Disclaimer: Very simply, it's not mine.

Notice: I'm stuck on the second chapter. Like, really truly, deperately stuck. Help, please? My e-mail is My AIM, obivously, is the same. I would greatly appreciate it!

"'I found a world where the elderly suck away the lives of their sons and daughters just so that they may prolong their own, clinging on desperately to the last of their pitiful wasted years; a world where the young heartlessly abandon their own ill parents to avoid turning into the monsters they have seen and feared and yet have already become themselves; where wives cheat on their husbands and husbands beat their wives while their babies lie forgotten and crying in the cold; where even children will murder other children for a bone stolen from a stray dog, and their mothers stand by and watch!'"
-Shimizu Hitomi, "Flight of the Crane"

He dipped his hands into the cool water, watching as the crystal clear liquid rinsed thick black mud from his shaking hands. He repeated the procedure until his hands were clean, and cupped more water, bringing it up to his face. When he felt he was clean, he sat back against a tree, vaguely noticing his hunger.

It was a feeling that he'd grown accustomed to, Hunger. He noticed with slight alarm that he could not remember the last time he'd eaten more than a few bites at a time. It wouldn't make much difference, he decided, in the long run, whether he had enough to eat now. He was familiarized with Hunger; the feeling almost gave him some sense of comfort. Content, he had no memory of, but Hunger had been there from the beginning, biting sharply at first, but its teeth growing duller by each passing day. After years of Hunger, it was hardly noticeable.

He knew he was not the only one. The town he had just passed was destitute, as most in Kanagawa were—very small and very poor. The people there had Hunger written plainly on their faces, gaunt faces watching him pass with envy. He had meat enough on his bones, for now. A small child had followed him as far as the gates of the town, and when he turned to face her, she fell to her knees, head bent, with arms outstretched and hands cupped. It was a pitiable sight—a beggar begging from another beggar—but it was something that seemed to be common there. He dug through his pockets and found scraps of hardtack, and gave them all to the girl. She looked up, eyes wide, and smiled at him. At him. Him, who had walked past so many of the same downtrodden people and killed so many others—he shut his eyes at the memory.

No, not now. Not today, when things are going so well.

He had made out of the town without any further incident, and had come to this stream to wash, to relax. His hands shook even harder as he watched them with slightly morbid fascination. Two years… they had done much to him. He was no longer the efficient killer he had been. He wondered distantly if he could even hold a sword now. Glancing once more at his trembling hands, his mind filled with doubt.

What would they say now, he wondered, if they saw what I've become, what would they say?

He thought of them more often then he would like to admit. He thought of their mantras, continually playing scenes of life that he had since seen. He thought of the great battles he'd had with them, of their ougis, of their lives. And how did he compare? The only answer that he had so far come up with was that he didn't. How could he compare to them? They were great men, gods even. No, he did not, and could not, compare.

He was beginning to be afraid that maybe… just maybe… he never would.

He stood now, his knees creaking violently and threatening to buckle. He steadied himself with practiced movements that only mimicked his once impeccable grace and began walking slowly onwards. He wasn't sure where it was that he was going; he wasn't sure why he was going there. He didn't know if he should stop and turn around towards home, or at least where it had once been, and he didn't know if he should keep on in the direction that he was currently headed. Indecisiveness eventually making the decision for him, he kept on a straight path, headed gradually north.

Coming out of Kanagawa prefecture, he realized that he had passed his old home. He was gripped by a sudden, undeniable urge to go back. There is a fatality that inexorably compels human beings to remain or to return to the place of any great event—and, the more tragic the incident, the more a body wishes to remain at the site. So it was now, and he stopped and turned back, heading south again, back to Kanagawa, and back to that sickening shamble of a farm.

He wondered what it was like now, what had happened after his swift departure. He wondered if some other relatives of his had taken the farm, what the people had done with the bodies. The idea compelled him forward, and, for the first time in at least a year, he ran only two steps short, and arrived by nightfall.

"Seta!"

The voice was gruff and weathered, and he stopped consider who he knew that had a voice such as that. Shivering at the memory, he crouched closer to the ground. He couldn't see the man through the dark and the dense fog that had settled on the town. "Keta!" the man called again, "Get back here!"

There was something a warning in the man's tone now, the promise of a reprimand. It was a verbal inflection with which he was more than well acquainted. Still, he did not approach the man; rather, he seemed to be locked in his position—almost as if it were another time, not so long ago.

