Hi people, this is going to be astory depicting Soujiro's life after Shishio died. It is the suggestion of one of my reviewers to do something about that period of Soujiro's life. If it doesn't turn out good… well, I apologise. Anyhow, do read and review!

Indecision

A chilly breeze swept through the land, swirling cherry blossom petals into a beautiful whirlwind of pink and white. Admist this fragile tornado, a lady danced, swinging an umbrella as she stepped in time to the musicians plucking away at strings and drums.

Soujiro watched quietly from his seat, sipping a cup of tea as the lady smiled demurely at the rowdy crowd gathering to watch. It was a long time since he last saw such beauty, a long time since Yumi and Shishio had died amidst the roaring fire.

He felt he had gotten over it, but he hadn't, not really anyway. For one, he could not wipe the smile off his face.

It was true, that this expression had been born of the desire to escape the torture his foster family had inflicted on him. Thus he was puzzled as to why it remained. Was it really because he could not get rid of the habit? Or… was it because he was still escaping?

Sighing, he lay his cup down and rubbed his hands together to generate warmth. It was still cold; it being early spring, and his clothes were too worn down to be of any help.

It helped that he hadn't been growing in a while. He still looked like a child… but was perhaps further from being a child-demon than he was two years ago.

Two years… it felt like a century. He had often heard people describe the passing of time as such, but he only truly understood what it meant after Shishio had died. He had traveled as far north as he could, before heading west. Everything looked remarkably the same to him – people acted remarkably the same everywhere.

The weak that Himura tried to hard to save, had turned on him more times than he could have imagined.

Perverts, robbers, murderers, coming in all different shapes, sizes and genders; he didn't kill all of them, just those that he really disliked. His eyes narrowed but his smile remained as he stabbed viciously at a piece of tofu, causing the fragile morsel to break into pieces. What was it with him and perverts anyway? He could not enter a town and leave without running into at least one bunch. Perhaps he should mutilate his face, carve a cross much like the one Himura had. That would save him a lot of trouble most certainly.

"Excuse me." A sweet, tinkling voice reached his ears, and he looked up to see the dancer standing before him, her umbrella held demurely by her side as she bowed and smiled.

"Yes?" he smiled back, not so much out of politeness, but more out of habit.

"Pardon me for asking," she said, a sleeve raised coyly to her mouth, "but I would be most grateful if you could share your place with me. There aren't any seats left and… the other people…" She blushed a faint shade of pink as she gestured at the half-drunk men gesturing wildly for her to accompany them.

"Of course," he replied, smiling happily away, "that is if you don't mind the mess." He gazed down at the bench covered with the remains of his lunch.

"Oh no, of course not, sir," she giggled shyly, "I am merely looking for a place to rest, sir, and as for the mess… I've seen messier places than this." She sat down a comfortable distance from him, and brushed thick wavy hair off her face. "It is most tiring to dance all day like this."

"It would seem." Soujiro stared into his tea cup, his mind still on the cross Himura had on his face.

"My name is Maiko, by the way," she went on, seeming to ignore his desire for silence.

"I am Soujiro," he sighed, resigning his fate to a conversation with the lady.

"How nice," she said, bowing slightly, forcing him to return the favour, "you do not sound like you are from around here."

Soujiro continued sipping his tea. "I'm from Kyoto." Briefly, he mused about the potential dangers of telling her that, but failed to see any harm. Thousands of people came from Kyoto anyway, and Shishio was still a state secret.

"Oh! I heard it is the most beautiful city there is," she raised her sleeve again as she giggled, "It must be so lovely."

"It was…" Lowering his eyes, Soujiro stared at his feet, remembering the last time his sandals looked this worn down.

"I'm from Hokkaido," she went on, not sensing the melancholy in his smile, "I came here because it's too early for fishing season to start, and well… everyone needs to be fed." She laughed suddenly, as bright and warm as the sun after rain. "How about you, Soujiro-san? Has farming season been bad? Or is it not the season for commerce."

"Well…" Soujiro paused. Was there even a season for commerce? "I'm a ronin…"

"Oh…" Now she was looking at him with new interest, "How wonderful! I've never met a ronin before! Who was the master that you lost?"

Startled, Soujiro turned to her, his smile stretching wider than previously as he eyed her suspiciously. "Why would you ask?"

"Why?" she appeared surprised even as she said it, "Well… because it's polite, isn't it? Or did I ask something I shouldn't have?"

Relaxing, Soujiro slid back into a slouch as he smiled politely at her. "Oh no, not at all." She waited, but he did not continue on with the identity of his master.

"I couldn't tell you were a ronin anyway," she said brightly, her voice slightly strained, "Gosh, you look so young! How old are you anyway? Please don't tell me you were already a samurai during the Tokugawa era!"

"Eighteen." He smiled at her, even as he knew her for a fool – one who blabbers when nervous never lives long.

Her smile was genuine now, her demeanor relaxed; disarmed by his smile. "How nice. I'm sixteen," she was gentle again, back to a demureness that was not truly of her nature, "I have to go now. It has been a most pleasant experience."

Bowing, she turned and hurried away. Still worried, still apprehensive – she had sensed danger from the child-demon.

Soujiro reached into his bag and gently touched his sword.

She had every right to be.

