Right. Not entirely sure where this came from but hope you'll enjoy. I don't own Rurouni Kenshin.
"Kenshin."
A call. Soft like a bird. Sweet and gentle like fragrant blossoms despite the blade she claims to hold in her heart. She is too kind for the steel. He knows, because he is not.
"Kenshin-"
Little bird in bright colors, like spring in human form. Pretending to be harsh, to be unforgiving, but in the end she keeps giving life to everyone she meets. Even if they're unworthy.
She might be able to wield it but in the end she is no woman of the sword.
The blade is but a mask she wears when she believes she has to defend what's hers. She does not carry it with her when she perceives no danger. It is not at her side every passing hour. It does not sleep in her bed or is next to her in her bath. It is not part of her.
But it is part of me.
Through the joy and the tears, through good times and bad, it has always been at his side. Since the moment his master renamed him and gave him a blade it has been part of him.
Trice he tried to defy the steel in his soul. First for Tomoe. Second when he swore never to kill again. Third for the gentle bird who's song gives him strength.
But steel does not bend and spring is not warm enough to melt it. Even shattered into fragments the edge remains.
No longer clean. No longer smooth. No longer with the soundless whisper of severed wind. But it still cuts. It still draws blood.
And the ice cold bite cannot be denied.
He knew. He'd tried.
For how could one deny one's own heartbeat?
He cannot. Without he is bare. Incomplete. Lacking. A katana without an edge. Even now, despite his oath, he cannot bear to be without the sakabatou's edge.
And that is why Kaoru is too gentle. A bokken. The wood without edge is enough to satisfy her.
But never me.
Giving up his blade had been like giving up his arm. Without the old smith's interference his oath wouldn't have lasted a month. Almost shattered anyway, alongside the old sakabatou on the road to Kyoto. Hadn't they found the true blade when they did his will alone wouldn't have been enough to keep the steel in his soul from killing once more. He bet the old man had known it too. Himura was sure he wasn't that predictable. The man had a habit of knowing things that weren't his business.
He should have known, really.
But was it really not his business?
Hah. After all, Hitokiri Battousai hadn't been just the nightmare of enemies. No better way for the smith to make up for the blades he'd made by making sure one famous for his skill with them would keep his promise not to kill. Meddling old man.
"Kenshin?"
But then again, proves meddling old men didn't know everything either.
"I'm sorry, Kaoru…"
Scents. For some reason those always haunt him. White ume blossoms. Snow. Blood. Warm scents of Kaoru's home that cling to the fabric of her clothes even in the midst of battle. Fire. Forest.
He wields his blade without thinking, the weight as familiar as that of his own hand. He doesn't feel the sheath on his hip. Sword and sheath. They are just there, like his hair, like his skin, like the sun in the sky and the water in the riverbed. Just there.
"Kenshin?!"
But Kaoru is not like him.
And he has known for a very long time.
One who gives life and one who takes it. For a while he had hoped they would balance each other, like the two sides of a scale.
But he has taken more than she can give.
Instead of him being purified she is slowly becoming tainted. Tainted by death and pain, her mask not enough to protect her from the cruelty of a world that demands the price of blood to be paid.
The blood claimed by the razor edge of unforgiving steel.
Bird and blade are not meant to be together. In hindsight, it's obvious.
"Kenshin, no…"
Demon. Hah. It was never a demon that ran rivers of red through Kyoto's streets. A demon hunts and kills and would be like a cat or a wolf. Loyal, but ever only for its own reasons. The demons, despite their power, never became legends.
The Sword did.
"Kenshin, Kenshin…"
In the end only his master ever recognized what he was. But even he had tried to ignore it by trying to make him his heir.
Or maybe not…
After all, a sword is forever a testament of the art. It was far harder to destroy than the skill needed to create it.
He turned, leaving behind the crimson tableau. In the shadows tears fell like the gentle rains, but he knew now even they would not be able to wash away the scent of blood clinging to him.
"Kenshin, why?"
Heart of Sword.
Do you really need to ask?
He loved her spring but he could not live without his heart.
No matter how strong the sheath, there always comes a time the sword will be drawn again.
And despite the lie he'd wished to live, he knew a sword was meant for slaying.
Based on the fact that 'Kenshin' can be translated as 'Heart of Sword'.