HOLA AMIGOS – LUMIE IS BACK =D

I am done with the academic year (WOOHOO!) And my co-op/internship starts next week :P But not to worry folks, I plan to update this more regularly now – since this has dragged on far longer than I anticipated. *fingers crossed*

Quick shout-out to my reviewers – thanks so much for sticking by this for so long! 3

Guest: HAHAH sorry about that! xD Read to find out more!

PinkRedRose2: Again, thanks for two reviews! /hugs/ I'm glad you feel this way, I feel that Kenshi/Hanzo/Sonya/Johnny and their kids are all connected, and the themes discussed apply to everyone in their own way… TBH, Chapter 9 is probably one of my most fave chapters in the story as well – it literally reduced me to tears.. Hopefully you'll enjoy this too (even though - SPOILERRRRR -there's no slapping Kenshi, he's been through enough as it is xD) – I hope you can forgive him :D

Iceangelmkx: Thanks so much! And don't worry, there's still a good 5-6 chapters more to come, plenty of action is on the way :D I hope you enjoy this update!

Westcoast Witch-Doctor: Thank you! But fret not, there's a lot of things coming, minimal filler – so that's a good thing. Hope you enjoy this :)

Poe's Daughter: D'awww thanks PD! I can't even imagine 1000 reviews lmao, 100 is enough for my poor heart.. /jumps around like a lunatic/ Anyway, I'm so glad you think that was done well – I haven't done martial arts that much, but I had a feeling that it must be hard to contain yourself, especially when you train so hard. So I'm glad to see our Kung Fu queen approved this, and that it translated realistically! And you're right, Kenshi has a lot to atone for – but at the same time, there's lots for Takeda to learn too… Hopefully this sets the pace right! Hope you enjoy this update :)

Kumolonimbus: Given the current political climate, let me please name your review as quite honestly, the mother of all reviews :p You encapsulate everything so far SO perfectly, I feel indebted to applaud you :') Thank you so much! It is much deeper, always. We're all evolving and changing, battling ourselves, battling our situation and circumstances, embracing new roles, discarding old ones. In this story, all the characters have felt this struggle – whether physical, emotional, spiritual – some have succeeded, some have failed but most (especially Kenshi), fall onto this gray scale of things where it's so hard to tell apart right from wrong. Honestly, I learned so many things myself just writing this out – and as cheesy as it sounds, I sincerely hope my audience in the future takes away important lessons from this story… I hope you enjoy this update :)

One last reminder – again, my Thai skills are woeful, so here's the breakdown y'all. Dara is the name of Suchin's mother (the granny from the comics that featured in 2 whole panels). To the best of my knowledge 'grandmother' in Thai translated to 'Kun Yaai' – that's what Takeda calls her. Again, let me know if it's wrong!

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one. But I do love Kenshi and Suchin. Jus' sayin'.

The Takahashi Family Saga

Of Roads to Redemption

II

House of Pekara,

Primorsky Krai District, USSR,

Winter, 198X

Kazimir heard the whispers from the cursed sword – coming and going, ebbing and flowing in volume – or at least that was what he thought to himself. It could have well been that the cave itself was haunted, and the resident spirits had taken upon them to befriend him before he left the world permanently. Nothing was more desirable to the swordsman at that time, to simply die and wither away, like the nameless skeletons littering the floor where he sat, his elbows crossed on his knees, head buried in the crook – listening to the dead, yearning to be ranked among them.

Yet too stubborn, too proud to do it himself.

His eyes had stopped burning, leaving the entire eye region bleeding and crusty, his spidery eyelashes burnt off completely in some areas. It stung, but he ignored the pain. The dawn of his darkness was blinding enough, as it was.

Deafness may have been more preferred though. The sword just wouldn't stop talking.

Speaking words of comfort usually, followed by a bout of encouragement. If not, then swearing at him, calling him names, hurling bitter taunts and jeers at his mistake – his failure to realize the gravity of the situation. All initiated by his supposed crime – one which he knew nothing about.

