Chapter 3. Grave Digger and the Wandering Jerk.

The moon was bright and round.

The boy was alone.

Alone in a field filled with dead people.

It was quiet.

He wanted Kasumi.

His useless legs didn't feel steady enough for walking, so he crawled on the ground that had become wet and muddy from all the blood.

He wanted Kasumi, who had lost her little boy. Who didn't mind he was odd and ugly. Who had just seen a little boy just as alone and adrift as she was. Second mother, who had comforted him when he had been alone in the crowd.

Kasumi, who lay there dead, with a wound in her throat and empty open eyes. Hesitantly, he reached to touch her cool skin. It was clammy. It didn't feel anything like before. She didn't even look like Kasumi anymore. That's because she is not there anymore, dummy.

She was just a dead body.

His fingers clenched into a fist in her kimono, and the boy buried his face in the dirty, bloody cloth. It wasn't fair. He had just found her. Just dared to hope for—

A high screeching wail rose from deep in his chest and he tried to stop it. It hurt, it hurt so much... He breathed in the odd musky scent that was lingering on her clothes, trying to find comfort from her empty shell. She, too, had left him alone. Just like Mother, and brothers, and father, and, and—

He didn't know how long he lay there, but after the moment had passed, the coldness was starting to creep on him. The damp cloth didn't keep warmth at all; his knees hurt and her body couldn't give him anything anymore.

The boy sniffled, then gave it up and wiped his nose with his sleeve. It wasn't right, nothing was right in the world anymore.

She had been his mother, a second mother—but a mother still. So he decided to do to her what he had seen father do to mother.

Dig a grave.

Because dead people went into graves. Even the boy knew that.

So…

He cupped his hands and started digging.

It didn't take but a couple drags of the muddy ground to discover that his hands were not good at digging at all. Under the thin surface of mud, the ground was packed hard. But he gritted his teeth and kept at it with sheer stubborn will.

Sand and sharp pieces of gravel slid under his nails. His fingers kept hitting odd lumps, root and stones. It was tiring work and really, really slow.

When he finally paused a bit to look at what he had managed to get done, he started to realize that it wasn't that simple. The hole in the ground, that was supposed to be a grave for Kasumi, was really shallow. One couldn't bury a chicken in it. And his fingertips were bleeding next to his nails, full of scratches from his efforts.

It wouldn't work like this.

Not well enough.

Idly, he sucked his bleeding fingertips and mulled over his problem. The moonlight covered the clearing, and across it, on the road were the caravan wagons. They had walked next to them all these weeks, stopping every night to eat from supplies the wagons carried…

His eyes widened. That was it! There had to be something he could use for digging in the caravan. So he clambered up and started his way across the massacre site. It was nasty to walk through the field with its high wet grass and dead bodies littered around.

Don't look down, don't think – just walk.

The abandoned caravan was scary. There was no one there, just dead bodies and hastily discarded stuff that some of the girls had been carrying. The boy swallowed, and closed his eyes… The food stuff had been in the middle wagons, other supplies at the tail end of the caravan.

It felt bad to search the wagons. He kept expecting someone to jump out yelling and hit him for sticking his nose where it didn't belong. After all, the slaves hadn't been allowed near them. He had seen the scary man Hideo hit one of the girls for doing just that.

After quite a lot of searching in the pitch black darkness of a covered wagon, he found a shovel. The boy had seen men use it to dig latrines.

It would do.


It was almost morning when Kasumi's grave was finally ready.

Even with the shovel, the digging hadn't been easy. The tool had been large and unwieldy, heavy. It had been made for adults and the boy was just a child, a small and scrawny one at that. But it had been easier to use it than dig with bare hands.

The boy set the shovel aside and straightened his aching back, wiped his sweaty hands on his pant legs. I really did it, he thought proudly, while surveying his work. It wasn't very deep. Just barely past his knees.

But it would do.

Now he just had to get her body into the grave.

