In the two weeks after that conversation, things were no clearer to me than before. There had been no epiphanies, no revelations. Just the certainty that one night, not long from now, a black envelope would be handed to me. I would open it, and memorise the name; another bloodstain on my conscience.

Any hope of salvage was impossible, there were already too many black marks upon me. They would always remain. I felt trapped in my own cold world, and the nights and days continued to pass me by, barely noticed except for occasional glimpses of sanity. These saved me. The dread that suffused me; the feeling of tense anticipation; these were punctuated by small reminders of that most important fact: yes, somehow I was still alive. I should be happy.

Most days, I did not feel it was possible. Over the past few months, I had become a wraith, doomed to drift about the izakaya, unattached, unwanted. What passed through my mind was obscene; visions of killings and murder. Wholesale slaughter replayed itself in my waking dreams. I was a lost spirit. The other Ishin soldiers, for the most part, avoided me. And I did little to encourage their friendship. How aloof and detached I must have seemed. Sometimes I felt I might as well have been dead.

But I was alive, and lately, something had been coming back to me. There were times when I almost felt human again.

Times like now, for instance. From my position on the windowsill, I turned to see the shoji being slid aside. Tomoe was standing there, a broom in her hand and a scarf tied around her head, protecting her lustrous black hair. She was looking at me as if I were no more than a piece of dust, hindering completion of her chores.

"I'm going to clean this room now." She grasped the broom handle as if it were a bokken and I the practice target. "Please leave for a while."

I had been lost in thought, and my guard had slipped. In all honesty, her abrupt entrance had startled me. A wave of irritation flooded through me, and I felt my eyes narrow. This girl had such strange effects on me.

"I don't remember asking you to clean it," I snapped, clutching tighter the saya of the katana which rested on my shoulder. "The room is not really that dirty."

Tomoe didn't even blink. "Okami-san asked me to." She stepped past me and began to sweep from the corner of the room. I looked across and noticed a small pile of dirt forming at her feet.

I sighed, the spell of my earlier musings broken. Well, this argument was just about over then. I needed a place to be alone, but this room was no longer mine. I well and truly had a roommate, and she was showing no signs of leaving.

As I stood, I glanced down at the table beside me and saw a book I hadn't seen before. Its cover was simple; plain white. There was no title. "What's this book?" I asked, making a point of not looking at Tomoe. If she wanted to be abrupt with me, I could be equally cold. The sweeping stopped.

"That's my diary." For some strange reason, her voice cracked. She lost a little of her usual composure. "Don't read it, please."

I shook my head. Whatever it was, I wasn't interested. I told her as much.

"I was just making sure."

Okay, fine. Her personal affairs were none of my business. I left the room, ignoring her. She had interrupted the stillness I had so carefully wrought around myself, and now I was edgy. Being cloistered in the izakaya for almost two weeks had done little for my peace of mind, and at times, I felt it was on the verge of shattering. Which was why I groaned inwardly as I felt a familiar presence behind me.

"Hey, Himura…" I turned to see Iizuka wave. A little smile curled the corners of his mouth. I felt my features falling into the impassive mask which had become second nature to me. My earlier unsettlement exploded into full-blown, savage darkness. Iizuka following me meant only one thing.

Iizuka broke into a grin. I almost snarled.

"What's up with you, Himura?" Oh, how I wanted to test my katana on him. "Why the long face? Have you had a fight with Tomoe?" He was having fun with me.

Well, there was no reason I couldn't play with him a little too. I turned and shot him the meanest glare I could summon. My thumb inched the katana from its scabbard, just a little. This was one of the few times I was happy to take advantage of my fine reputation. It wasn't hard; the vicious anger which had seethed below the surface for weeks came rushing forward, all at once.

Iizuka stumbled backwards, unable to control the naked fear which had stolen his expression. That was enough. I sheathed the katana with a click and heard his relieved sigh.

"Okay, I'm sorry." His apology was more to appease me than anything else, but it would do. "What's eating you?"

"Did you want something, Iizuka?" I wished he would come to the point.

And then it was in his hand, and my earlier rush of fury was forgotten. A familiar icy calm stretched its fingers through me, and I took the black envelope from his hand. The paper was stiff and cold in my fingers.

"It's tonight. Take care of it."

I nodded, and walked away, dismissing Iizuka. Although he was only the messenger, in that moment I resented him. It had been the smile; the taunting. Such things did not go hand in hand with a black envelope. But I suppose everyone had their own way of coping.

As I made my way down the corridor, I tore the envelope open. A single name imprinted itself in my mind, the handwriting neat and impersonal.