He didn't mind the curses and barbs hurled at him by the ancient ancestral voices one bit – for the swordsman had grown listening to similar insults all his life. It was, in many ways, the only logos known to him. His stubbornness had made him resilient and callous – it fed the darkness inside, as it swelled and enslave his mind.

No, it was the former, the words of comfort that incited such flammable rage within him, he almost felt he would combust into flames entirely and burn to death in these grave-like underground chambers of the House of Pekara. To be told to try again, that his ancestors would 'guide' him. What a cruel joke! For a man whose eyes had been robbed by the same spirits, to promise him a better future. Kazimir would have appreciated the irony, if he hadn't been the subject of the vile experiment as he was – stranded cold and alone, without his senses or his mind, to actualize and drink in the harsh reality he was made to forcibly participate in.

He did not care. He did not care an iota for the pain of the Sento. He did not give a slightest damn about the fate of his supposed ancestors. And for the life of him, when deprived of sight and ability to think clearly, Kazimir felt an age-old lust creep its way into his blackened heart – to slash a pristine, steel blade into his enemy's mid-riff, until the organs were threatening to drop out of the body entirely – and then watch the terrified eyes of the enemy, hear their agonized whimpering as they struggled to collect and hold their insides where they belonged. Dying slowly, excruciatingly from the wounds – with a permanent fear of the ruthless, demon-like swordsman engraved into their own heart.

Kazimir fantasized the traitor, Song – no, Shang Tsung, as his victim in his mind's eyes. Even ridden with pain and rage, he allowed his lip to twist into a carnal smirk, his upper lip quivering.

He heard his stomach rumble – having gone nearly three days without food now.

The strict faces of the caretakers in his orphanage flashed by in his mind, as he recalled his past punishments, forced hunger at the hands of his superiors. Back then, he had been weak – and couldn't defend himself.

And now…

'There is a flowing stream in the lower regions facing Anik… Sustenance for your body, Kazimir…'

"Go, get it for me, then," he breathed lowly, voice laced with scorn, barely moving from the position he had been sitting in for the past few hours.

'Nothing can help the one who does not help himself…'

"Enough, Sento or - whatever. How do you propose I find the way around this place when I can't see?!" Kazimir shot back, barely hiding his anger at his own newfound futility.

'We will guide you…'

There it was again. The words of comfort – all empty words. How they made him angry.

And despite his blindness, Kazimir thought he saw roaring flames – as he let out an infuriated howl, throwing his sole water canteen in frustration – and then hearing its precious few contents leak out onto the floor below.

For the first time in years – Kazimir wept, from anger, fear and a sense of self-loathing so crippling, it consumed and burned away his perceptions and sense of self…

"The time to fight may be long-gone, but know that the essence of battle lies within. Accept, do not turn away – therein, you'll find the way…"

Sometime later, he brought his bloodied and bruised body to his feet, and with trembling hands, traced the walls of the cave, walking with deliberately slow steps, with eyes clenched shut to find the flowing stream.

He may have followed the trail of trickling water that night – but in spite of its containment, the fire deep inside burned.

Classified Location,

South-East Thailand,

2009.

He had thought the return home would be many things, but alienating, had not been on the list.

Takahashi Takeda had never been to Bangkok before, and thus could not help but be overwhelmed by the sheer size of the metropolis; with its sprawling mass of buildings meshing high-rise modernity with cheap food-carts selling foods with scents that warmed his heart – a jarring, colorful mosaic that represented a mythical home.

It was late afternoon by the time they landed in the city – traversing its bright streets to find a bus that would take them to the outskirts – where Dara lived. Here was another aspect that caught Takeda by surprise: the ease with which his blind father navigated the concrete jungle and the maddening, noisy streets - a relaxed, quiet confidence in every stride, as if he were native to Thailand, instead of Takeda. Kenshi was dressed in simple, civilian clothing, blindfold still in place - yet he looked as if part of the scene around – compelling the young man to see him in a different light, altogether.

