Disclaimer: I can sigh all I want; the rurouni isn't mine. *SIGH*. Still not mine.

Note: This was written for the community 4purposes on Livejournal. The chapter titles actually are the prompts from the community. I hope you like it! :)

FALL - dreamers with empty hands

Katsura-san's announcement that the war was practically won was what had spurred Kenshin into action. That was his chance, his now-or-never. He had sought out his leader and returned his swords, asking something of the older man for the first time in nearly five years - that he remember his word and let him go. A nod, a simple nod, and Kenshin had been free. He had bowed deeply in thanks and farewell before he had exited the room, silent but for the light rustling of his clothes and slightly off-balance without the weight of the blades at his side.

He had left Kyoto in a daze on a crisp winter morning, eyes cast to the road and avoiding contact with anyone, only wishing to put as much distance as he could between himself and the city. He walked, staring at his feet and at the ground because if he stopped, he thought and if he thought, memories came back and her presence became more tangible (she stepped on his shadow; it made moving more difficult) and with it the guilt, the remorse, the gut-wrenching sadness.

He wanted nothing more than to stop and hide in her shadow, hold her tight and let her direct his steps. He would follow her anywhere, if only she would tell him again that it was going to be all right. He would believe her, this time.

But.

As tempting as her shadow was, Tomoe's living (dying), breathing (choking, choking on her own blood), still (barely) warm self had made him promise. He had to live.

He had destroyed her. Twice. Keeping his promise was a pathetic excuse for an apology but he could not deny her that (could deny her nothing, nothing).

So.

He walked.

He walked and, over the months, the turmoil in his mind gradually quieted, leaving room for new thoughts. A glance at a time, he was looking up at a crystalline blue sky that did seem big enough to contain a whole world. A world that was, now, his to discover. Tomoe wanted him to live - that meant to experience, and not merely survive. Like the presence of the sakabatou - a parting gift from Katsura-san, no doubt, although Kenshin had no proof -, the roads, the other travelers, the air, the space, would take some getting used to now that he really noticed them, and not just sensed them.

But he walked.

He never wanted to kill anymore but a few more days reminded him that attacks did happen on the road, even miles from any city, and that he needed to be able to protect himself. For days, he adjusted his attacks so that he would hit the shoulder and not the neck, the hip instead of the stomach. And if he could protect himself, he could also protect others. And if he protected them, he could also help them in anything they might need.

This is what Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu is about, he thought, this is what Shishou wanted to teach me: to protect those who can't protect themselves. It was not only about sword fighting either, he realized. This was the difference between sword techniques honed and polished and perfected over centuries to deliver a flawless killing blow, and the Way of the Sword Shishou had told him about, the one that defined every moment of a swordsman's life.

So he carried heavy bags and tended to fields, surreptitiously left money on tables and bought rice and dry fish he then placed on doorsteps; he built shacks and cabins and distracted children with stories from his travels.

But he kept walking.

For the feeling of hypocrisy never left, was still tightly wound around his chest (coil-coil-squeeze). The roads quickly stopped holding any charm to him - once vibrant, they were now gravel and rocks, dust and mud and, really, the trick was to keep one's tabi dry. He walked, breathed and tried hard, oh so hard, to let the landscape make some kind of impression on him. Mount Fuji's snowy top shone in the distance and he knew it was beautiful, yet he could not find it in himself to fully appreciate it.

Step.

They thanked him, all of them, showered him with gratitude even when he would not tell them his name. He was not sure which one was the most appropriate, either. Battosai, never. Shinta… was long gone. He didn't believe there was much left of the trusting and idealistic boy he had been. Battosai had always tried to kill his victims in one blow, sparing them a long and painful agony. This was as close to merciful as he could have been, but the wanderer realized now that Shinta had been the one victim he had slowly, cruelly murdered. Over the course of several years, toying with and ripping his soul apart a little bit more with each strike of his sword. The boy was long gone. This left Kenshin, but that was the name Shishou had given him. As it was, he did not think himself worthy of it. So he answered, "this one's merely a wanderer" when they asked, even if they really insisted, a smile that was neither happy nor fake on his lips.

And people… talked, even this far out in the country. The last battles of the Boshin war had been fought but were still much too recent for comfort. Actual news from the Restoration - it was finally, finally happening, like he and Katsura-san and so many others had dreamed - hardly made it there but rumors were much, much swifter. Some seemed to follow him everywhere he went.

Step.

In cities and villages, in bars and town squares, people talked about the heroes of the war and their deeds, reenacted fights and battles, exaggerating movements and situations to impress their audience. Kenshin often smiled at the inaccuracy of some of their facts or when he recognized a friend being described.

But he never stayed to listen.

At some point, when the storytellers had their audience captivated, they would inevitably sober down, drop their voices and speak not of feats of bravery but of bloody, ruthless murders dealt by a demon sent by Izanami-no-Mikoto herself. And when the listeners were scared and horrified enough, they would hiss his name, shiver sent running through the crowd.

Hitokiri Battosai.

The children, too, told each other stories of the war that sounded like fantastic adventures until they brought the demon in. When he appeared, their voices too dropped to breathed whispers full of fear and awe.

Hitokiri Battosai.

How would they react if they knew that he had walked a mere few strides from them?

Step.

And for that, Kenshin knew he had to keep walking, to keep a respectful distance between these people, himself, and the alias he had wanted dead at Toba-Fushimi. His instinctive flinch every time he heard the name was all the incentive he needed. He could not rest, would not rest, until the blood on his hands was washed away, and that took so much more than skill with a sword.

So, vow weighing heavily at his side, caught up in thoughts, he put one foot in front of the other, barely noticing which way he took at crossroads. He walked the roads of Japan, his step determined. Tomoe had said that it would be all right. One more step; Redemption could be just around the bend.