The story of how Kyuzo got his twin katanas, his red coat and also earned a friend. Featuring Kyuzo, an OC, a pup hound named Mushi, some people from Kougakyo and some Nobuseris too.

(1)Note! I apologize for any setting mistakes and if there are some elements in the story that are incoherent when it comes to the setting or descriptions. I don't fully grasp the Samurai 7 universe so I filled in the lacks with imagination!

(2)Note! The story starts 3 years prior to the actual story.

Disclaimer: Samurai 7 belongs to Akira Kurosawa.

Soundtrack! When it comes to writing, music is muse. The story is divided in multiple parts that each have their soundtrack. Samurai – Samurai 7 OST is to 'unfulfilled desire'. Kirara's theme – Samurai 7 OST is to 'a ticket out'. Set fire to the rain by Adele is obviously to 'rain on fire'. The Meadow by Alexandre Desplat is to 'flourish'. Niji Musubi (Tying Rainbow) by Rin is to 'the red bird'. You are invited to listen to those songs while reading.

Edit 04/11/13: Separated the story into individual chapters to make it easier to read. :)

RED BIRD

.the ticket out

When he blinked his eyes open, jolted as if thunder had struck through his chest, shame flooded through his veins for still being alive. The memory of his failure vibrated like a wound, fresh and sore, although his body had numbed the way it never did. He dared not to look on the sides, and for long minutes kept his red eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening for a stirring sound, a breath, and any indication of where he might be.

Because the ceiling he was staring at was low and streaked with light, the chamber smelling of coal, crumbled ashes and smoking wood. He inhaled through parted lips and recognized the traces of the wild beast doth named spring, the echo of some rattling birds. He could not hear the whir of Kougakyo outside the windows, the shuffle of maids and staff in the corridors. He wasn't in his chamber at the Magistrate's residence. This wasn't even the residence. He attempted to move an arm and it only brought him a flock of pain. His eyes swivelled to the right.

If he hadn't been a man of gelid breath he would have surely been taken aback and probably shaken in surprise, although he met the stare with the same addled stillness of the one who was looking at him.

She sat on the floor, a few paces away from where he lay on the mat, her legs tucked under her body and her hands resting on her thighs. She was dressed in a man's discoloured garb, and her head was covered with a dark hood from which escaped wisps of bright copper hair, almost as red as autumn's leaves. Her face was mostly shadowed, but he saw too well her vibrant green eyes, glued to him in a pensive and evaluating manner. Her lips were pressed in a thin line, and no emotion crossed her face when his eyes met hers. She did not flinch and her body did not shift, nothing in her creaked the way it did in most people when they met his gaze. There was almost of a challenge in those green eyes of her.

The space between them gathered with a heavy silence. Secretly Kyuzo tried to take back the reins of his body; he knew he was wounded, gauze and bandages leashed to his chest, numb fingers and an indistinct fatigue, all hidden by the thin covers he lay under. And the woman kept staring at him, waiting, perhaps. He tried to get up and it served him right. His face twitched in pain, and a smirk slowly appeared on the woman's face, barely visible under the shade of her hood.

"If you want to know where you are, you may just ask."

Her voice was like a thick summer breeze, low and steady, clear and ringing. She did not stand up or move a hand, but her eyes shone with an amused glint; he was being the wilt of that amusement.

Kyuzo tightened his jaws, letting go of their stare show-down, giving the room a look. It was small, barren except for the mat in the middle of the room and some healing supplies nearby. It was not decorated, simple and plain. But there was no open screen to see beyond, no door open to a crack to peak through.

His fingers searched for the grip of his sword, but it was an unserved instinct. He didn't like the vulnerability. The fact he couldn't move, get up and simply walk out to find out where he was and what the quickest way back to Kougakyo was. Each delayed second was a blow to his responsibility to report to the Magistrate, to get rid of the traitorous Nobuseri, to… He suddenly shut his eyes tight, a din surfacing in his head. On top of all he hated the fact he was lost and didn't actually know how far things had gone. How could he have taken so many blows and ended up like this.

"My bad, you're mute."

"I'm not mute," he answered, his voice coming out croaked and dry, and he lifted himself up. He did his best to ignore the pain, pushing away the cover to get a glimpse at his bandaged chest; it did not look that bad. A few gashes and cuts, bruises, just…

"You have a few broken ribs." He heard her say matter-of-factly.

