Hello! Please enjoy reading this! My first Samurai 7 fan fiction, of which I wish there was more to read. Especially with OCs and Kyuzou. As a short summary, this story takes place after Kyuzou's 'death,' and the very unlikely chance that he was unconscious and not dead. He was just too badasseried to die, I think.

I love reviews, but please do not ask for updates, because then I'll probably reply with a 'hopefully soon' because I have little time to write with college physics and calculus. I'll try and provide information with ()'s in the text that correspond at the bottom of the chapter. Thanks again! -Youmi BTW: I need you people to be grammar Nazi's! Tell me about any spelling mistakes etcetera!

Silent Cries

Prolog

The day was bright, nearly as bright as the marine sun, even through the trees. Not that I had ever seen it before, but I'd heard enough from my mother, about how its blinding light colored the far away oceans in spring blue. Sweet sweat beaded on my forehead and dampened the back of my neck so that my unruly hair clung to it in thick unbearable clumps. I sighed and pulled the half undone fishtail-braid back over my left shoulder, smoothing my fingers though the dark locks. Then I wiped my brow and went silently back to my task, digging herbs from the thick ground.

My hands felt dry and gritty as I pulled mandrake root from the dirt and deposited it into the basket at my side, then moved slightly over to start again on another plant. A strange plant, the mandrake. Once it was said that the plant had wished badly to be human and a deity took pity on the poor vegetation, allowing it the shape of a man. Now it was just a narcotic, made to help the suffering.(1)

I finished with my task and stood, walking towards the river which laid to my right. The waters were cool and welcome compared to the heat; ducking my head I gulped from the clear waters and carefully cleaned the dirt from my hands, then filled a large flask. Time was short when there was work to do, but I enjoyed the feeling of grass under my bare feet, the wind that ruffled my dark hair. Bells rang on my wrists, tied in place by spring blue ribbons.

Slowly the trees parted, revealing a small cottage settled next to an old dried well, the untamed grasses that tickled my feet grew thick about it, thick from it. Wild flowers scattered across the old roofing which dipped precariously inwards. Lavender and daisies were what the inside smelt of, various dried bundles of herbs resting across the hearth and on an old table. The inside was sparsely decorated, what furniture there had once been had rotted away and was cleaned out some time ago. The boards dipped here too in places, but were in far better shape than the roof. The one change that had happened in the last few days however was the presence of the black boots by the door, fairly new yet worn. I entered slowly, searching for the form of the fallen samurai.

He laid in my bed at this moment, his breathing uneven as I stood over him, as if it took great strength to expand and contract his lungs. No doubt it was, as he had a gunshot wound straight through his body. Bandages stretched across his sculpted chest, which had once been covered by a red gun-coat, covering the worst of the green-yellow bruises marring his pale skin, the arrays of cuts over his arms and shoulders, down to his navel where a spattering of blonde hair lead into uncharted territory. I had bandaged his legs, applied an ointment to keep the scars from his calves, and rubbed sweet smelling oil into his skin to keep it from drying in the heat. All of this was covered by a thin sheet; any more blankets and he would die of heat stroke. My eyes raised to his face, tracing the contours as I had often done since his arrival.

I wanted to say I'd grown to know him well, while he slept.

I'd combed out his tangled flaxen hair into a halo around his face, washed it from the oil and blood that had originally matted it into a tawny color. I'd always thought people were supposed to look peaceful as they slept, as my mother always had before she died, but this samurai's brows frowned, his eyes clenched against the light of candle and sun, his lips pulled down as if he wasn't allowed to smile. But he was beautiful non the less.

My eyes raised to his clothes and double swords, washed, mended, and folded neatly at his side. He wore a strange assortment, which seemed as if they were better for stealth than full on combat, the black undershirt, pants, and half face mask. Their fibers were tough, but his red coat was soft against my fingers, I'd marveled when I first laid eyes upon it, wondering of its style.

And although I cared diligently for the man, I knew little about him.

I had found him ragged on the ground over a week ago, unconscious. Around that same time a warship had passed over, skirmishing with other mechanical samurai on route to Kanna Village. He must have slipped and somehow, the thick trees which broke his fall saved him from certain death.