"Have you lived here before?"

"Temporarily. It's not home."

Takeda felt the response familiar, as if he had heard that before from the blind man. He swatted away flies from his face, following his father's lead.

"Nothing ever is for you, right?" he prodded, sounding sullener than he had anticipated.

"No – and for the better. Homecomings are too bittersweet for my liking." A clipped response, revealing nothing to the young fighter. Takeda rolled his eyes, and did not reply back.

There hadn't been much conversation between them – not after Tibet. Yet the silence was not awkward, or forced – despite the raging questions Takeda suppressed, and would have bombarded on his father had they had a decent relationship between. That really was the gist of it, Takeda mused – sitting beside the swordsman in a bus as it rattled along to the outskirts of the city. They weren't father and son – just two travellers compelled to share company for a while.

They said travelling together brings strangers close. Takeda had no doubts his father had some ulterior motive behind every interaction – but trust was a precious commodity in his line of work, that he knew all too well; he would never make the mistake of trusting Kenshi again.

And so, the teenager bided his time and played along with the senseless charade, mentally ready for another betrayal.

'Betrayal…' mused Takeda, cynically. Seems like it was the currency of the modern era. First his father, then Master Hasashi – trusting him in the hands of a deadbeat without looking back… He clamped on the sentiment – saving it for another, preferably uneventful day.

"We are close, son. A few more stops…"

The air was heavy in the overstuffed, overheated bus – permeating in waves from the cheap steel grilles and bars, the rickety cogs turning rhythmically in a mechanical lullaby, one that stirred up a sense of déjà vu, although Takeda could not capture exactly where he had experienced something like that before…

Takeda grunted a reply – knowing Kenshi would not be bothered by the lack of conversation. Perhaps the only saving grace, was that the swordsman made a good travelling partner – keeping to himself, at a safe distance from Takeda, not stifling him with his presence.

A deep sense of anger flickered for a moment.

'Father or not, he will remain a stranger to me. I could not care less.'

And just like that, the anger snuffed out – replaced by a latent frustration. At himself, at Kenshi – for all the unanswered questions that swirled in his mind. Questions about anything, and everything...

'What did he think of my mother? How did they meet? What did my mother see in him? Where was Kun Yaai all this time? Why couldn't he leave me with her? Why did he go away? How strong were the Red Dragon now? Why target him alone? Why did he leave me alone…?'

To think all those years ago – how his small, insignificant little world turned upside down... and he had been clueless to the true nature of the damage done to him, all this time…

The thought of his grandmother now – a relic of the past brought to life with a few syllables… It seemed so unbelievable, so out of his reach.

His heart fluttered at the thought of hugging his old Kun-Yaai, his eyes teared at the thought of her old, wrinkly hands, putting morsels in his mouth with shaky hands like she used to when he fussed over eating…

And as if swept by the whirlwind, Takeda barely registered time pass – until he was standing in front of a decrepit one-story house, unfamiliar, yet wholly familiar at the same time. The warmth of the sun at his back lulled him into comfort, smiling upon him as it did so many years ago, the sound of the calm wind, cooling the sweat on his brow, a refreshing reminder of his home.

And perhaps, most jarring of all were the scents of his childhood – steamed dumplings, spices, incense, and flowers - surrounding him in an embrace, seeping to his core, turning back time to when he was just a schoolboy, returning home after a long day of studying, ready to tear into lunch.

'Kun Yaai…'

The tears flowed from his eyes, well before the door opened to reveal an old woman, whose sagging smile and sad eyes now radiated with joy at the sight of his damned father, whom she warmly embraced as if her own son had come home.

So overwhelmed was the Shirai Ryu with his nostalgic remembrance, that he even failed to register the smiles beamed by Kun Yaai and Kenshi, their calm exchange of pleasantries, queries about each other's health – a far cry from the stormy night where he had last seen Kenshi and Kun Yaai both, glaring at each other, and tension so palpable through the air, Takeda felt suffocated merely thinking about it.