Taking hold of her hands, he pulled. The body didn't move. At that point, the boy realized that it might not be so easy. Why is she so limp? Dismayed, the boy walked around the body. He tried pulling at the feet; it didn't work either. The body was just too heavy.

And he was tired.

Sitting down between the corpse and the open grave, he didn't think he had ever felt as bad as that moment. All that work for her… for nothing. He wanted to cry. But somehow, there was this certainty that if he did, he would never get anything done and it still wouldn't help him any.

It was Kasumi who had told him that it was okay to cry. And now Kasumi was dead.

So he didn't cry.

Instead, he rose and walked around his second mother's body again and again… thinking. But what if… And he pushed at her near the waist, just like he would roll a heavy log. The body moved.

It was almost easy to roll it into the grave.

Just a thud sounded as the body fell. He was almost satisfied, and glanced at the shovel… but the body had dropped into a really awkward position, face down. He didn't want her to be like that. It didn't look comfortable. No, sleeping like that would be impossible. So the boy jumped down there and rolled her to her back. Arranged the kimono straight. Brushed her hair from her face.

It sort of looked like she was just sleeping there he decided after it was all done. Except for the gaping wound in her throat and the open eyes. It was the eyes that nearly broke him, because they made it impossible to even imagine that she was okay, just sleeping, still there for him.

The eyes were empty. She wasn't in them.

He swallowed, took a deep aching breath… then finally crawled on top of her, and closed her eyes for her. After that, he started shoveling the dirt on top of the body. Like father had buried mother. And Kasumi had been—

Don't think. She isn't there anymore; it is just a body. Just keep working, keep moving. Don't stop, don't even think of it because if you do… if you do, whatever can you do then?

The sun was rising when he was finally done. He was tired, so tired. His stomach growled at him angrily. His hands were covered in blisters. He hurt everywhere.

If he just closed his eyes for a bit, he could almost fall asleep.

The first rays of sunshine covered the field and showed the droplets of water shining in the grass… and Sakura and Akane lying there, a few steps from him and Kasumi. There was no real thought involved; it just didn't feel right to leave them there.

So he started digging a new grave next to Kasumi's.


Everything hurt; his hands, feet, his stomach felt like an empty sack and his throat was parched. There was a constant ache just behind his eyes. So just for a few moments, he lay there, trying to make sense of it all and work his eyes open. It was just a dream… He could feel like this for other reasons, he really could. Let it be just a dream. Please.

He only needed to open his eyes to see that it was hopeless. The three new graves were right in front of him, anchoring him back into harsh reality. A glance at the sun told him it was midday. He had never slept so late. Once, that would have been enough to cheer him. Not anymore.

He didn't feel like moving. What would he do now? He didn't know. It was too much, too sudden.

But he was thirsty.

And hungry.

That he could do something about.

It took a while to stagger up to stand, but he knew where he could go and that was enough. In the daylight, the walk through the field wasn't so bad. Well, he could avoid the corpses and bugs crawling on them, but it helped not to look too closely.

Searching through the supply wagon granted him water jugs. And vegetables, dried fish and rice sacks.

There was no one there.

He felt guilty and nervous, but… if no one saw, maybe it was okay? And there really was no one there, just him. So, after a while of trying to decide, he finally settled down at the back of the wagon to eat and drink. He had no idea how to make a fire for cooking rice, so it was better left alone. He didn't like vegetables much, but after munching on a few bites of dried fish…

When he had eaten all he could, he just sat there and stared.

The field was still covered in dead bodies, in pieces or mostly whole. The blood tainted the grass to an ugly rusty brown. On the side, there was a crow picking at a bandit.

It made him feel ill, or maybe it was the faint tint of the horrible smell blown in his direction by the wind.

He didn't know most of the people that had lived in the dead bodies. He hadn't liked most of those that he had known, like the scary man Hideo. But they were not people anymore; they were just dead. And it was not okay to leave the dead just lying there for the animals to eat.

So he fetched his shovel and started digging again.