I kneeled, setting the basket of mandrake next to my thigh and uncorking the flask. His cheek was warm and smooth against my palm, as I tried to keep him as clean shaven as I had found him, and I let my hand rest there for a moment, feeling the muscle of his jaw and bone of his cheek. His eyes clenched at the touch, lips parting in a warm breath that tickled my wrist. It was as if he could sense me there, but could not wake up, defend himself as he was no doubt trained. Face flushed, I let a trickle of water into his mouth and moved away quickly to find a good stone to grind the mandrake.

I found a good bowl shaped rock that I often used as a mortar, and a longer oblong one for crushing, my pestle. Firewood was placed into the hearth of the house, and I set a moderate amount of the water to boil over it, then returned to slowly skinning and crushing the herbs at my disposal. The mandrake was bitter in my nose, and bled milky liquid. Once I was proud of the grinding, I pushed the mash into the boiling water and stirred it slowly around. (2)

Chamomile was also added, and I plucked leaves to add to the stew, their aromatic smell filling the house, overtaking the mandrakes bitter fragrance. Thus I sat and stirred until filmy oil gathered at the top of the pot. I tasted it experimentally, made a face, and decided it was done.

The water was thick and sour, and I gathered it in a shallow bowl, trying to avoid the mashed mandrake roots and only collect the oils, as the root was very poisonous. Quietly, I took it to the injured man, the bells jingling on my wrists.

Only, his eyes were open, their color that of blood, stabbing through me. His breathing had evened, yet he still breathed through parted lips. He had been sleeping all this time, but his gaze was as if he were still in the midst of a dream.

My breath caught in my throat, strangely aware of the hot bowl against my finger tips, the creaking in the walls, the scent of the air, the dryness of my mouth. For a moment my belly knotted tight in fear, unsure of this awake man lying before me. What was he like? What did he see before him?

He eyed me warily, although sleepily, as if all the strength in his body was drained away. I knew he must have had strength, strength enough for many men, for I had felt the contours of his body and the sinewy muscle that held his lithe frame together.

Swallowing I knelt, and held the bowl to his lips, words tumbling from my own, "Samurai-sama, this is a medicine, please drink it. I apologize for the flavor, but I promise it will numb your pain."

His eyes remained untrusting.

But he drank, although slowly and with suspicion in the liquid I had prepared, perhaps without will for the pain that must have wracked his frame. Wondrously I tried to imagine the kind of life he lead, something that was far, far different from my own. People from the woods can typically smell people from the city, and his arrival did nothing to quench my curiosity. In all rights, he was the first person I had seen since being orphaned.

I pulled the bowl away and reached for the flask, avoiding his gaze that burned into my face. "Here, I have water if you're thirsty. Please call for me if you need anything else." A gust of warm air caught my hair as I stood.

He nodded.

One step lead to another and I had made it safely from the room. The bowl was still hot against my fingers as I scampered from the building, like a squirrel set on by a snake. Old boarding turned into dry wild grass, and the bells around my wrists alarmed, evasive to the chirping of the wren above me in the branches, the gusting wind, the hot sun.

Why I ran I did not know, I felt giddy, my heart hammering in my chest, the cup discarded behind me.

Rapid waters greeted me, my feet having carried me to the river. After ten more paces I sank down on top of a large boulder face. Such was its size that it cut off a pool of deep water with little connection to the river. Light reflected on my face from the pond, and my eyes reflected back into my own. They were green, greener than the grass and dark pines, contrasting my black hair that spun lazily across my shoulders like strands of spider silk.

Sprawled across the rock's warm surface I released a final sigh. My eyes fluttered closed, trying to block out the samurai's expression, the color of his piercing gaze. That cold warriors soul.

I had wanted to say I knew him well, while he slept, but the truth was I didn't know him at all…

(1) Mandrake, also known as mandragora, are part of the nightshade family, and as such are very poisonous plants. A long time ago people used them for medicine and witch superstitions because of their strange human shape. In the fall they get berries on their stalks which in contrast to their nature are very edible and tasty.

(2) don't quote me on this, and definitely don't do at home. This was made up for I couldn't find any 'recipes' including mandrake.

I'll be writing more!