(A/N: Kenshin broods. This is manga-based; enjoy.)
Kenshin knew it'd be a lie to say he'd never wished himself dead.
After all, how could one who'd taken so many lives really deserve to live, freely and happily? He didn't, and he knew it. He also knew that it wouldn't be a great surprise to reveal those feelings to anyone who knew him, but that did nothing to allay the bitterness they left him with.
He'd been so ridiculously young when he'd started down this path of life – and with no bridges behind him. The path he'd been so gently nudged down had turned on him and whirled into a vortex, sucking him down it without remorse or guilt. The path felt nothing; no guilt, no remorse, no wondering 'what if' – it left all that to Kenshin.
Kenshin had tried very hard to feel and yet not feel. He'd never wanted to relinquish his humanity to the sword – and he'd never wanted to have to swallow around the lump that came after killing someone. He'd been too young; too young to start killing and even, in his opinion, to start learning swordsplay. Certainly, some children were taught from the moment they could walk, but he'd never wished to indulge in such activities. Shinta had never been interested in swords; his only interest had rested in living. But Shinta was gone; Shinta was another person entirely and he, Kenshin, was this. This Hitokiri Battosai, this monstrous killing machine that was unstoppable and untamable and disgusting and vile and… It could go on. The list of things people had labeled him with was lengthy and it showed no sign of ending. So long as he had this cursed red-cross scar, anyone could know him.
But how did they know him? Kenshin strove to separate himself from the killer inside him, but that proved to be as difficult as separating sugar and water. As had been seen with Saito, those memories – that being – could easily be reawakened. Jin-E had thrown back in his face his own ideals and sense of justice; how foolish he was, really, that he imagined that he could be a good person! The killer was always there, ready and waiting, its sword always thirsty for hot, red blood. It was frustrating; it was terrible.
What was worse, he could think of no one that would understand. Kaoru-dono would try, but she could never perceive the depths of his guilt. Hadn't he been the one to tell her that her naïve idea of swords and how they were positive was a good thing – a wonderful thing? Didn't she still believe that? So in turn, how could he possibly bear to try and make her understand what the blade made him feel? He didn't want to destroy what she had, what he'd lost.
Yahiko was too young. Rougher around the edges than Kaoru and certainly more experienced as far as bloodshed went, he only lacked in years. Kenshin could not remember a time when he'd been young and hot-headed enough to desire strength and revenge as Yahiko did; perhaps Shinta had, at one time, but it was unlikely. He wasn't that type of person, and the energy it took to hold on to hatred was more than he had to give. Neutral acceptance was a more favourable way of dealing with things, even if it piled you with more guilt. Yahiko wouldn't understand that – and wouldn't understand the idea that being strong was not always for the better.
Kenshin was tired of being strong. That his body moved and thought and reacted without him being entirely present inside was nothing new, but still proved a frightening sensation. If, while fighting, he could move and do without thinking, then what was to say he couldn't do that at other times? He was always watching himself; he always needed to be careful, since there was danger inside him and the ability to kill lay heavy – permanent – in his hands.
Sanosuke might be closer to understanding than Kenshin would like, but there was one fundamental difference between the two of them: Sanosuke was primarily a fist-fighter. It was entirely possible to kill someone with only your fists; first to cause large, bluish-purple bruises to bloom on perfect skin, and then hit hard enough that something cracked or broke, and then to keep hitting hard enough that blood eventually found its way out somewhere and visible lumps appeared and your victim stopped moving and stopped breathing and ended. It was hard and it took a long time, but it was possible. With swords, it was impossible to avoid the blood – and the blood was what made it stain. Stains on the soul and stains on the heart were always caused by bloodshed, and knowing that you wielded the blade that made it possible increased their potency tenfold.
Screaming, too, scarred. How he'd wished for deafness during the bloody days of the bakumatsu! And he had, in some way, obtained it – he'd closed himself off, sealed the part of him that was humane in some dark recess of his mind and let the beast roam free. The claws bit and the teeth gnashed, but a roar never sounded – his beast was silent, stealthy, and always deadly. And somewhere within that beast, there was a wide-eyed little boy, crouching in the corner with his eyes squeezed shut and his hand pressed over his ears; that was what he kept safe, kept hidden within a little pocket of sanity that the beast always managed to overlook. It was never killed.
If Saito were of a different mind, he might be able to realise Kenshin's mindset. As it was, he reveled in gore far too much to understand. Saito was Kenshin's opposite in many ways; a worthy adversary, a Shinsengumi where he was a loyalist, a man who had chosen killing rather than being forced into it. Kenshin knew that he had been the one to leave Hiko Seijuro so many years previous, but what else could he have done? His skills could help people, and he knew that. His master would have had him stay in those mountains forever, to whither away as the years passed by and blood ran unchecked.
Admittedly, he had released some of that blood. But he knew, within, that he'd stopped far more from being set free. That he couldn't ratio the number of lives he'd saved to the number of lives he'd taken was unfair; but then, how could you make that fair? Is one life worth another, in any way? Killing someone was always killing someone, no matter if they were young or old or weak or strong. Innocent or guilty. No one deserved to die by another's choice.
And yet Kenshin had killed on orders alone. No questions. Was that protecting? Was that what he'd left his master to do?
… In some ways, his becoming Hitokiri Battosai could have been avoided. In others, it had always been inevitable.