Hiko Seijuurou was a wandering swordsman. Well, in the sense that he was a Master Swordsman, had no current residence, no affiliation to any faction or any desire to have his loyalties chained down. Instead, he went where he desired and tried to help people with his sword. It wasn't difficult to find uses for his skills in this way either; lately with the economy in shambles and the heavy taxation on lower classes, the amount of bandits prowling in the woods had risen from the occasional fight to a constant nuisance.

Bandits had no other livelihoods but stealing from others. And peasants and merchants travelling the roads were already suffering enough. So, just as his master had taught him to wield his sword for the betterment of the common people, Hiko did.

Just like the vermin, it didn't matter how many he killed – more kept coming to infest the roadsides. Just like a never ending cycle. On particularly morose nights, it felt almost senseless, like his only purpose in life was squashing bugs so far beneath him.

But then again, someone had to do it and Hiko had no reason not to.

One night he killed a group of bandits while they were massacring a merchant caravan.

That bandit group was at least smart enough not to leave any witnesses, Hiko thought dispassionately. Usually the vermin kept the women for themselves as long as they lasted, never thinking rationally what would happen if one would escape or be missed, and in result, the location of the camp and ambush site would be hunted down. For a sorrier bunch of vermin like these were, only possibility of success was to ambush the poorly protected caravans that chose rarely travelled routes out of desperation, hoping to avoid the bigger and more professional bands poaching on the main routes. So, it all made sense - ruthless, but effective.

Not that Hiko cared. He just killed the vermin wherever he went.

This time, though, a brief pang of regret flashed through him when he realized that he was too late. It was blatantly obvious even at the first surveying glance – the caravan was abandoned and most of the merchants and their servant girls had been cut down on the field. There were some screaming and shouting, but it was quieting down. There was a particularly pretty face lying in two pieces at his feet. Just a few minutes earlier, and I could have saved you… Her lush lips were twisted in a terrified grimace; her broken body was clad in a cheap kimono, one that no respectable lady would ever wear, but too fine for a peasant wench. Perfect for a girl sold to red light districts.

Perhaps it was just as well that he was late—life as a whore was not worth much. All need to hurry left Hiko, and he cut the vermin down at his own pace.

However... near the end of the clearing, there was still a small scuffle left; a bandit cutting down a group of screaming girls begging for their life, too scared to even run. Or… No. The girls were protecting something.

Intrigued, Hiko started to make way towards them.

It was a child, or so it seemed. Hmmph. They probably were a family, sold together after the father had died. With no man bringing food to the family, they were probably left destitute and homeless.

The bandit saw him, blustered and demanded his name. It was proper fighter's etiquette, one that was common for Samurai. This man though… had no master anymore. A ronin, Hiko pegged him casually, experienced with the blade, but left with no other purpose but committing atrocities for his living.

Giving one's name to the enemy was a sign of respect.

Hiko didn't have any, not for this mangy dog—but it was only proper to answer. So he calmly remarked, "You are about to die, so knowing my name is meaningless to you."

The twisting of lips and narrowing of eyes told Hiko clearly that the cur had understood the mortal insult he had been handed. The ronin bared his teeth and charged.

Three simple strikes handed out in a span of the blink of an eye. The bandit probably hadn't even seen the first, judging by the fact that he hadn't even tried to shift his stance to parry, and the cur fell into seven neat pieces. The edges of the cut flesh were even; there was no tearing and he had barely used any of his true strength or speed – it was too easy.

But then again, since his master's death, all sword fighting was too easy.

Just like squashing vermin.

Hmmph.

The child was still alive. A small thing, clearly a foreigner, Hiko noted with a raised brow. It wasn't as noticeable in the darkness, but the eyes and hair… they were too light, too pale. He almost wanted to make a sign of warding against evil. No proper Japanese looked like that.

The kid had frozen still, just stared at him blankly. Didn't react at all – like a broken toy. A disaster waiting to happen. Witnessing things like this and seeing one's family die in front of their eyes, it did terrible things to the mind. Most adults would turn bitter and hateful. What would it do to a child?