None of the hostility remained, now.

But it was only when Kenshi side-stepped to reveal his son that Takeda was able to lock teary eyes with his sole connection to his past. And he was a child once more.

Age had been unkind to Kun Yaai, Takeda calculated at some remote part of his mind – noting how the severity of her all-white bun made her look more haggard, skin well-tanned and hunch far more pronounced. But love shone through, despite it all. It shone in her glinting eyes, now flowing with tears, and in the warmth of her embrace – even as he was ripped him from his era, and transformed him into a scared, eight year-old, and wrought with the griefs of a heart both young and old.

The sun blazed, the birds chirped, the flowers blossomed – young Takeda sobbed into his Kun Yaai's shoulder. Kenshi folded his hands behind his back, head turned away, expression unreadable, respectfully distant from the two – the silent swordsman, the perpetrator of their separation, standing guilty.

'Maybe he's right... Homecoming, is bittersweet.'

The Shirai Ryu Temple,

Classified Location,

Japan.

2009.

"Our recruits are growing, Master Hasashi. We will soon need to expand housing."

Jun, the fifteen-year old Shirai Ryu stated matter-of-factly, recounting to Hanzo a myriad of minor details concerning the running of the complex. They have taken in a large number of refugee children, specifically asking the army to transport them to the Shirai Ryu base from halfway across the world. Logistics were critical, at this juncture – more were expected any time soon.

Yet Hanzo's mind wandered.

He kept seeing his face in flashes – sometimes as the silvery glitter of blade against blade, at others he would be reminded of his unmatched speed, in combat. Occasionally he would remember the quiet, barely concealed, triumphant smirk that was so reminiscent of his father…

But perhaps most of all, he sought the soulful blue of Takeda's eyes – one that was not present in the sky, nor in the lakes, nor the seas.

There was no hiding it from himself – Hanzo Hasashi missed Takeda. Not that one specific night, however. His favourite Chujin's memory went with the Master wherever he went, looking over him like a spectre no matter what he did.

There was comfort in all this, Hanzo mused inwardly. It meant Takeda was missing him equally so.

"Can we manage for a fortnight?" inquired the grandmaster, tearing his mind from the past, noting how distracted he sounded.

"For a fortnight – yes, Master. The younger students like to share. But without permanent expansion, things can become difficult for everyone. Most of all, the new recruits –"

Appealing to a sudden intuition, Hanzo found himself staring across the room, the opposite end from where the young adept stood. His eye caught the frayed edge of a worn box, and all the sounds in the room, including Jun's talking, simply melted away.

A moment passed. Hanzo felt gravitated towards the item, as if he had relinquished control over all of his being.

Mentally alert now, he unseated himself, and deftly walked toward the sole window in the room, hands folded behind a rigid back. Yet instead of focusing on the glorious full moon hanging like a pristine pearl upon the lake, he tilted his head almost quizzically, and eyed the container – a cheap creation that withheld a priceless artefact: a memento from Kenshi he had not thought much about, at least not in the past few years.

The war-torn sash, bearing the seal of the House of Takahashi.

Jun had stopped talking at some point, but Hanzo was too far removed from the mundane running of the Shirai Ryu that night to care. Discarding the box haphazardly, he unrolled the sash, and examined it for the first time since he had been honored with its keeping. Conferred to Hanzo by the elder Takahashi – a token of his abdicated fatherhood – a gesture so profound, words could never acknowledge its magnitude.

The Grandmaster had never perceived he would be bound to young Takeda in such an irrevocable manner.

What he realized later that night, was that the bond he shared with Kenshi was even deeper.

