It was strange how he hadn't thought of her in so long. Yet maybe, she was always there: maybe he was always thinking of her, but had for so long that he didn't realize it anymore. Whatever was the case, it would be the last time that he thought of her. That didn't bother him - perhaps dying was in fact the only way he could forget her.

He had loved her from the first moment he saw her, at age five. Seeing her, so young yet already so graceful, running in a game of tag, he had sworn then with the absoluteness of a child that he would marry her.

They became close, the two children, so close that all the village elders knew the day would someday come. Then, unexpectedly, at thirteen she broke his heart. They grew apart, but he didn't forget about her. She could tell. When her heart was broken as well, she came to him. When they were sixteen, he kissed her, underneath the weeping willow tree where he had first seen her.

They were to be married. An auspicious day was picked, new clothing prepared. The village elders smiled; they had known this day was coming. But three evenings before, he received an urgent message – report immediately to battle. He promised to come back, and she promised to wait. They parted, so much in love that they believed they could wait.

He left at eighteen, still a boy: he came back at twenty, a hardened man. The war had made his heart colder than it had been, but it still melted when he saw her.

She was surprised to see him – shocked even. The village had received news that he had died over a year ago. She was engaged again, to someone new. She had closed her heart to him, avoided the pain by forgetting him completely.

He tried to kiss her again, under the weeping willow trees, but her heart was hard as a rock. She left him standing there, alone in the place where he had once been so happy. And he avoided the pain as well. He let his heart grow cold, hard as a rock. He left the village, and didn't return.

If there was one thing the war had taught him, it was how to kill. He used his newfound knowledge in weapons and cold hearts to become a weapon himself. He was hired by renowned generals, fought in many, many wars. He grew to enjoy killing, enjoy the power it gave him.

The kid, Bankotsu, was powerful, and very charismatic. Renkotsu easily made the decision to join him and his band. They grew to amass great power, and inspire great fear. He enjoyed the fear as much, if not more, so than the killing.

There had been one mission, once, where they were to destroy his old village. He had wondered if she still lived there, with her new husband. At the thought of that man, he wanted Bankotsu to say yes, to take the job. But at the last moment, Renkotsu had thought of her; thought of when they were children, and he had seen her running underneath the weeping willow tree. His heart had almost softened for a moment, but that brought back the pain. Bankotsu didn't take the job – he said the pay wasn't enough, and there wouldn't be enough sport involved in slaying a bunch of women and children. For a moment, Renkotsu had been glad: but only for a moment, before his heart hardened again.

He could never quite forget about her. As he died for the second time, he thought about her, only for a moment. He thought of how she looked, running barefoot under the weeping willow tree, and he thought of how she looked when she told him that she had found someone else. He thought of what a life they might have had. And his heart softened, for only a moment. And so Renkotsu died, with a useless thought in his head and a small but painful ache in his heart. It had been too many years to expect anything more.