Just a few broken ribs, then…

She rose to her feet without looking at him. From the corner of his eyes he could see she was slim and sturdy-limbed. She spun on her heels to disappear behind a screen. He stared at the spot where she had been sitting previously, probably for many hours, with that attentive patience that radiated from her. Waiting for him to wake up?

While she was gone he did not bother wondering if he'd be able to get up and slip away, and instead pushed the cover away even further to flex his legs which were, thankfully, still in one piece. It was a good thing his dark pants were dark; making the blood on them disappear wouldn't be a hassle. But where his other clothes had gone was a mystery.

A scuffling sound. His head shot up, expecting the woman to be back, but instead he saw the face of a dog.

It was a dark burnt umber coloured hound, slim and with pointy ears set straight, and he was staring at Kyuzo with his pair of little eyes with not much interest. Or threat for that matter. Then the woman reappeared and shooed it away.

She had taken off her hood, freeing a waterfall of ginger curls. He could see her face clearly now, slightly freckled and heart-shaped. She knelt down beside him, putting down a bundle she slowly unwrapped. Inside rested the remains of his katana.

"It's messed up really badly, beyond repair. Although it was a really cheap weapon, so no surprise there."

Agreed, he thought as he took one piece in his hand. The katanas he had been offered when becoming the Magistrate's body guard had all been poor replicas of the weapon he had used to fight in the war, and since then he had personally tried to find a replacement. One that could cut through the Nobuseri without fail. The sword of a true samurai. But he wasn't technically a samurai anymore.

She was looking at him with those unflinching eyes again. Her gaze wasn't curious. It wasn't fearful, or hopeful. He had the feeling she was waiting for a reaction. For emotion to cross his face. A sigh. A whimsy. A stirring breath. But he was a locked up book; he only looked up to meet her eyes like before and once again they hammered silence into the room with a stare contest. She was tenacious; he could say that at least. Her phlegmatic aura could even rival with his own.

"What would your name be?" he finally asked after a while, dropping the piece of metal back into the little pile of debris. Not that he particularly cared, but maybe then he'd have a clue of where he was. The woman blinked. "Your's first."

"Kyuzo."

"Omine."

Nope. Not a clue. And he had given away his name for free.

"You better get up already," she said, and he saw a smirk flutter on her lips. She rose to her feet again, re-bundling the shards of his old blade and throwing them in a trash can beside the door. Then she disappeared again.

He was left alone again, without the dog poking his head in this time. His hand tightened around his ribs, and he felt murderous pain. It was so odd. He didn't usually get wounded. And yet here he was, wherever 'here' was, probably dead to the rest of the world. Taken in by a stranger. How had she even found him?

"I said, you better get up already." She stared at him from the gap, opening the screen wider, as if it was obvious that he was wasting her time. He stared back with some wonderment; how much ease she dared to put pressure into her words, as if she wasn't afraid of his cold demeanour, the one that had earned him such a frightful reputation. But he got up eventually, waving away the pain and the numbness away, following her out and trying not to limp. The dog popped up again and inserted himself behind his master, trotting dutifully and according no glance to Kyuzo.

She made him pass through a hallway, and it wasn't that bad; he made it without tripping over his feet or breaking in two. Although now that he was up, his desire to leave was bubbling up. And so was his curiosity, of who the woman might actually be, and what had actually happened when the world had blacked out for him on that night.

Omine slid open one last screen, letting the dog run past her into what seemed a much larger room. She stepped aside, smirked and waved a hand. "After you." He kept his eyes on hers as he passed, before entering. And stopping short.

Above his head, on the ceiling, but also on the four walls around him were lined weapons. Swords of all sorts, lances and knifes, their polished blades gleaming like firelight. Pined to the walls like butterflies, on display and in perfect lines. And all he saw above his head seemed a hundred times better than the weapons he could find in Kougakyo. Every each of the walls was covered. It was almost magnificent, the feeling that any of these weapons could fall at any moment, drop from the sky and into his hands.

"Welcome to my sword shop," he heard Omine say quietly, although the words were prideful, and she had noticed the slight surprised part of his lips. She walked past him with certain buoyancy, down the little set of stairs, and towards the counter installed in the middle of the room. Her dog came to sit beside her feet, although he quickly settled for a lounging instead. "The finest weapons you will find the region. Made with love and care. I'd like you not to be shy and have a look."