Under the light of the moon, Hanzo traced its intricate pattern. Dragons of the East and West carefully embossed in the cream-coloured fabric; crimson, frayed borders highlighting ancient Kanji – words of honour that called warriors to arms. He read the ancient calligraphy in his heart:

O warrior of the light – heed thy past,

Heed stirrings within the beating heart,

Rivalling the drums beckoning war -

In the midst of dark and forevermore,

Heed thy reason, embrace the Call of Sento

May thou wage your Battle in the name of peace…

Though not meant for him, the forgotten words of Takahashi ancestors warmed Hanzo's heart. He drew a vague comparison with his own clan, and realized the Shirai Ryu followed similar teachings, valued similar relations. The past, the rage of war, the call to peace…

'May you always fight for noble purposes, young Takeda… As your father does... As I try to do…'

The student politely coughed to regain the Grandmaster's attention.

Hanzo closed his eyes and exhaled impatiently, quietly contemplating whether he was irked by the presence of his student due to his distraction, or because he was not Takahashi Takeda.

"Best not to try their generosity to its very limits, lest we expense it all, and leave nothing for the future…" Hanzo spoke slowly, still savouring the feeling of the silken cloth over his hardened fingers.

Drawing away, he noticed a smudge of black ink on his fingertips, leaving a slight trail. Frowning heavily, he turned the sash over in his hand – only to find a similar poetic scrawling, handwritten in barely legible writing. While the first read as a battle-song, the second verse read more like a death-poem, the final words of a dying warrior.

The content of the second verse was visibly hard to decipher. Scribed in uneven lines that, spread all over the place, even the Kanji was scribbled as if the writer did not know where his pen hit the paper.

Exactly as a blind man would write.

"Master…"

Hanzo's breath caught, and his heart nearly stopped in his chest – as realization dawned slowly and painfully.

"Leave…"

"But Maste-"

"At once!"

With a polite bow and hurried steps, the adept exited the room – but it was only when the door shut softly that Hanzo found himself exhaling shakily. The rock-solid hands that maneuvered the kunai trembled, the age-old, wispy fabric of the sash now seeming heavier than mountains. The pain crusted, swelled, and overflowed – and in one swift moment, the Shirai Ryu ninja forgot himself entirely, becoming one with the sightless swordsman at the most tender part of his being: the wounds in his heart. Reconciled perhaps, held stationary on a pedestal, but never forgotten.

There was no mistake this was Kenshi's writing. But the words – the words cut sharp and deep; and they flowed to materialize a confession. Little did the swordsman realize that in scribing this, he had also given words Hanzo's silent confession – one he had carried around in the deepest crevices of his heart forever.

O warriors of the past – harken the truth,

The winds had sighed the song of the rose,

The tranquil moon had guided the sleeping sun -

But the light was forsaken, my hands are stained,

And I, the destroyer of peace, now claim:

Darkness is all I have ever attained.

Kenshi's words, his silent griefs and sorrow. Never had the Grandmaster realized how close he was to him – how Kana and Jubei had been reborn as Suchin and Takeda…

He sat down, overwhelmed by memories of the dark night when he had failed his family – the touch from their icy tomb sending gooseflesh all over his body. Floored from the memory, he wondered how he had failed to realize how similar it had always been for Kenshi. Alone, and independent; yet the two were gloriously connected in their griefs. A myriad of silent confusions coalescing into a single consciousness.

And a lifetime of regret and revenge.

That night, Hanzo reached his own conclusions. With a heartache so crippling, he physically felt the pain, the Grandmaster realized how, after all – Takeda had never had two fathers, only one. Not him, nor the swordsman – but a nameless entity, vacating a place that had never really been empty. A man, running from his past, struggling with himself, yet trying to make peace and justice in this dark, imperfect world, as well as his own vile decisions. Whether it be abandoning Takeda, or giving oneself away to Quan Chi – Hanzo, or Kenshi - it ultimately made no difference to the world.

This nameless father was sometimes Hanzo, sometimes Kenshi, sometimes even Scorpion. But imparting skills and knowledge did not allow a child to grow into a man. Only time did.

