Samurai Gun and all characters belong to Kazuhiro. I own nothing but maybe an OC here and there...

A/N: At the end.

The Heavy Truth

Chapter One

The truth is heavy,

therefore few care to carry it.

It was like what he had been forced to do as a small child: swim to the surface while wearing lead weights tied around his ankles. Trying with all your might to reach the surface and all the while you are being slowly but steadily pulled back by some unseen undercurrent. The worst part about it all was that your goal was almost within your grasp. Your vision was hazy but light could still be discerned. Your hearing was muted but you could hear the crashing of the waves against the rocks and the screaming of the gulls above you. As your breath left your body in small or even large bubbles you could see them float away and break the surface not too far from your reach. It always seemed unattainable, yet he knew that if he didn't reach the surface then he would die. Plain and simple.

Death always seemed to be waiting for him. In one form or another Death was always waiting patiently there at the end. He wasn't friendly with Death, per say. Neither was he one of the people that refused to even think about it. Death was just...Death. He likened Death to be like a sport's spectator. A figure blended in with the crowd and not always showing which side he was rooting for. That amused him. It also enraged him. That was because this was one of those times. He didn't know if Death was on his side or not. With that thought burning in his heart he gave one, final push to the surface. With blinding white pain and gasping much needed air he found himself once again cheating Death.

But instead of breaking the surface to light, he broke it only to find himself in darkness. Pitch black darkness. But what he lacked in sight he more then made up for in sound. He could hear a high, crackling, keening. It seemed to permeate the air around him, but underneath it all he also heard a soft, lulling sound. It was that sound that he tried to concentrate on. He found that when he stopped screaming he could hear it quite clearly. Soft hands held him gently down by the shoulders, and would even stray here or there to rub comfortingly across his arms or shoulders. His breath came in a harsh, rapid staccato, and almost as if he had been running a marathon. But even a marathon had never left him feeing so much pain, or so helpless. He found that he couldn't move. Not even one muscle. His body was on fire and seemingly boneless. All he could do was lay there helplessly as every molecule in his body was pretending that it was its own, miniature, super nova. Every nerve pulsed in fury, and it sent blinding white flashes of pain straight to his brain. The pain was so great that at first he thought that he would vomit. The muscles in his abdomen clenched so tightly and with such force that he didn't think that he would ever be able to loosen them. He could even feel his body start to spasm. The fire was spreading uncontrollably within as well as without. His body was slick with a sweat that was anything but cooling. If anything it just helped to add fuel to the conflagration.

It was when he thought that at any moment that if he could only just burst into flames in order to end the pain once and for all that cool hands helped to raise his head high enough so a glass of liquid could be brought to his mouth. He greedily gulped whatever was in it. At this point he just didn't care. He drank so voraciously that he couldn't swallow it fast enough, and so a good deal of it passed back out of his mouth and down his chin. He gasped and sputtered. Once again a hand came out and with a cold cloth gently and tenderly wiped his mouth. His head was laid back down and water could be heard sloshing in a basin next to him. It was with great relief that he found the cloth once again back on his body. It moved over his face and neck as a mother would when bathing her new born infant. The touch was a blessed and welcoming relief. There must have been something in the ministrations that slowly but steadily caused his body to relax, and even drop a few degrees in temperature. His could feel his jaw become slack and his muscles start to loosen. He was once again back in the ocean as a child, and this time he was going to let the cool depth take him down and draw him in to their dark, mysterious depths.

When he woke again he felt more cognizant then he had previously. He was still blind (he realized that his one good eye was also covered for some reason) and still weak, but his body was now not trying to turn him into a human bonfire. In fact, there were places on him that were cool and clammy. He even gave a shudder or two in revulsion. Especially when he realized that one of the places was at his groin. He had soiled himself. But he had neither the strength of body nor mind to do anything about it. Instead he chose to gather his thoughts and try to figure out his surroundings.

Wherever he was the building or house was deathly quiet. He heard only the normal sounds of a house's foundation as it creaked and groaned in time to the swelling and shrinking of the wood and its foundation. If he really concentrated he could maybe hear birds in the far off distance, but what type they were was beyond his comprehension or even care at the moment. But what he could clearly comprehend was that he heard nothing that gave away another person's presence. He heard neither foot steps nor voices. He felt as if he was entombed alive, and all alone.