"Who made all these?" he asked as he approached a wall to dislodge a katana. He felt the curve of the sword in his hand, ran his thumb over the hamon of the sword. He saw the weeks it took to polish the weapon and the work that had been indulged into its creation, and gently put it back.

"I did," he heard Omine say, without a trace of contempt in her voice. It was just another obvious thing, although he had trouble believing. A female smith? He hadn't yet seen one of those. And living alone? He hadn't either spotted anyone else in the house, heard no footsteps nor even a hidden breathe. She was living alone and smiting those swords by herself. How odd.

He felt something spark in his chest. The churning desire to grip a pommel in his hand, and swing a blade forth, feel the air cut and whistle, for his spine to shudder the way it did during a good battle. A good battle. He hadn't had one of these in a long time. He turned around. "How long has it been?"

Omine stayed quiet for a moment, as she narrowed her eyes and folded her arms. "Just two days. You were out for two days, although that's not enough time to heal up your broken ribs. But I knew you were dying to know in which rabbit hole you had fallen." She looked around, a wisp of her curly red hair falling over her eyes. "I think it's a good rabbit hole to fall into for a samurai." He did not answer, dropping his hands to his side. He could feel her stare on him, again.

"I saved you because I could. I saw the battle, and it went pretty badly, mind you. I was close of where you had fallen. I took a chance."

So you are woman who plays with fire and shapes the metal's soul, and also takes strolls beside battlefields?

"Thank you," he replied nevertheless, for politeness' sake, and she nodded.

She looked down at her dog, stroking him on the head. "Mushi, come boy," she said, before turning and walking away without another word to the blond. He watched her go and with some reluctance followed her out of the shop's main room, back through the hallway and out into in the open.

It was late afternoon, and there was no bright light to blind him. She had brought him to a court yard. In the middle of it stood a large stony building with archways instead of doors, which he guessed must be her workshop. He could see tables and tools lying on the floor or hooked to the wall, as well as scraps of metal, pots of clays and other material. There was a little garden on the left side, and the smell of blossoms and wet earth orchestrated gently with the aroma of smoke and coal. Beyond it all stretched the forest, dark and whispering, and Kyuzo once again wondered how far this place was from Kougakyo.

Omine sat down on the wooden stairs, folding her arms over her lap. The tumbling wind shook her hair, seemingly even redder here where the sunset reached, the dawning rays of the sun calling farewell. Her dog bolted down the stairs to trot around, leaving them both to be. The birds wound themselves up one last time, creaking springs and clinking cogs, to thrum out their warbles and trills. The night was soon to come in color, and the woman had stopped speaking. He sat down beside her, but still a certain distance away, breathing relief out of his raked lungs as the pain subdued and he could rest, admitting that he was undoubtedly not fit for the quickest of strides. He kept on feeling shameful.

"That's an insignificant name for a dog," he said with his usual raspy voice back, and she arched her fine-lipped face toward his.

"He doesn't mind it." She brought her fingers to her lips, and whistled like a bird, summoning her pet back to her feet. The dog melted under her strokes and caresses, and Kyuzo watched idly from aside.

"Here is not far from Kougakyo," she said after a while, in that steady, unpreoccupied tone of hers. "It's not so far from where you ambushed the Nobuseri, either. I've been hearing them roaming around for quite some time. But you'll probably know how to get your way back to the Magistrate if you step out from the forest."

He swivelled his gaze towards her leaning figure, waiting for her to tell him how she had found out about his job. But she didn't speak no more until the red line of the sun had left and the fireflies came out. "You're welcome to stay here longer if you like, too."

And he did.

He stayed for a week and a few days more, damned with his own thoughts and his little desire to get back to the city and his role as a boy guard. He was fairly certain he was dead to the world, and how could that be such a bad thing?

The days when being a samurai brought whatever pride were gone, and the Nobuseri, the ronins who had geared themselves up into the metallic, thudding cages they called powerful bodies, had started the latest trend. Many of the comrades he had known during the Great War had succumbed to the desire to shake earth and sky like thunder itself, and he had been offered the choice too. But he had refused to lower himself to such a despicable state, where honour did not come in play anymore. He had refused to lose himself in tangled wires and coursing electricity, preferring the pounding of blood in veins. But what were, dare say, those who had kept their feet to the ground?