And it stood as the greatest teacher, the best of healers - perhaps the only father they all had ever truly had. It was a lesson Hanzo had learned after many a millennia, it was something Kenshi struggled to grasp himself – and this desolate reality was destined for Takeda too…

All in his own time.

Classified Location,

South-East Thailand,

2009.

The first time Takeda saw his mother's grave, he was taken aback not by the stark reality of her death, but how it exuded a feeling of homecoming, beyond the grave.

It was not custom for most Thai locals to bury their dead. But he recalled Suchin often praying before meals, their monthly visits to church – carrying on her father's religion silently, as if faith would compensate for the lack of his presence in her life. He puffed cynically – his own father had not left him anything like a tokenistic show of faith to remind of his presence. But that was Takahashi Kenshi, the perpetual misnomer. To this day, Takeda knew nothing of his maternal grandfather – not even a name to put to a blank silhouette of a face. Just that Dara's meeting him was a disaster. Just as Suchin's meeting Kenshi had proved to be for her.

Nestled in a relatively spacious backyard, with the lush mountains of Khao Khiao Massif opening up splendidly behind the grave, as if in a scene taken from the movies. Thick rose-bushes, bearing pink, white and peach coloured flowers the size of his fist bloomed splendidly beside the grave's parameter, butterflies and hummingbirds fluttering away without a worry. The unbearable heat and humidity shattered in this serene place, where a persistent cool breeze blew from all directions, and shade was plentiful. A picturesque slice of heaven in the most unlikely part of the world.

In the midst of all the bloom, the grave itself, was simple – with an unremarkable gravestone, with gray rocks marking its boundaries. It was all incredibly apt however; Suchin had brought joy to everyone around her, while her own beauty was reflected in her simplicity.

Tears welled within Takeda's eyes, his arms suddenly limp, throat constricting.

"He never comes here…" noted Dara quietly.

The mere mention of his father broke the spell of the first sight – memories of the past shattering as if destroyed by cannon-fire. Anger bubbled in Takeda's veins, and he did little to guise it.

"To visit you? That's hardly a surprise," the Chujin returned bitterly, mouth curved in a snarl.

"No, Takeda. To visit her," insisted Dara, never tearing her eyes from the scene ahead. "I never understood why – life and death are up to the gods… We can only make peace with it – even though I wouldn't wish it on an enemy to bury their only child…"

With that, Dara's voice broke, quivering hands rising to her face as unspoken grief. Takeda wrapped an arm around her, tears flowing through his own eyes.

"How, Kun Yaai?" he asked, scorn dripping through his cold whisper. "How can you forgive him? He did this to her, to me – to us…"

The old woman merely shook her head, wiping away her tears with shaky hands. "I thought the same, for the longest time. He came back to visit me, around two weeks after he took you. I fought him with all I had, but he insisted this separation would save your life. And he came back after a few months – just to talk… and again, every few months… Never visiting her, just reliving her memory with me… I don't know when or how I found the strength to trust him – but I did, my child. And now, look at you…"

She cupped his face in both her hands, tears seeping sideways from the apple of her cheeks, her wrinkly face beaming into a glad smile. "You're so tall and strong, now! And you have her smile…"

In that bittersweet moment, Takeda realized that save for his mother, no one had ever smiled with such joy at him like that. Not Master Hasashi, though he showed his affection in other ways. Not Kenshi, whose small smiles were more secretive, reserved for his own audience, than genuine.

"I can't trust him, Kun Yaai…" Takeda returned dejectedly, after a few moments. "I trusted him once, I promised myself I won't make the same mistake again…"

Dara nodded, understanding the uphill nature of the task at hand. She was, by no means, an advocate of the blind warrior or the path he chose. His brazen selfishness robbed her of her only child, returning her in a pine-box after discarding her. And while nothing could ease the heart of a grieving mother, she had found solace in his presence. He too grieved, she knew; but in a world so reliant on promises and words, he offered none to back it up. Over time, she suspected it was her own tiredness from living a futile existence that compelled her to give up fighting the swordsman. There were no victors in this war, as it was.