He could though catch a glimpse of a perfume. It was slight, it was subtle, and it was something that should have been familiar to him for some reason. But he was hard pressed to figure out from where let alone from whom. The smell wasn't always present. It was something so light that the eddy's of air currents moved it about, and it would come and go from his senses. Since he had nothing better to do at the moment he would try and discern the scent. After some thought he realized that it wasn't perfume but more of the body odor itself. And it was definatly a woman. It must have been the woman that had been there when he had first woken up. But whomever she was or even wherever she was her scent still lingered in the air around him. It reminded him of the fragile magnolia blossoms that he had once seen on his travels. The delicate, pink petals that opened up at the first sign of spring. They were almost ethereal in not so much their look as much as their composition. Just a slight touch and the petals would one by one fall to the ground and lay scattered at your feet. A poignantly sad testament to a beauty that once was.

His musings were broken as he heard soft steps come down a corridor, and in his direction. He loosened his muscles and tried his best to feign sleep Whomever she was(and now he was certain that it was a woman, and the woman of his recent contemplations in fact) quietly slide the door open and then just as quietly shut it behind her. She walked with a lightness of foot that sent a 'ping' some where in the back of his brain. It spoke of training. It spoke of a possible Samurai Gun.

Whatever she was carrying she set down on a table or bench by his bedside and made herself comfortable. He tensed when he felt the swoosh of air as her hand came towards him. If he had more strength he would have long before this had her in his grasp. But since he had none he was forced to lay there helplessly.

He felt the back of her hand press itself against his forehead as if to test for fever. Finding none, or not enough to bring about worry she sighed gratefully. He could almost hear her smile. Then her cool and delicate hands moved the sheet covering him and ran over his torso. She slowly and cautiously pulled off bandages. With some form of medical training she must have been looking at his various wounds. She then went about cleaning and re-dressing them. But before she covered him back up she methodically cleaned and dried him off. Somehow she even managed to change the sheets with him still laying supine in the bed. Small grunts and groans could be heard as she diligently went about her task. Finally she sat back and gave a prideful huff of accomplishment. As she finally pulled the fresh sheet over him he mustered all his energy for a few, feeble words.

"Who....are....you?" His voice was scratchy and hoarse from misuse.

He could feel the woman stiffen next to him. He could feel her sit back sharply and draw her hands back towards herself. But she uttered not a word. She was silent before him. Once again he tried for an answer, and this time it took all his waning energy just to utter the single word.

"Who...?"

Two, slim fingers were gently placed over his mouth, and effectively silencing him. He sighed in resignation. He was about to make another try at it when he found his head being raised and a glass once again being brought to his lips. Again he drank deeply, but not as greedily. It was water but with a slight medicinal after-taste. It must have been what had sent him into slumber the first time that he encountered her because he could once again feel his muscles relaxing and his mind becoming hazy. He could feel his lips moving but no sound coming out as he tried to verbally communicate.

She laid his head back down and with two thumbs wiped at the corners of his mouth. Tucking his sheets in loosely but securely he could hear her gather up her things as she made her preparations to leave him just as the fog of sleep started to over-come him once again. This time, and like the time before he never heard her leave.

Time soon had no meaning. He would find that he would sleep until it was time for her to return. He was always wide awake before she came. Either she just happened to be lucky at her visits in that he was awake, or she knew exactly how long he would be asleep, and giving him time to shake the sleep away she would arrive only after she knew that he was more oriented. The first spoke of sheer luck, the second spoke of sheer intelligence. That meant that she would have known exactly when the drug would have dissipated in his system and made him more aware. The question now was why?

Why would she want him awake during her visits? It would have been much easier to have him comatose during her ministrations. Her job would have been easier in many respects. She could have perused and cleaned his wounds without any disturbances. And if her job was something else? Then he could have been dispatched without any mess or fuss on her part.

Each time she came and went was the same as the time before. She would check, clean, and then medicate him. Each time he would ask the same question: Who are you? And each time he received silence and a finger to his lips. It became almost rote. Their relationship fell into a comfortable but never boring pattern. And each time she visited he felt just a smidgen stronger. He certainly wasn't back to his fighting strength, as that would be a long time coming, but he did feel that he was farther and farther away from Death's door step. It also afforded him a few more pieces of her puzzle each time that she visited.

