Summary: The life of a samurai was a hard one: "He didn't know how it happened, but it did. His sword was soaked in blood, his armour covered in grime, and he only wanted to sleep. Damn the war, and damn whatever idiot thought getting the samurai involved was a good idea." OC-centric!

Warnings: OC-centric, descriptions of violence, slash (much, much later on in the story), het, mild altering of canon plotline…lots of death and misery?

A/N: I don't actually know what this is, but it bit me in the middle of the night like a bloody mosquito and just wouldn't let go. It's OC-centric, and while I'm not planning on making it epic-length, I think it will reach quite a respectable word count. Cultural notes and the additional research I do can be found at the bottom of the chapter, and while not necessary, I think it can be helpful in understanding some aspects of the story, or just make them clearer.

-ooo-

There is an unusual chill penetrating his bones as he stands at the edge of the mountain. The valley spreading out under his feet is dark at the bottom, the ground covered with frosted-over lichen and sharp rocks slick with ice, half-hidden beneath a thin, twisting mist—but he's not thinking about that. The tears on his face have long-since dried, but he can still hear her voice in his head, alarmed and urgent, and feel the painful clamp she had around his wrist. There's a mark on a ledge near the bottom now, a patch of dark poppy-red unseen in this country apart from when blood is spilled, and he feels his throat close up with something unidentifiable.

Don't cry, she'd often said. You cannot afford to, his mother had added, but he still feels sick with the thoughts shifting through his head. He won't cry, has no tears left, but it is still painful, and his heart clenches in his chest.

The wake had been long, but the vigil he had kept over her cold, pale body had seemed short. Her eyes had been closed, dark blood gathering under them in smudged half-rings, and though she wore her kimono properly, he cannot help but think she'd prefer her armour. Her swords had been left next to the wooden coffin as a mark of her service, and he envisages vaguely the satisfied smile she would have worn at that, content that she would leave the world as she had lived—with her swords at her side.

Hisoka, he thinks, I'm so sorry. She could have done anything—left him there to die, stumbled (it would have been but a misstep), not caught him in time—but she saved him. He loves her for it, and hates her at the same time, is so consumed by guilt his everyday thoughts are plagued by her smiling visage, her face as she greeted him every morning of his life, from when he was born to the day of her death. She had been his favourite cousin, he thinks, brash but kind, and full of the kind of rare warmth which could not easily be found amongst their proper, rule-abiding family.

She is gone now—and he is the cause.

-ooo-

When he returns home, his fingers numb with the cold and kimono rendered useless by the wet snow, his uncle is waiting for him.

He is kneeling in front of the sliding doors leading to his daughter's shrine, and his eyes are tight with a feeling he had never before seen on his face. He's grieving, he notes, his clothes still black, his armour hidden away for the time of the funeral, and his mouth turned down in remembrance.

"Yoshino," he says. His voice is low, hushed with the knowledge that his daughter is but two metres away from him, represented by only a picture and a few sticks of incense. "Sit with me."

He swallows as he kneels, his hands clenching in his lap. "Uncle," he murmurs in greeting, keeping his eyes on his pale knuckles.

There is a flash of tired grey eyes from his side, and a hand reaching over to gently hit him on the back. "Stop hiding away. Do not insult her by ignoring her last wishes."

"Her last wishes?" Yoshino asks, though he thinks he already knows and just doesn't want to be reminded, and has no idea whether he is grateful or resentful of his uncle for doing this to him—for speaking about her, and for bringing the subject up. He had caused his only daughter to die, murdered her by his own foolishness and arrogance, and he cannot imagine how the man can even look at him, much less speak about her. But then, his uncle has always been strong, not only in battle, but also in life, when charging in with a sword will not aid you in any way. His uncle is a better man than he is.

"Her last wishes," the man agrees, "If she had not wanted you to live, she would not have bothered to save you. Hisoka—she always did as she wanted. If she had decided that you were more valuable to her than her own life, then that is what everyone should respect."

"She did not have to save me."

The man nods, his expression worn. "She did not—but she did, and this is what you should keep in mind."

Yoshino swallows, and his hands clench involuntarily in his lap. They are calloused, pale from living in a land where endless nights are not a rarity but a normal occurrence, and unimaginably warm. They wouldn't be, he thinks, if not for her sacrifice. He doesn't want to accept it, will spend the rest of his life repenting because that is what he wants, what her memory deserves, but he cannot help but think that if she saw him right now, she'd be ashamed.

What are you doing, you brat? Are you stupid enough to wallow in self-pity when you could actually do something with yourself? I did not die for you just so you could become some half-dead hermit sacrificing his time and energy thinking about my rotting corpse. I want you to live, idiot.

He can hear her voice in his head, hear the exact words she would use for what he is doing now, and he swallows down the bitter shamesorrowrealisation rising up his throat. She had always been there, next to him, and now that she is not—by his own fault, no less—the only thing he can think of is how much he wants her to be. He will not disappoint her, he decides. He will train, and succeed, and do all the things she wanted him to do, and all the things he wants to do, but he will always remember. He will not forget who granted him this life, thanks to whom he is breathing and warm and his heart is still beating, and he will be forever grateful. His eyes focus, his breathing steadies, and he feels his back straighten with purpose. It will take a long time, he thinks, but when he reunites with her in the next life, he will meet her eyes and make her proud.

He turns to his uncle, and bows until his forehead touches the cold, polished floorboards of the corridor.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "I—"

There is a tightness in his throat now, and for all his resolve, he feels a scalding, salty wetness trail down the curve of his cheekbone, and pool in the corner of his mouth. This is not the first apology he has uttered from when he was cold and shivering, crouched over her pale, bloodied body, but it is the first one he is saying directly to his uncle, too ashamed until now to face him properly. He hopes, through the tears which are already dripping down the end of his nose and staining his kimono, that he can make it count.

"I know," his uncle responds, low and sad, and suddenly there is a hand tugging on the collar of his kimono, dragging him upright and sideways until his head is nestled in the crook of a broad shoulder, and the scent of incense and polished metal invades his nose. "Make her proud, Yoshino."

"I will," he chokes out, "I promise."

-ooo-

Cultural Note: Japanese funerals (from which I am taking the traditions of the Land of Iron from—and this fic is set in the Land of Iron, did I mention that?) have this part to them-the wake-in which the closest relatives of the deceased may stay and keep vigil over the deceased overnight-this is what Yoshino did, though he was only a cousin.

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