"If he means well, his truth will reveal itself…" Dara began, considerate and sincere. "But for now, I'm just glad to have you back, my prince…"

And with a loving pat on the back, Kun Yaai left him alone, to confront his own past.

With heavy footsteps, Takeda walked towards the center of the small courtyard, with the intense, enticing scent of roses surrounding him. He seated himself at the foot of the grave, noticing that it bore a name Takeda had never heard before associated with his mother.

SUCHIN TAKAHASHI

1968 - 1999

It vaguely dawned on him, how profound an impact Kenshi's stay in her life had had. Changing her identity, her status, her role in life – eventually snatching it away from her. Such dispassionate analysis would have been more suitable to a stranger. Yet Takeda had never felt more estranged than he did at that moment. He quietly muttered a prayer, alien words slipping off his tongue in a cascade – as if he prayed all his life – routine show of faith for the faithless.

But it was only when he bent down to rest his head on the gray cement, when the floodgates of memories poured forth – ripping through his mental defences and overwhelming his entire being.

It could have been minutes, or hours, or days – Takeda sat at the foot, weeping bitterly, making no effort to hide his sobs or cries, just as he had the night he found out the truth about his mother. The image was so clear in his memory, the curtains of past melting away. Suchin stood in the center of his memory, tall and strong, clad in a shirt rolled up to her sleeves, sarong flowing in the wind. Dark hair, glittering like ebony under the sun – and beautiful brown eyes that overflowed with warmth.

The wind picked up again, this time with the ardent fervor of waves crashing on the sea - dispersing the dry petals surrounding the grave, and enveloping his form entirely – until he sat alone with the grave in the eye of the storm. Takeda then, felt surrounded by a fragrance – a forgotten scent that brought back a sense of nostalgia so strong, his head felt dizzy – just like he did as a child, when he would crash after spinning.

Musk, fresh water, the barest hint of jasmine…

And in the midst of the roaring wind, he heard her. The long-forgotten voice in his ears gracing him, like the remembrance of a faraway dream.

'My Takeda… my son…'

It was real. He opened his eyes, and sought the apparitions of his past – but could see nothing. Faced with the treachery of his sight, he began to look around frantically – until a fresh gust of wind pressed against his back, as he felt the ghost of an embrace.

And closing his eyes, he saw her arms wrapped around him. And tears spilled from his eyes again.

"Mom… I'm home…" he whispered, letting his sensations rule over him. "I miss you so, so much…"

'I'm waiting for you… but you have much to accomplish first, my son…'

"I'll make them pay, I'll kill them myself, I swear it!"

'You will never be alone again…'

"Mother…"

'Heed him, for my sake… he will always protect you…'

He recalled those words now – their last day together. He had been sitting on a dingy table, as Suchin wiped away his tears, trying to warn him of a danger that would take her life. But with the mere mention of Kenshi, the wind changed its direction, blowing against his face in a powerful gust, forcing Takeda to hold his breath, and turn his back…

Only to see Kenshi standing at the doorway, his face a mask of sheer yearning so wretched, Takeda felt his heart twist for his father. A vortex of dried petals surrounded him, his blindfold fluttering behind him – and in his mind's eye, Takeda saw Suchin's silhouette, facing him, her pale hand on the swordsman's hollow cheek.

'I'm waiting for you too, my love…'

"I know… As am I…"

'Do not leave him alone… He needs you…'

Images and sounds flashed in his mind – erratic, inconsistent, and wholly unfamiliar, as if he had encroached in some unknown territory. The swordsman combing through his mother's hair… Suchin's fiery gaze as she stood shielding Kenshi, drenched to the bone, the clash of steel against steel… a circle of blood, expanding to encompass the entirety of Suchin's chest… Kenshi bent over her bleeding body, howling in pain… and finally, him lying on the ground, his head nestled in Suchin's lap…

Takeda heard a fierce ringing sound, as he saw in his mind's eye his parents reunited. With a gasp, the Shirai Ryu finally snapped out of his reverie, and saw the wind dying out, petals falling over Kenshi's form, the flowers in the garden turning back to face the grave – the magic of Suchin's memory finally broken.