It would almost be better to kill the kid now. Spare them some pain. With no family to support them, they would just be sold to red-light districts again. To a life not worth living. Just a flick of the wrist, it would be too fast for the kid to even see or feel.

The very though left a bitter taste on his tongue.

The Winter Moon had already seen too much blood this night.

Decision made, he cleaned his sword and sheathed it. "I suppose it was fate that led me to this direction tonight," he remarked. "You have been avenged. Bearing a grudge against these men will not bring your loved ones back." There was nothing he could do for this kid but to share this crumb of wisdom. One that he had understood all too late—feeling the sword strike true and the smell of blood fog his nostrils when his…

He continued to speak of revenge, of survival. He was not sure if he was talking to the kid or to himself. The kid didn't seem to understand a thing he said. Foreigner, definitely. Probably didn't speak right either, he noted and tried to quell his rising irritation.

It didn't matter, Hiko decided after the briefest of pauses. He felt like talking, and for once there was a fitting audience to his wisdom.

So he shared it.

And left.

It was still a night, but before he had seen the massacre, Hiko had been intending to walk through the moonlit forests, avoiding people and haunting dreams. So, it was okay. He could keep to the plan with this small interruption behind him.

Watching the full moon that graced the sky tonight was a balm to his soul. It was beautiful, calming – it let him forget the memories. Watching beautiful things allowed him to believe that there was a reason for living, some other purpose than fulfilling his duty. The philosophy and legacy that he was bound to ground heavily on his shoulders, and hadn't offered him comfort in years.

So he travelled and let his mind rest. It eased the pain in his heart and plagued dreams that his mind would come up with.

The next afternoon he reached a village, a typical tiny countryside post founded on the side of a trade route. Empty houses, few older, painfully thin peasants and a couple vendors at the center. A typical sight these days, but it would do for supplies. He would need some more rice… maybe dried meat and… yes. His sake jug was growing lighter – he definitely needed more alcohol.

He found the food vendors easily enough and paid the full price out of habit.

Bartering was a common custom, but he still wasn't used to it—or even worrying over money of all things. He had always had plenty, and now that he was a wanderer, it was becoming necessary to save where he could. But bartering was… petty. Only the poor people did it. Hmmph.

That said enough of it.

However, the village proved to be a major disappointment in one key sector; they didn't have a proper sake vendor. In hindsight, it was too small for those and his inquiries gained him only the name of a village elder that brewed his own produces. The tone of voice of the person parting with this information told enough of the quality. In any case, Hiko wasn't too sure he would want to taste the local products.

So he left it at that.

What else did he need? Nothing.

But there was a feeling, a flash of knowledge that there was something he should do. The tingling was just out of reach, almost tangible – what could it be? Then as fast as the feeling had come, the moment was gone.

It was probably nothing important.

With that, Hiko let his restless feet lead him back to the road.

It took him nearly a week to reach his destination—a temple. Not that he was a particularly religious man, but it was now three years since his master's death, and there was certain propriety in paying a yearly tribute to the old bastard. May he rest in peace and plague some other poor sod in the afterlife. There had been no lost love between the two of them, especially after he had learned of the old bastard's betrayals, but everything was said and done; the old man had been the only person Hiko had truly respected.

Just like a proper student should respect his master.

Not that he had been good at showing it. Hmmph. He couldn't help but to smile at the memory. What a rueful and arrogant kid I was back then...

After he said his words to the urn, Hiko took some time to find a monk. Now was the time to attend to some necessities. This particular temple had monks that were quite skilled indeed in their brewing, and they could be convinced to share their products for a good price.

With his flask full, and the right and proper duties to his late master over and done with, Hiko was again free to do as he wished for a year.

No particular plans in mind; he let his feet lead him.


It took the boy days and days to bury all the dead.

But the supply wagon had water and food and he didn't have anywhere else to go. And not leaving meant that he could sleep next to Kasumi and Akane and Sakura. Being alone, he could also use all their blankets to build his bed.

So he managed.

