--Altruism--
Heavens opened above them, unleashing endless flurries of snow to blanket their mortal realm in white; continuous seas of white beneath skies resembling a patchwork quilt, a random pattern of blues and grays, dark shadows of winter clouds or bright patches of clear, sunlit cerulean. Beneath the occasional and cherished bursts of sunlight, the air remained crisp and cold, the sharp bite of winter not easily driven away.
He could reach toward the skies, try and capture on of the ungraspable treasures falling from the heavens, only to have them melt against the heat of his flesh. He supposed it was for the best, not being able to grasp something so beautiful, for fear he might blemish something so pure. Even if he could not longer see the blood upon his hands, he still feared to see their crimson of death stain anything his fingers touched.
Amethyst eyes, darkened with thought and tired with burdens beyond the years his body had aged, lowered from the sky they had previously focused on to glance over the white-topped fencing surrounding the front of the property, hands reaching out from the warm confines of his haori to secure the padlock on the gate. He sighed, the white cloud of breath trailing through the evening air as he started up the path leading back toward the dojo.
With his youth, with the naiveté embanked into his mind with his foolhardy ideals and his brash attitudes during the war, he'd found his eyes so blinded by thinking murder necessary to bring about an end to injustice and oppression. He'd been an ignorant killer, unrepentant and uncaring toward the blood he spilled. He'd been an undeniably selfish man.
The Battousai in him now laughed at this idea, no matter how he tried for some altruist perspective, performing good deeds and wandering the countryside in hope of some semblance to penance. He was a hypocritical man, a selfish man.
He sat upon the porch overlooking the yard extending from the dojo, his calloused hands cold and numb as they grasped a partially-finished whittling piece in one, a small blade in another. Slender fingers moved artfully as they shaped the wood, his eyes falling into half-mast shapes as his movements took on rhythmic, repetitive quality.
The half-formed toy was destined for his and Kaoru's young Kenji-kun, but like most of his humble gifts, he found himself fearing the piece would be rejected by the toddler. He knew his prolonged absences hurt the boy and rendered his son protectively and almost possessively clinging to his mother, but Kenshin could not bring himself to stop leaving, his need for some sort of closure driving him away from any comfort in his picturesque home life.
He sensed the soft footfalls behind him but he did not turn to them, feeling instead the warmth of his wife's presence as she draped a blanket around his shoulders, soft hands resting against his shoulders, sliding down his arms and entwining with his own. Small, deft and warm, they rested so delicately within his own, not afraid to be tainted by him.
"Kaoru-koishii…" he whispered, tightly grasping her hand as his only lasting lifeline.
"I'm here, anata, I'm here."
And that was enough.