Forgotten children, who had ended up either poor, useless, or hired as mere guard dogs. Like himself.

He didn't hate his job. He had never complained, and it had kept him on the tracks, high above the scraps and scums the considered themselves as samurai. He had been given enough freedom to shrug off the fact a chain existed, and to puff some bluff on his remaining, graced honour as a swordsman. It had indeed tarnished his senses of well-being as a samurai, but no true samurai existed anymore. And so, dwindling, he had stayed here.

Omine had been right; Kougakyo was not far away. He recognized the forest where they had found the Nobuseri, and that was barely a day of walk away from the bustling city.

Her house and her shop were tucked in tightly between trees. It was a wooden and three-stories high, empty and quiet, the home to wind and rustic shades. Omine owned a horse too, which she used mainly to get around quickly and there were afternoons when she'd disappear with bundles to deliver. Kyuzo would thus stay alone in the house, watching the sun skid across the floor. But between the low ceilings and each wooden board of the floor remained relics of tender times where the house had been more crowded, lively.

She told him once of her father, never looking at him. She rarely did when she told tales.

"The shop belonged to him, and he taught me to do what I do now. He and my brother fought in the Great War. None of them came back, but I was expecting as much, and so I did the only thing that was left to do; pick up the work that had been left aside."

When she happened to be sharing secrets, he did not answer. She didn't want him to, either, and thus he sat in silence, leaning against a tree beside her work shop, while she hammered spirit into the metal, heating, melting, moulding, with precise strikes and movements; a routine.

She was a strange creature, he could say as much. Still so young, her heart like lead in the shape of ambition. She walked around in covering attires, often with gloves, concealing the rough skin of her hands. She wore goggles when sitting beside the furnace, and often he saw her walking around with her hood, or her long curly hair bundled up. There were days when she braided it, too, spending long minutes on the stairs of her court yard upon morning's wake, her fingers running through her hair as if her mane was a waterfall of fire.

There was some touch of grace to her movements when she worked; she was quick and precise, although sturdy, like a man. He could not see in her the petal-hearted form of a woman that fancied jewellery and beauty, lusted for attention and gifts. She was a strange, refreshing sight compared to the women that dawdled in the palace and frolicked around the Magistrate's son. And she did not blabber, either.

No words were uttered from her mouth when she lost herself to her concentration, and if Kyuzo had ever decided to slip away when she had her back turned, he doubted she'd notice. In her silent resolution she was the best company he could wish for, and she did not question his quiet ways either.

He could picture but too well the depressive realism in which she dabbled her days, alone with her creations and her passions, the absence of distraction plunging her into isolation even deeper. She wore no remorse, no aggression or disjointed desperation, and he fell in love with the idea of such peace.

It's in this way he spent his healing days too, mainly watching her lean over a new katana, hard at work, oblivious to the world around her. Many times men came to the shop for a purchase, and in those times Kyuzo stayed behind with Mushi in the garden, listening to the men boast loudly. They all wanted the most beautiful pieces, or the strongest-looking, anything to get the attention of a crowd. Kyuzo listened until the clients were gone, waiting for Omine to return, walk past him and back into her shop without a word.

One day she offered him to have some fun and pick a weapon from the display. He looked at her quaintly when she proposed the idea, and when he did not move she went to grab a sword for him herself. "You can't stay so idle all the time. Shake off the rust."

Thus he'd spend afternoons, twisting and striking invisible targets in the garden, in the beautiful, dance-like way samurai fight, while Omine sat on the stairs and watched with her steady green eyes, refraining Mushi from bolting to him and potentially getting injured. He spent such marrowless days enclosed in the swordsmith's world. Until the day she set him free.

Dusk was approaching, and he was listening to the old bray of his heart, and the sound of humming cicadas gripped it heavily. The little bugs did not exist in the city, and he hadn't known they called out so loudly.

Its then that Omine appeared, carrying a bundle. She sat down beside him on the stairs, closer than they'd ever sat. She was staring ahead in the distance, and he could not answer to her train of thought, black and deep as the wettest ink wells. He usually found himself able to gaze down into a person's soul; he could understand so much of the people that couldn't, in return, understand him. But in her own secret way Omine seemed to guess him better than most people did, and he had not yet succeeded in wittering away her gaze, or winning one of their stare contests. They always ended up in a tie.