He would have preferred to have mother Kasumi and the almost-older-sisters alive with him instead, but he had learned to make do. His world condensed to just that field and the caravan wagons by the road. He had his task, and single-minded stubbornness to finish it. There was nothing but eating, drinking, sleeping… and grave digging.

When he was finished, the field was filled with soft mounds of upturned earth. The neat rows of graves made him feel quite accomplished. And now that they were all buried, it didn't smell quite as bad anymore. But what would he do next? No one wanted him and he had nowhere to go, no home to return to.

His breath hitched. No, no… don't think.

He was so tired and lonely… It was better not to think, because if he thought about it – it would be too much and he couldn't, couldn't – something else, think of something else. Anything else. What did he have? Clothes, his top… and the—

Oh.

Was he alone? He frowned. With so much to do he hadn't even though about the spirit-friend since— Don't think, don't.

Exhaling slowly, he sat down on his blankets. No matter what had happened, the spirit should still be there. He just hadn't talked to it, because… If he was truthful, it could be that he hadn't felt like being a big brother. It was too hard just to be him, to even think of being anything else. And the spirit was not cheerful company and didn't understand the boy much. But right now… he was not in a cheerful mood either.

And more than anything, he was lonely.

So he concentrated on the cold feeling and thought a memory of what had happened towards it.

The spirit answered with a warm feeling. The one that felt like it was petting his hair. But this time it didn't feel like an agreement. Instead, it felt a like what Kasumi had done to the boy. He hiccupped, clenched his eyes shut, and thought that feeling to the coldness.

The spirit just sent the petting comfort feeling again.

It was almost like Kasumi was alive again. Just for a moment. The boy knew that it was not the same, not really. But in the middle of nothingness, it felt like a lifeline.

The boy broke down and started crying.

He did it until the tears didn't bleed from his eyes anymore. Sometime after, helped along by the almost comforting petting feelings the spirit continued to send, he realized that he wasn't alone.

He had his friend with him.

Living inside him, even. No one could take his friend away from him, like the scary bad men had taken Kasumi away from him. They were together, the boy and the spirit.

The realization made him feel better.

After a while of enjoying the warm feeling, he relaxed enough to look at the field filled with graves. They were just softer spots made of raised dirt mounds, really. Far cry from the graves that the boy remembered from the village. Something was missing from them.

'What is missing from the graves?' he asked the coldness idly. Still thinking, trying to remember… What was it? He was fairly certain he knew what was missing; he should know. But he had only been at the graveyard once and—

The spirit sent images of crosses standing on graves.

He didn't know what those meant, but it felt right. But where would he find crosses here? There was nothing cross-shaped lying around. What to do, what to do? He thought it also to the spirit, asking for suggestions.

The spirit answered with an image of a wooden cross. It was made from two pieces of wood that were tied together with rope.

'I can do that,' the boy realized, immediately cheered.

A trip to the supply wagon was a scrambling mad affair, filled with stumbles and bumps. He was filled with new energy just at the thought of having something more to do. It took some trying, but finally he found rope and a knife to cut wood with.


Over the next few days, the boy became very good at making crosses. At least in his own opinion. It felt good to make things.

It was just as well that he had started marking the graves with crosses from the sidelines, near the forest. It hadn't been a conscious decision; it was just an easiest place to start finding good twigs or thin enough branches that his clever hands wielding the knife could cut.

But now that he had marked Kasumi's and Akane's and Sakura's graves with crosses, it didn't feel right. Now… their graves looked exactly the same as all the rest.

The boy sent that feeling to the spirit and the spirit agreed.

It was not right.

Kasumi was his second mother, and Akane and Sakura were almost his older sisters. They were more important than rest of the dead bodies. They deserved something special.

With this in mind, the boy circled the thick forest surrounding the field, trying to find something fitting. Thinking.

About graves. Markers. Special things.

And he remembered the stone where his friend used to live; the spirit had hated it, the boy had loved it. But regardless of the feelings, it had been special for both of them. And it had been there for a really long time.

Kasumi's grave should be special. And be remembered for a long time.

So…

A stone it would be.

A special stone.