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That night, Soujiro curled up in the barn of a kind farmer and stared up into the high ceiling. The grassy smell of rice invaded his nose, and a feeling of claustrophobia flooded his chest in a sense of déjà vu. He wanted out, but out meant confronting the chill of the night with only a thin piece of worn out cloth on his back.

He couldn't decide which was the lesser evil.

Turning onto his side, he concentrated on his thoughts, trying to fade his environment into the background. It worked, at least for a while. Anyway, the time before sleep was best spent wondering who was correct.

The strong shall live, and the weak shall die.

The strong shall protect, and the weak shall be protected.

Who was correct? He could not make up his mind.

Ignoring the philosophy he had believed in for the better part of his youth, he concentrated on the foreign philosophy.

The strong shall protect, and the weak shall be protected.

Somehow, that always sounded wrong to him. Why should the strong protect the weak? Was it some kind of duty or role that… that heaven had set for them? How was the strong to protect the weak anyway? Would helping the weak that you run into make a difference? Would helping one weak person make the world a better place?

It would be like trying to throw all the seashells on the beach back into the sea.

He had tried it before. It didn't make much of a difference.

Perhaps Himura felt that he was at least doing something.

But if doing something led to nothing, was it worth it?

Growling, he flipped onto his stomach and burrowed his nose into the hay. Why couldn't the end of the battle have decided everything? Why couldn't he just say he lost, and thus Himura was correct? Why did he have to think and search for an answer like that?

It felt like a massive waste of his time on earth.

Yet, the more he thought of it, the less Shishio's philosophy made sense to. If the strong shall live, and the weak shall die, why were there so many weak people in the world and so few strong people?

In general, he thought, as he sneezed into the hay, both philosophies had one major flaw in them.

How do you determine who is weak and who is strong?

You can't do it by the sword, for few knew how to use the sword in this era.

You can't do it by wealth and statuses, for wealthy men are as vulnerable to death as a beggar. He would know - he had proved it more times than he could count.

Then what? How do you decide anything if everything could very well be relative?

Sneezing again, he sat up and rubbed his red nose gingerly. Was he becoming allergic to hay? He hoped not, for barns provided almost half of his shelter.

It was then he heard a scream, a scream as shrill as a whistle.

He immediately thought of Shishio.

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"No! No! Don't hurt me!"

"Shut up, bitch!"

"No…"

Half in a daze, he had wandered out of the barn, half expecting to see a bleeding, foaming mummy, slicing away the arms of a policeman. Instead, what he saw was a group of men surrounding a girl, sticks in hand.

"Wh…?" Still in a daze, he stared blankly at the girl. He knew her. She was the lady dancer he had seen this afternoon.

"What do you want?" He snapped out of his stupor and stared blankly at the mountain of flesh before him. "Well, boy?"

"I…" He hesitated. What did he want?

"Help me!" the girl screamed, "Soujiro-san! Help me!"

"Oh… you know the lady." Now there were snickers all around as the towering man laughed. "What's the matter? Playing hero? Trying to save your girlfriend?"

"Help me!" she screamed again, and one of the men smashed her across the face.

"What are you going to do to her?" Soujiro asked.

"She stole two bags of gold from us, that bitch! We're going to beat her up then drown her in the river. What're you going to do about that?"

The world became fuzzy again. For a moment, instead of the girl, he saw himself, prone on the ground, beaten over and over again by his unfair family. Looking at his arm, he startled. It appeared to be covered in bandages… and pus was leaking through them.

He was Shishio. He was Makoto Shishio.

"I… I don't know…" He was still staring at his arm, staring at the pus tainted with blood, leaking through the bandages, "What am I going to do about it?"

Through the fog, he was aware that the man was looking at him, bemused. "That's what I'm asking, boy! Either you scram or you get trashed. Choose your poison." He laughed at his joke and the others joined in.

"Soujiro-san…" she whimpered, caressing her bruised cheek. "Help me… please…"

"Is this a sign?" he whispered, swaying on his feet. "Is this a sign?"

"What are you talking about?"

Suddenly, the fog cleared, and he was back in the present time, staring at a group of men surrounding a lady. He stared at his arm, but there were no bandages left, only a white and blue sleeve.

"Help me!" she screamed, much louder this time. "Help me, please!"

"No…" He took one step back, wiping his head. It was drenched in sweat. "No." He smiled now, feeling much more confident. "I wouldn't help you."

"W… why?" she was struggling to her feet. "You are a samurai!"

"No, I'm sorry," he smiled and stretched, "It's not that I don't like you." He laughed suddenly. "It's just that I haven't made up my mind."

"No!" she screamed, but he was already walking away.

The screams and the thrashes did not affect him the slightest, he realized, as he settled down back into the hay. They merely formed the hum of the background noises. He had not been lying when he told her he hadn't made up his mind. It was true – he hadn't. So, he would not help the weak, nor would he kill the weak, not until he had decided who was correct. He wondered if Himura would have been pleased with what he was doing. He suspected not.

Slowly, sleep engulfed him like a warm blanket, and gently tugged his eyelids down. He would dream tonight, he thought, and he would dream of many happy dreams, dreams of being warm, comfortable, and… unconfused.

Outside, the screams stopped, but on and on, the wind continued howling. It would grieve tonight, grieve until the child-demon awakened the next day, and bring forth a new day in the crimson light of dawn.

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