Then, in one fatal move, he stepped forward. He could see the man now, by the lantern light in the man's hand. He could also just make out the form of a young boy, tottering towards the light, dragging an old, rusted sword behind him. "Keta! What if the police had seen you with that! What would you do then? Huh?"

The boy did not answer, only laid the sword down at the man's feet and backed hurriedly away, bowing all the while. He crept closer, looking carefully at the man. His eyes widened at the scar on the man's face… a horrific scar trailing diagonally from the hairline to the chin, down one eye and across the obviously broken nose. He froze once more, dazed. It couldn't be.

No, no, no. It wasn't possible, by any stretch of the imagination.

Coming swiftly to his senses as the man looked towards him, he ran. The man gave chase, huffing in the effort to keep up. He did not stop, did not turn around, and did not acknowledge his pursuer. He did not think of using any semblance of real speed—just the two-steps short that he had run today had been enough to drain him, and he had long since learned not to overdo it.

Fatigue forced him to stop. Dammit. He could not help but to recall a time (how could it be only two years ago?) when a brisk jog constituted a speed of fifteen miles an hour, and all out run like he had just undertaken could reach twenty-five for a full two hours without exhausting him. But he was sweating now, and nauseous and cramped. The man found him just one minute later, slumped against a wall and breathing hard. He raked his memory, searching for a time when someone—anyone—had caught up to him so quickly. Searching for a time when anyone had caught up with him at all.

Shit, he swore. You've reached a new low, you have. Letting an old ghost catch up with you, never mind that he limps. What have you become?

Worthless.

He coughed and pulled himself up, one hand against the wall for balance. He observed with growing alarm the tremors in his legs and the shaking of his hands. He smiled genially at his follower. "Well?" He rasped. It had been so long since he had used his voice. "What are you going to do?"

The man watched him, scrutinizing him carefully, cautiously. What was he to do now with this strange young man? He continued watching as the emaciated figure before him slid softly back down the wall, collapsing in a heap in the dirt. He watched with interest as the young man picked himself up once more, only to have his knees, which shook tremendously at each effort, give out and cause him to slide to the ground again. He watched the entire exhibit of wretchedness developing in front of him, and watched the pitiable creature lift his head up and smile beatifically.

And the aging, disfigured man could only think to ask one question among so many.

"Who are you?"

And the young, starving man before him coughed blood into his trembling hands and smiled ever wider, avoided eye contact and answered him simply and directly, just as the older man suspected that he would.

"Tenken no Soujiro."

He woke up in a room—one with a roof and all four walls—for the first time in his recent memory. As alien as his current situation was, the room was startlingly familiar. The walls were plain and nondescript, with no artwork and no color, and the floors were simply made tatami mats. The futon was also plain, and he vaguely wondered if the boring décor wasn't meant to drive away visitors.

Still, there was something familiar about the place, something that pushed him to dress hastily before wandering out into the hall, even though it was barely dawn.

Unwilling to wake anyone, he sat balanced against the wall outside of that room. And he shuddered, and he began to wonder. He had picked up a dreadful habit of thinking too much during his wanderings. At scarcely twenty years old, he could think back to times of killing people, of saving people. Of fighting, of losing, of winning, of coming to standstills. Of revolution, of peace, of war, and of quiet.

But most of all, he could recall times of Troubles. Trouble seemed the one widespread theme, for everyone. Children, adolescents, adults, men, women, seniors—they were all Troubled. He could recall the Troubles of one village in particular, much like this one. Maybe it was this one. It was a place where Hunger was so prevalent, children—toddlers, it seemed, just past infancy—could kill for the smallest scrap of food. Where Trouble led to the deaths of the young people—just kids themselves, only his age—because they all belonged to gangs and yakuza factions and killed women and children and elders and husbands and fathers.

And for what? For food.

He had long ago decided that if you didn't adapt to Hunger, then Hunger would force you to be evil. Hunger, he thought, was the evilest demon. He had seen, in his short time on Earth, good men and good women who would kill other good men and other good women because of the influence of Hunger. He had seen lords overthrown because their people had no food, and their lords and ladies were walking through the fields, fat as could be, distastefully eying the scarecrows who worked for them. He had heard in passing conversations of the numerous revolts in Europe, and it seemed to be for the same reasons.

He had to admit though, that the Meiji government was trying to at least ease the Troubles of the people. He could sense the rapid development and change happening all around him, especially in the big cities. He had seen the guns of the new army and the western uniforms. The new western fashions found on the elite had not escaped him. He had, himself, long sported a western styled shirt, collared and buttoned. It had been a gift from Yumi-san, just five years ago.