The spirit hesitantly agreed.

So the boy prowled the forest and looked for rocks. The rocks should be beautiful, because the girls had been beautiful. They shouldn't be sharp; the boy didn't like those. His hands were full of scratches and still painful wounds from sharp rocks.

He found a good rock.

It was big enough to be special. And round. Unfortunately though, he liked it a lot, it was heavy. Not as big as the ugly special stone back at the mountain, but still up to his knees. It was too much for him to lift, so he didn't even try. But if the boy had learned one thing from burying dead bodies, it was rolling heavy things.

It took hours, and the sun didn't wait for his efforts at all. He sweated and spoke bad words, pushed and rolled – but it worked. However, when he finally managed to get it into the right place on Kasumi's grave, Akane's and Sakura's graves looked empty next to it.

So he went to find two more stones.


He couldn't figure out anything else to do at the graveyard; all the bodies were buried, every grave had a good marker. Second mother Kasumi and almost sisters Akane and Sakura had a good round stone to mark their graves special. He had even tried to find flowers for the graves, just like father had put on mother's grave. No matter his efforts, there just were no flowers near the field or in the woods.

Maybe it was too late in the autumn for flowers.

Sitting there on his pile of blankets next to Kasumi's grave and watching graves, he started to feel worse and worse.

He didn't know what to do.

The spirit didn't know either.

He could go home. Maybe. But old Ine-sama had sold him. If he went back, she would do it again and get even more money. And the people in the village hadn't liked him. To be truthful, he hadn't liked them either.

But the thing was, home was empty.

He couldn't go back, not to that. But he didn't know any other places where he could go either.

Neither did the spirit.

Winter was coming.

So, the boy sat there before the three graves and thought.


For some reason, Hiko found his way back to the rarely used trade route passing the massacre site some ten days later. At the village, he had finally remembered what he had been meaning to ask at his last visit – for the villagers to look out for the foreign kid and offer him a place. Perhaps it was the desire to see that his generosity had had a purpose, that his words of wisdom and decision to save the runt's neck had spawned something good; he inquired after the child's fate now.

But no child had been seen near the village, the old gossipy vendor told him.

What the hell..? But where would... There was nothing for tens of miles in the other direction! There had been no other settlements even near the clearing. Needless to say, Hiko's curiosity was roused. Almost with no thought, he started his way back to the massacre site.

He had known earlier that the road was rarely used, but Hiko had assumed that someone would come by it in a fortnight. But if there had been no one… He grimaced in distaste at the thought of bloated, rotting corpses – probably already half-eaten by opportunistic beasts. Well if nothing else, he should to bury the dead.

Perhaps it was because of his dead certainty of what he would see that he was so stunned when he saw the clearing. The caravan wagons were almost like they had been. But the field… Instead of disgusting leftovers of carnage…

It was a graveyard now.

Neat rows upon rows of graves, marked with poorly made wooden crosses. And not a dead body left lying anywhere.

It was a bizarre sight.

Who marked graves with crosses? Not proper people! Maybe it was some weird foreign thing? And there, almost at the exact same spot where he had left the broken child… the same kid stood staring at three graves marked with round stones.

That at least somewhat resembled the decent burial arrangements.

The kid was filthy, and as an expert swordsman, Hiko was used to noticing hands in particular, so his gaze fell down and saw an ugly mess. The tiny hands were bruised and bloody, filled with wounds; a blood rot waiting to happen.

The pieces of evidence fitted nicely into place, and Hiko was impressed. That didn't happen often.

"I notice that you have made graves for bandits as well as your family." A simple observation, but it let the kid know that he was there. Hiko wasn't sure the kid was aware of his surroundings, and didn't intend to cause a scare. The last thing he wanted was to chase the object of his curiosity through the forest.

The kid didn't react, just kept staring ahead.