A painful headache replaced the visions, and with a small groan, Takeda sat up, paid his final respects, and began to walk towards the swordsman, whose own blindfolded gaze did not acknowledge him, transfixed at the grave ahead – expression unreadable, once more.

"Was that…" Words died in his throat, as the young warrior still reeled from his own spiritual awakening. "Was that what I think it was?"

"Truthfully, I don't know…" answered the swordsman softly, wistfully. "The last time she appeared like that to me, was…" Kenshi trailed off, recollecting his defeat at the hands of Movado, and his attempted suicide later that night. "… in a dream…"

"Is that why you never visit her grave? To avoid seeing her spirit?"

Kenshi looked sharply at Takeda, for suggesting such unspeakable thing. Takeda could see a rude comment at the tip of his tongue, which he barely held back. Instead, the swordsman leaned against a pillar, and exhaled slowly.

"They say when angels soar towards the highest of heavens, their wings begin to burn, after a point. There are certain boundaries even they cannot cross."

Takeda looked back at the grave, scornfully remarking: "You're no angel, Kenshi…"

"My point exactly, son," returned the swordsman, triumphant in his place. He straightened himself up, and walked towards Takeda, placing a hand on the latter's shoulder, and gesturing he look at the grave once more.

"Look ahead, Takeda. Look closely – tell me, what do you see…"

He recognized the pattern – and realized such questions would be a constant fixture in their travels, now. But he had a whole different insight now. His entire world had been turned upside down in these past few moments – glimpsing the love he had seen between the spirit of his mother, and his silent father. And of the tragedy of her death, as it had unfolded on a certain dark, dreadful night in Lampang.

He took a moment to take it all in again, before he answered. And when he did so, Takeda answered with a modicum of respect, based on newfound knowledge, even if not a renewed heart. Newfound knowledge, that what had existed between his mother and the swordsman, was as real as the flowers in bloom – and she entrusted him, to the former's care. All while his hesitant heart knew that even he accepted the swordsman's version of events, there was still no room for forgiveness of his absence the past decade – the thorns belying pristine beauty.

And, the respect: borne out of a realization that Kenshi acknowledged his limitations, and had not selfishly encroached the path to justice, as he had done with everything else.

"I see the peace that comes from death, Kenshi. But it's a farce; all I feel is fire and rage – none of this should have happened…" his words came out dark, yet empowering – puncturing through his learned consciousness, spoken from the core of his soul.

"But most clearly – I see the path that you walk on, Kenshi... And from now, I know that it is my path too."

Kenshi nodded slowly, mulling over his son's words - even as the ages' old wisdom of the Sento echoed in his mind, birthing dawn to the endless night.

Phew – that's over :p

If you've made it this far – woohoo! Hope y'all didn't feel too sleepy at this xD (Please bear with me, I don't have a whole lot of action planned up for the next update – but I'll try my best to make it more interesting)…

Some references for this … actually just one:

Death poems: They feature heavily in Japanese culture, ancient and modern. Specifically by samurai/warriors/military-men who commit suicide because they have failed. In this update, Idite's (Takahashi matriarch) writings were her death-poem, but it reads more so like a battle-cry than so (maybe I'll expand on this in the future). Reading this, Kenshi responds with his own version, which he penned probably sometime after being rescued by Raiden in Arc 3. This style of poetry Assertion/Response features heavily across the world as well.

Also, I try my best to introduce parts of how Kenshi recuperated after losing his sight, drawing inferences from that to how Takeda's learning everything now under his tutelage. Would love to hear all your thoughts on this - whether its working, or it just seems redundant...

Well, that's all for now! Enjoy the day folks – see you next time! :)