It seemed like a lifetime.

He had been with ShiShio-san for such a long time. He had been rescued here—rescued from the very spot where he now willingly stood—as a mere child, only eight or nine years old. He was eighteen when his life fell apart; he had still been a child then, too. But now, at only twenty, he felt the weight of an entire lifetime crushing him down, forcing him to his knees as the heaviness bore down even harder with every passing second. As he sunk to the ground, he looked up and met the eyes of his host.

It was such a familiar scene—him on the ground, and the man above him, looking down disdainfully, sword ever-present. Almost as if just for old times' sake, he let a smile stretch over his fine features, and watched a frown appear in the older man's brow.

"Well. Where is your sword, Seta-san?"

"It is illegal to carry a sword, as it has been for many years now."

He stood now, mildly surprised that he was eye-level with the man now. It was empowering, in some strange way—that he would be equal with the man that continually overpowered him, years ago. The man who continued to overpower him after his departure—somehow, the man had lived through the stormy night. He speculated hazily as to when the law became important to this man, but the thought was dismissed as he addressed the matter now at hand.

"Thank you, Seta-san, for allowing me a place to stay for the night. I will not impose any further on your generous hospitality," he said. It was bait. The words had been dripping with sarcasm, an inflection not lost on the older man. But the man kept quiet, silently glowering at the thinly veiled insult. The younger of the two, meanwhile, smiled affably and began walking away.

At the gate, he stopped suddenly and turned around. "Seta-san, I hope that you will not mind my asking, after you have been so kind, demo…" He rested a hand on his sword hilt, more habitually than for any real purpose. "How did you manage to live? I know that I was a small child at the time, and it was only a wakizashi, but… you are the only one, are you not?"

"I am."

"How…?"

The man only shook his head. "Great fortune."

His smile grew a little dimmer. "Ah. Ara… I don't understand." He paused and considered his next words carefully before speaking again, "There is a lot to be said for karma, I suppose. Mine could be considered a great deal worse than yours, although, at the time…" He trailed off, shaking his head, and the older man wondered what had happened the boy in the past years since he had seen him. "Arigatou domo, Seta-san, for your great kindness to this meager rurouni."

As he watched the boy walk out the gate, he was struck with a sudden and great amount of remorse and shame, so much so that he called out with a gruff, raspy voice the name that had been a curse to his lips for so many years. "Soujiro!"

And now he watched as the boy—no, the young man, now—turned around and walked slowly back into the courtyard. And, not for the first time since the younger man's sudden return to his life, he wondered what to say. And all that came out when he forced his mouth open, more for fear of looking the idiot than any great show of rhetoric, was the one word that made sense to say to the underfed wanderer. "Eat."

Eat. And with that, his eyes widened a little. For once, his well-learned politesse failed to provide him a mannered response. He wasn't sure what to say—it was so strange to hear that command coming from anyone, but especially from him—that he wasn't positive he should even accept the offer. Eat. The thought of food, good food, not month-old hardtack, made his stomach growl and his mouth water, and his eyes glazed over. Not completely certain that he had even heard aright, he tilted his head and furrowed his brow as he thought. "Eat, Seta-san? Your food?"

"Yes. It would be wrong to send you away hungry. You are thin, anyway, so it will do you good. My maid will make you something. Come with me."

He followed obediently, having long learned to never decline an offer of a full meal (or of any sort of sustenance, for that matter), and allowed a laugh to bubble up to his lips. "Seta-san, it seems that you have done well since then. A maid of your own? For just you, then? You do not have a pretty new wife?"

The question was unnecessary, and asked only as a bit of cruelty in the name of revenge. He knew the answer very well, and he knew the reason. He also knew that the blame would fall—quite correctly—on him. The killings and the subsequent scarring on the man's body were his. He knew he had greatly shamed the once respected family and destroyed their business. Of course, it hadn't seemed to matter much, then, because no one was estimated to be living at the time of his final departure. But still, here was this man, alive and in reasonably sound health, continually mocking him. Not only by the sheer fact of his animation, but by refusing to answer the question, however low a dig it might have been.

He was served a plain meal of rice and a small portion of fish, but it was well-prepared, and filled him enough. The feeling of Content was foreign, but welcome. He thanked the maid and unhurriedly walked into the courtyard.

Final notes: Reviews make me happy! And, I implore you all to read the begininng note... I really would love someone to bounce around ideas with, and I'll credit you wherever credit is due :
Plus, I'm very nice, I promise!