Stepping nearer, he assessed the waif more thoroughly—small, dressed in proper Japanese boy's kimono and hakama pants. Hmm, that was unusual – the peasants didn't bother with such clothing, preferring to dress their progeny in cheap fabrics and easily replaceable robes. But the quality of cloth and its cut were subtly wrong for a samurai's child. The seams were clumsy, the pleats were too few to represent the seven virtues; not a mistake any honorable seamstress would make. A foreigner's mistake?

The child had a slender build and quite narrow shoulders. The fingers were thin, the wrist delicate. The boy's clothing wasn't conclusive enough to deduce gender. The slavers could have dressed the kid in whatever they could find and children sold to slavery were girls these days. It was bothering Hiko that he couldn't decide for sure. But it was hard to tell with kids that young and that foreigner thing was throwing him off. He hadn't seen any before, hadn't really believed that humans could be born in festival colors…

But now that he was close enough to the kid to feel ki… it felt soft and cold, a remarkably large and defined presence in fact. So, a boy with some fighting training, which made the theory of samurai's child more and more likely, and hadn't he seen the boy hold a sword earlier? Hiko searched his memory. Yes. The boy had been holding a sword before the girls had protected him. There, a mystery solved.

"…they were slaves, not my family," a small, soft voice whispered.

Hiko felt his brow rise in disbelief. Ha! The kid could speak properly.

"I was sold to them after my parents died of cholera. After they died, there were no bandits or slaves or slavers. Just dead bodies."

The kid's voice was soft and clear, the words delivered without emotion. Like the boy was left empty of feeling. That was a bad sign. But still… the meaning behind those words was pure. Simple. Devoid of anger or hate the swordsman kept expecting to hear. No. Those words were almost beautiful in their simple form.

"What are those stones for?" he asked, curious despite himself. If all the people the boy had buried were the same, it followed that these graves that were marked different would mean more to him.

"Kasumi... -san. Akane-san. Sakura-san."

There was something odd in the way the boy said the first name. Like the kid had wanted to add a different honorific to it, or chose to discard the proper but slightly impersonal -san, but chose not to. However, nothing baffled him more than the odd accent; that particularly unrefined manner of recitation just screamed country bumpkin from the deepest mountains in the backcountry.

Hiko was fascinated. The boy unconsciously refused his attempts to categorize him, and continued to lead his deductions astray. A real mystery. It was not often people managed to surprise Hiko, especially not children. Not that he knew any, but still.

"I only met them some days earlier… but I wanted to protect them."

He didn't want to interrupt the boy. He wanted to know more, to understand this frail thing in front of him that denied all his assumptions.

"I was the only boy in the group, but they took me in and tried to protect me. 'Spare the child,' they said… I was too young to help."

Hmmph! The mite was not even near to Hiko's waist; of course he was too young! The mere thought that the boy could protect anyone was ridiculous. But the fact that the boy had wanted to try showed strength.

Not many men were able to fight the paralyzing fear of helplessness, and attempt to conquer it.

An essential ability for a swordsman, and it was one so deeply familiar to Hiko that he couldn't even remember a time when he hadn't had it. After all, it was because of this inner strength that his master had chosen him for an apprentice.

An apprentice.

Hmmm.

Hiten Mitsurugi lay on Hiko's shoulders alone. It wasn't right. The style was made to be carried by two; a master and an apprentice. He had known it for a long time, had blatantly ignored the implications before. The old bastard's death was still heavy on his heart, a deep shadow in his life. But now, it was like a moment of pure clarity, seeing fate offer a choice and then it was up to you to make your pick. You knew what it would mean, that it would change your whole life.

Could he let this chance pass him?

The boy was young, but with unusually defined and impressive ki. The most basic requirement for Hiten Mitsurugi swordsmanship.

It was too early! Hiko Seijuurou the 13th had still a lot of wandering left to do, to carry out his duty to the sword of Mitsurugi. But lately the duty had been heavier. It had chafed him. This boy, this foreign waif, one that spoke like a proper Japanese boy, whose words were careful but shone a simple beauty… This graveyard, the fact that the kid had survived alone in the most horrific situation and retained his strength…

If Hiko walked away again, the boy would never hold a sword. He would never try to protect innocents with a sword again.

