression. "I mean it Kenshin; you barely sleep at the best of times. You stay and get some rest and I'll take Kenji outside and see if I can't get him to settle."
Kenshin smiled, her exhaustion was as evident as his own and yet Kaoru's first intention was his own comfort. He lowered is head to press his brow to his wife's, touched once again by the unending love this young woman held for a lowly vagabond such as himself. "He is not asking to nurse. And after the dreams tonight, it is doubtful that I would find sleep again so easily." The former warrior-come-wanderer pushed himself to his feet, tightening his winter sleeping yukata before moving to the other side of his wife and squatting down again, pleased to see her lashes already fluttering closed, effortlessly winning the battle of dominance between her will and need. "It does not make sense for the both of us to be exhausted. You should sleep a little longer, that you should." He gathered the small child into his arms and put him to his chest before reaching down and tugging the blankets a little higher for Kaoru, smiling softly to himself as he saw that she was already asleep once more.
While Kenshin would have felt content to watch his wife a few moments longer, Kenji's cries were growing louder, more heated and demanding, if they lingered much longer Kaoru's sleep would be disrupted again and this time she would refuse any new attempt to allow her to rest more. Straightening himself, Kenshin maneuvered his child into folds at the neck of his yukata to protect his young body from the chill of the air and then lay a gentle hand over his son's head, a wordless attempt to quieten the growing cries and padded silently from the room.
And so, it begins.