"Here," she said blatantly when he'd though she would not speak, as she rested the long package in his lap. He blinked, staring at it.

"What is it?"

"Don't play dumb. You can guess what it is."

He untied the cord and pushed away the cloth. Two twin katanas. He had noticed them on the display before, tied to the ceiling, but never bothered to reach for them. Kyuzo slid one out of its case and ran his finger over the blade, following the reflection of his skin.

Simply-crafted, but masterfully. He could not see the difference between the two pieces, and they were spared of decorations and ornamentations. Simple and efficient, the way he liked them.

And again. That green, serious stare, obscured by the dark hood. She was looking at him as if he was going off to war, and in his mind he wondered if she had seen her father and brother away with the same incredibly earnest eyes. He looked away.

"This is not a gift," he heard her say sternly. She gripped his arm tightly. "I know what you're thinking. You don't want to owe me. And you don't, absolutely not. This is not a gift; it's your ticket out of here." Her frown did not soften when he turned to look at her again.

"There are hundreds of men, even maybe thousand, who have walked into the shop wishing to buy a sword. And very little who did and do are true to themselves. They don't know how to fight the proper way, with the heart. They think carrying a sword and self-proclaiming themselves as warriors will bring them fame and money, but you and I know it doesn't work that way. And you. I saw you fighting that night. Maybe you did take in some blows, but I knew instantly that once you used to be a true samurai. And you still are, you just have to find yourself back."

His eyes widened just slightly at the waterfall of words, and her gaze became even more tight and pressing. "I know you can understand the fact that the swords I make are like children to me. I give them life. I leave a part of my soul in each blade, and seeing one off with someone who won't be able to use it to its true potential is a shame. A waste and a shame."

She led of his arm and smiled a little smirk. "But you will do these katanas justice. I've seen the way you fight, they are perfect for you." She hoped to her feet then, slipping inside the house.

Kyuzo kept staring at the blades. Mushi had stayed behind, observing him with his little eyes, and his ears perked up when Kyuzo rose, unsheathing the last sword and taking both in his hands. They were so light he barely felt their weight. And when he stroke a few blows in the air, he saw how well they rode the air, and how strong the blade was. A blade that could cut through any metal.

He was starting to feel the exhilaration. The desire to own the katanas. The silver pommels fit perfectly in his hands, like two pieces of a puzzle, and he swung them in the air once again. There was so much more space to strike with two weapons at a time. He wanted them. Within seconds it had become a need and a craving.

"Here, that's for you too."

He spun around, barely succeeding in catching the new bundle. Omine walked up to him and took the twin swords out of his hands as he dealt with the bundle that unfolded into a long red trench coat.

"I saw it a few days ago in Kougakyo and knew it would fit you just right. See, it even matches the color of your eyes." A sheepish grin appeared on her face, and he couldn't refrain from smirking, too.

"Is that supposed to be a 'ticket out', too?"

"No, that's actually a gift. Or more like a necessary gift. I can't let you off with only that black jump suit you've been wearing the entire week, right?"

He slipped the coat on, and Omine had been right. It fit perfectly. It would be easy to fight in it too, to dodge and there would be no hindrance to his movements. Everything was falling into place.

"Thank you," he said, genuinely grateful. "I appreciate what you've done."

"Pleasure's mine," she replied as she tied to coat up nicely and stepped back for a proper look. "Yes, red really fits you nicely."

He left the next day. He had healed the best he could within such little time. The morning was bleary with sunshine, saturating the colors, and the world had awakened bare as a child's heart. Omine stood on the front stairs, waving goodbye as he walked away. She hadn't told him to come back, to visit again, or offered any bubbly farewell. She had only said she'd look out for his success during her trips to Kougakyo, and helped him fasten the twin blades to his trench coat. So he'd always have them protecting his back.

He looked back, as he walked away, at that house where he had succeeded in forgetting who he was. It all seemed so surreal. Mushi seemed reluctant at his departure, and Omine had brought back her hood on her face. She kept on waving until the trees folded around his figure and he was gone, carrying with him what would be his ticket back into life.