Disclaimer: Yes, yes, we all know that I do not own Rurouni Kenshin
and never will, yadda yadda. This was one of those one shot things. I was
bored and decided to try something. ^.^; So. yeah.
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Human history is written in blood. His hands are stained because of his contribution to human history. That joy, that glad smile, is all just a guard, a mask, a dam, holding back raw emotion. If he were to let himself slip even a little, let the shadows creep into the light of his being he would be lost, back in the times of cold steel, endless pain, and fear. And he would kill coldly, without any emotion, without any thought, without any humanity in his eyes or his sword. He is never a part of regular society, even when he is playing or doing laundry or buying tofu. He tries to fit in, act normal. Act sane. But what he has seen, what he has heard, smelled, felt, and done has forever set him apart.
How do you talk to someone like that? How do you talk to someone, who will never have a happy ending? How can you understand, when his eyes tell of untold truths, of sadness, and hatred, and loss? When you approach him where he stands, staring at the moving water, seeing none of the beauty of flowering trees or small children playing in the shade, how can you say anything that will mean anything to him? He who has lost so much of himself in the darkness will never be fully human again.
"I saw the blood on my sword," he said once, so softly, like a whispering breeze, as if he didn't want us to hear him. "I saw it and I did not know how it had gotten there. And then I saw the field, and the corpse that I was standing on, filled with bodies, and the blood that was everywhere was black. I wanted to vomit. I couldn't believe what my eyes were seeing. Maybe I didn't want to. I smelled like death and there was the blood of other men on my arms and my gi and my face."
People can never understand one another. Only one reality exists for each person, and that is his or her own experiences. Anything beyond that cannot be grasped. He can tell me about all of his battles, of the things running through his head, of the feeling of coldness in his chest when he had to kill his love, and how much he hated carrying those scars on his cheek, but I'll never understand. He's never really there. The rurouni is a fake. How can I love a fake? And how can I feel like the love that he returns is real when he is always so far away, when only the rurouni and rarely the hitokiri will say anything to me? The real Himura Kenshin is mute, locked away somewhere.
It is impossible to forget the past. Kenshin must relive his own, over and over, day after day. The rurouni shares his life with me, and the rest of us, but when I see that strange new depth in his eyes, an emotion that has no words in any language to describe it, I know that I am seeing the real Kenshin, watching us in silence. And that is when he is furthest from my understanding. For Kenshin, every minute of his life must be agony.
His noble cause, to protect the innocent, was a choice made by the rurouni in him. I know why the real Kenshin scares me. Had Kenshin not become a rurouni, he would already be dead, shedding a shell, cleansing himself and ridding himself of those terrible memories. He would have committed seppuku. So much death, that not even our friendship can erase Kenshin's sadness. The real Kenshin is already gone. He is forever unreachable by any other person. And that realization has made it even more difficult. This is the end. There will be more blood, more fighting, another page added to the history of all human beings. But never will a warrior suffer as much as the hitokiri, the people who walk in sunlight, but are already dead.
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Now that I look at it, I don't really like it, but I have to post SOMEthing sooner or later. Eh.
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Human history is written in blood. His hands are stained because of his contribution to human history. That joy, that glad smile, is all just a guard, a mask, a dam, holding back raw emotion. If he were to let himself slip even a little, let the shadows creep into the light of his being he would be lost, back in the times of cold steel, endless pain, and fear. And he would kill coldly, without any emotion, without any thought, without any humanity in his eyes or his sword. He is never a part of regular society, even when he is playing or doing laundry or buying tofu. He tries to fit in, act normal. Act sane. But what he has seen, what he has heard, smelled, felt, and done has forever set him apart.
How do you talk to someone like that? How do you talk to someone, who will never have a happy ending? How can you understand, when his eyes tell of untold truths, of sadness, and hatred, and loss? When you approach him where he stands, staring at the moving water, seeing none of the beauty of flowering trees or small children playing in the shade, how can you say anything that will mean anything to him? He who has lost so much of himself in the darkness will never be fully human again.
"I saw the blood on my sword," he said once, so softly, like a whispering breeze, as if he didn't want us to hear him. "I saw it and I did not know how it had gotten there. And then I saw the field, and the corpse that I was standing on, filled with bodies, and the blood that was everywhere was black. I wanted to vomit. I couldn't believe what my eyes were seeing. Maybe I didn't want to. I smelled like death and there was the blood of other men on my arms and my gi and my face."
People can never understand one another. Only one reality exists for each person, and that is his or her own experiences. Anything beyond that cannot be grasped. He can tell me about all of his battles, of the things running through his head, of the feeling of coldness in his chest when he had to kill his love, and how much he hated carrying those scars on his cheek, but I'll never understand. He's never really there. The rurouni is a fake. How can I love a fake? And how can I feel like the love that he returns is real when he is always so far away, when only the rurouni and rarely the hitokiri will say anything to me? The real Himura Kenshin is mute, locked away somewhere.
It is impossible to forget the past. Kenshin must relive his own, over and over, day after day. The rurouni shares his life with me, and the rest of us, but when I see that strange new depth in his eyes, an emotion that has no words in any language to describe it, I know that I am seeing the real Kenshin, watching us in silence. And that is when he is furthest from my understanding. For Kenshin, every minute of his life must be agony.
His noble cause, to protect the innocent, was a choice made by the rurouni in him. I know why the real Kenshin scares me. Had Kenshin not become a rurouni, he would already be dead, shedding a shell, cleansing himself and ridding himself of those terrible memories. He would have committed seppuku. So much death, that not even our friendship can erase Kenshin's sadness. The real Kenshin is already gone. He is forever unreachable by any other person. And that realization has made it even more difficult. This is the end. There will be more blood, more fighting, another page added to the history of all human beings. But never will a warrior suffer as much as the hitokiri, the people who walk in sunlight, but are already dead.
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Now that I look at it, I don't really like it, but I have to post SOMEthing sooner or later. Eh.