What a waste that would be.

A spark was flaring to life in the deep haunting recesses of his soul that had been screaming in agony for years, burdened by the uselessness of his existence.

The boy should wield the sword to protect, and succeed.

"…I wanted them to have special graves, so I wanted good stones. Those are the only ones I could find. I couldn't even find flowers to put on them…"

Almost on their own volition, his treacherous feet took a step forward. Hiko exhaled, and decision made, walked to the grave stones while uncorking his sake. It was the good sort he had bought from the Temple that was his Master's final resting place. It was only proper in every way – Hiko's decision, but in this small way it would also signify the old bastard's approval.

He poured it slowly on the stones, one by one. Just like the boy had spoken the names.

The boy turned to look at him, pale, pale blue eyes in a fey pale face.

He didn't recoil, but it was a near thing, such an unnatural sight. To mask his brief revulsion, he explained, "It is unfortunate to enter the nirvana without having tasted good sake, so this is my tribute to them."

"Thank you." The words were delivered softly like everything else. No clear emotions to be seen—no hope, no expectation. Like the boy didn't know to even wish for anything more than what he had now. A pure soul. Clean slate, just waiting to be molded.

"I am Hiko Seijuurou. I am a swordsman."

"A swordsman?"

Oh yes, a swordsman, boy. I will claim you. You will be perfect. A smile rose to his lips, now. How to get the boy to rise up and live again? To pick up the sword he had dropped, and fight?

Hmmph, but of course.

"Boy. You failed to protect something very delicate."

By doing as his master had once done to him, pointing out the failure and observing the consequences. "You were entrusted with those three lives. Your hands will remember how heavy their bodies were, but you will carry the far heavier weight of their lives with you forever. "

Reminding of the failure and why it mustn't happen again. "You have already carried them."

Prompting to action, to prevent the failure from happening again. "Now you must acquire the strength to support yourself and to protect others."

Because what else had the sword of Mitsurugi been created for and passed on but just for this? It was a simple truth; strength was necessary, but only to protect those less capable!

"Then you will be able to live your life and defend the lives you cherish."

Because Hiko had learned something by himself, too. That one man was just a man, and couldn't protect the whole world.

So…

"Defend cherished lives?"

He would teach the boy. Everything he knew. And with this boy, Hiko would show the old bastard how the old man had been wrong. This boy would learn how the sword of Mitsurugi should be used to protect!

Then, with almost an afterthought…

"What's your name, boy?"

"Shinta."

Those sold to slavery were registered. And those registries were noted at the checkpoints when travelling from domain to domain. It was obvious that the user of heavenly sword of Mitsurugi couldn't be a slave, so it was time for the last survivor of the massacre to disappear.

"Much too delicate a name for a swordsman. From now on, your name will be Kenshin." Heart and Sword. Heart of the Sword. It would suit the boy – better than anything else.

"Kenshin…" The boy's too pale eyes were large and round as he tried out the new name.

"I am going to teach you, boy. Teach you my forte!


The boy looked up at the man-spirit in white, mouth slightly open. It was offering to teach him? To fight with swords? To protect?

Brothers playing in the sun with their cone horses, stick Samurai and mud castles, making up stories of warriors and heroics / Picking up the sword and realizing it wasn't anything he thought it would be, that it didn't matter if he had one when he couldn't use it / Kasumi's eyes as the blade went through her throat—

With a sword, he wouldn't be helpless, wouldn't have to lose anyone he cared about again. There was nothing more the boy wanted than just that.

But, he wasn't alone anymore. It wasn't just his life anymore; he couldn't make a decision like this alone. So, he thought the memory to his friend – thought how much he wanted this, added a questioning feeling.

The spirit was silent for a moment. And then it answered with an intense bundle of feelings; confusion, distrust, hesitation, hatred of people – others, needing help. And finally…

The petting agreement.

The boy smiled.

Nodded.

So the swordsman-spirit got two students.


Edited first by Chie in 2013, then again 10.4.2015 by BelovedStranger.