Very well. I turned on my heel, wanting the sanctuary of my room, but then froze. I couldn't let her see me now, not with this. I would need to disappear, until it was done.

I surprised them, appearing from behind. Five of them all together; my target and his bodyguards. The sound of steel being drawn split the still night; Four blades gleamed, fangs bared in the moonlight. I was having none of it. I wanted it over, already.

"For the sake of the new era…" My voice sounded hollow. I couldn't finish the sentence. They were staring at me, a strange mixture of fear and indignation written so clearly in their eyes.

How dare you?

Were they shocked at my audacity? Five against one, and I was nothing more than a lithe young stripling. Barely fifteen, and the guarantor of their deaths.

Did they see it in me? I am not sure how I must have looked then; I must have been terrifying, for as I rushed forward, they could do nothing but hold their weapons up, and fail. To me it looked like they were fixed to the ground; they could only move at half-speed as I felled them, my katana as swift and hungry as ever.

Four down, and their master had tried to flee, thinking he could outrun me. I could hear his heavy, laboured breathing. His daisho hung, untouched, by his side. He knew they would be of no use. I was beside him in a few steps.

I could slay him now, from behind, and he wouldn't know better.

But I wanted to see his eyes.

If I had been carrying a sword that night, would you have…?

No, never.

He turned, and I could see it, as if for the first time.

Despair.

My blade became dull, the cut not as clean as it should have been. It lacked power; it lacked speed. But he died all the same. Just like the rest of them.

I flicked my wrist, and his blood flew onto the paving stones, a vicious, dark red spray. I could feel eyes on me, and sensed a nervous ki, hidden in the shadows across from me.

I stared long and hard into that alley, until the aura of the person watching me wavered and dimmed, in submission.

Did you see that, watcher?

For the first time, I had hesitated to kill.


The water was cold, and I allowed it to flow over my hands, back into the bucket. Small rivulets of blood-tinged wash water, returning to the whole. My hands did not feel any cleaner. The water was the palest shade of rose, and my hands were numb.

I welcomed the icy sensation as I scrubbed the last fragment of dried blood from under my fingernails. My hands were more than clean, but I wasn't finished yet.

I became aware of her, standing in the doorway, staring at me. I did not want to meet her eyes. I couldn't.

She stood still for some time; perhaps she thought she was watching me in secret. I could not bear her scrutiny. What did she think of me?

I was a wretch; how could I even share a room with her? She knew what I had been doing tonight; her stillness said as much.

I continued to drive my hands through the freezing wash water, unable to look up. I wanted to dive into the bucket and banish my thoughts. I wanted to erase the feeling which had gripped me now.

Despair.

"Do you intend to keep killing like this?" She was staring at me, and still I couldn't meet her eyes. I wanted to be alone.

Do I have a choice?

No answer came to me; there were no excuses for this. For her to see me like this.

I kill for the sake of the new era…


Tsubame knew she shouldn't stare so openly, but she couldn't keep her eyes off Kenshin.

As he told his story, his voice had become quieter, more subdued. At times, he spoke so softly she barely heard him. And all the time, he was sad.

This was an entirely different person to the Ken-san Tsubame knew. That man was always smiling, always laughing. That man was impossibly polite and kind. The person he spoke of now… was this really how Kenshin had been? It sounded like he had been almost driven to madness.

He had only been fifteen. And he'd already killed all those people. Tsubame couldn't imagine it. Of course, she'd always known Kenshin was a great swordsman, but she hadn't really known much about his past. It had shocked her to learn that he was really a feared hitokiri from the Bakumatsu; a person who had done terrible things.

Tsubame wasn't sure how she should feel. Was she now afraid? No… that wasn't it. She knew Kenshin would never pose a threat to any of them. And yet…

She shook her head. She still couldn't believe it.

But the way Kenshin spoke, the way he looked down for too long then glanced at them, his eyes wide and haunted; it meant everything was true.

Kenshin had been a fifteen year old killer. How were that Kenshin and the smiling rurouni she knew the same person?

At the start, Kenshin had told them he killed his wife with his own hands. That had made Tsubame go very still, her heart hammering. There is no way…

Kenshin wouldn't do a thing like that.

The wife I killed with my own hands.

It had to be a way of speaking; he was only blaming himself. Ken-san was too good a person. He had only ever shown her kindness. Tsubame remembered the gentle way he always spoke; he always had a nice word for her.

How could he and the Hitokiri Battousai be one and the same?

Tsubame didn't know what to believe. It seemed impossible, but somehow, the things Kenshin was telling them now; they were all true.