He found early on that she liked to hum while she worked. She never sang any words, but a light, airy tune would occasionally drop from her lips. He also caught her humming purposefully in order not to speak. Once when she poked at a wound on his shoulder and he hissed painfully in response she hummed deep in her chest, as if to stave off the contrite apologetic words that almost came unbidden. For some reason that made him think that she had a certain amount of good breeding.

Once, and it was only once, but it played in his mind over and over while he waited for her she had laughed. It was an breathy and airy laugh that was all at once both girlish as well as womanly. The sweet sound stuck in his brain and just wouldn't leave. It was now buried there along side her scent and nothing but the cold hand of Death could ever dislodge it. He even doubted that though as he planned to take both those memories with him to the next life if possible.

There were times though that he would become annoyed at not only his inability to move around as freely as he would like due to his bone deep weakness, but her staunch refusal to speak. How many days it had been he wasn't sure. He didn't even know if it was light or dark out as her visits seemed to be strictly regimented. He would sometimes curse, and not only at himself but her as well. He would heap course, rough timbered abuse upon both of them. But even during his worst times she was as constant and gentle as ever. Her movements never betrayed anything but her seeming desire to get him healed and to take care of his bodily functions.

The indignity of having someone take care of his bodily waste was quickly replacing his annoyance at his body's slow healing process as his number one gripe. She never treated him as a child or geriatric, but that was exactly what he felt like. He felt like a babe in swaddling clothes or an old man in a retirement home. Here he was, the perfect culmination of the most brutal training almost ever known. A man that was trained to seek and destroy with deadly accuracy and intent, and he was now reduced to back to infancy or forced forward towards old age. He was a lone wolf that hunted and preyed almost at his own discretion. Nothing deterred him. Nothing scared him. There was almost nothing he couldn't do. Except now. Now? Now he couldn't do anything by himself. He couldn't piss, shit, or even take a fucking drink of water without help. He was starting to think that maybe he should be taken out back and shot, or just thrown off the highest cliff into the ocean. Anything. Anything to end this never ending feeling of helplessness.

Just as he was getting himself so worked up that his body started to shake from the suppressed anger her hands moved down his legs and started to massage his feet. Her soft fingers were nimble and yet firm. They massaged and pressed in on vital pressure points. He could feel the tension as well as the anger swiftly leave him. He really started to feel relaxed when she took each of his toes and manipulated them in small circles. Who knew that having your toes massaged would be such a wonderful gift? He almost...smiled. Instead, he drifted off into a light, non-medicinal, massage-induced sleep. He woke just as she was once again preparing to leave and pulling the light sheet over him. With a burst of energy that he thought that he never had he grabbed her arm.

"Wait."

He felt her stiffen, but not pull away. If anything she sat back and let him keep his hold on her. It wasn't tight but neither was it loose. It was just...comfortable. Her skin was soft and smooth, and the arm was delicate but with a sense of strength running underneath it.

"My eye, I want to see. Take off the right eye patch..." He had been blind for too long (and in more ways then one, he thought to himself ironically).

He could feel her hand curl as if in indecision, but then he heard her let out a 'whoosh' of air as if she had come to a hard decision. She patted his arm with her free hand. He let go and waited patiently for her to start the process of his unveiling. With careful and slow movements she unwrapped the bandage from around his head and in doing so she unwittingly uncovered both his eyes. Somehow though she knew to cover just his right eye as his left was long gone. She covered it so that he wouldn't be blinded by the sudden light. When enough time had passed she slowly raised her hand from the eye inch by inch. Before taking it away completely she took a damp cloth and wiped away any grime that may have accumulated or built up during its captivity under the gauze.

He blinked his eye rapidly and squinted at the harsh sunlight coming through somewhere behind him. He looked up and all he saw at first was a hazy outline. But as he continually blinked his eye sight slowly came into focus. He was even able to shakily bring a hand up and wipe it. When he opened his eye again his jaw almost dropped to his chest at who was sitting next to him.

He had never forgotten her. She had always been in the back of his head like a tantalizing whisper. The last piece of her puzzle slide smoothly into place.

"Gouta," she said softly.

It was her...

End A/N: Well, there it is. The first chapter/Intro for the first Samurai Gun fic. I know that Gouta dies in the anime but I loved him so much (and I'm going to play on the idea that so did she) that I just had to resurrect him and have him cheat death. I love playing the Angel of Mercy and Cupid all at the same time...