"The earth laughs beneath my heavy feet..."

--The Smashing Pumpkins

When Dreaming Ends

Part Three -- A Single Step

Renzo's heart pounded, pounded, pounded... beat so hard that he felt it in his elbows, behind his knees, and in the thick of his mind. When he started to run, his jouncing paces had been to an off-beat, but as his emotion-choked throat constricted and stole his breath his heart moved to match the rhythm, and then surpassed it. Without that pulse, Renzo surely would have realized his fatigue and simply collapsed, but his mind latched onto his all-consuming heartbeat and followed it through the streets and alleyways of Edo, back the way he had ever-so-innocently come only a short while ago. His feet pounded on the hard-packed streets. Pounded.

...Pounded.

Everything had a pulse.

It hurt.

He didn't know what to do. It was as if someone had taken him by his feet and was shaking him upside down. All the blood rushed into his brain, stuffed it so tight that he couldn't remember who he was or where exactly he was going. All Renzo knew now was that everything that was white to him was now black. Nothing was as it had been before.

He was angry. Renzo knew this. He was angry, anxious, and so filled with the lust for blood that he couldn't see straight. It was instinct that drove him, a scrolling shift of memory that opened for him to move along, a path that something in him felt, even though at this point Renzo could not see.

And then he was home.

He didn't know how he had gotten there, but there he stood. The moon had risen, and in silhouette stood the tall apartment that had been his home since his mother had died. Renzo fell to a skittery halt with a painful twist of his innards and felt his shoulders jerk forward in aftershock. Heaving, he gazed at the building through sweat-misted eyes.

Daddy.

Damn it.

Damn it.

Renzo was already breathing heavily, but when the rage struck him he shifted into something more akin to hyperventilation. He was struck by a bout of violent trembling, and for a moment he thought that his rubbery muscles would collapse. He clutched for a hold, caught his balance on a lantern-post, and buckled over.

It must have been a while, for when he finally rose his head again his breath was slower and the sweaty locks of hair that had escaped from their tie had cooled in the night. Although the edges of his vision were still hazed, Renzo shuffled his feet and moved down the walk to the apartment's front door.

There was no security in rice paper panels, and Renzo had no trouble getting in. It was only a matter of sliding the door open. He stepped into the familiar entryway and felt his chest snag with dull melancholy. His feet eased tiredly out of his sandals, and he trudged up the quiet dark staircase.

The room where his father had died was empty. The landlord had taken everything that Renzo had left behind, there was no longer a mess on the floor. The tatami looked clean, and the tattered shoji panels had been replaced. The walls had all been scrubbed, but even in the dank moonlight Renzo could see the ugly brown bloodstain that no scrubbing could remove. The landlord would have to redo that portion of the wall in order to cover it. He probably would.

And no one would ever have to know. No one would remember that a man had been murdered here. This room would belong to a happy, ignorant family. Perhaps another father and his son.

Renzo gripped his shoulder with a tight squeeze, as if causing himself pain would keep him from screaming. He stared at the wall with blank, almost dead-looking eyes, and felt every drop of moisture in his skin tighten up in a ball at the very center of his throat. It rose no higher -- he was too furious, too sad to cry.

After a moment he managed to move again, although he didn't do much more than drop to his knees. Feeling around the tatami, he found a corner and awkwardly pulled it back from the wooden floor beneath. It took a while to get the large mat off to one side, but the effort was calming. By the time he found what he was looking for underneath, he was dulled to the point of emotionless-ness.

His father had been a rather paranoid man. Renzo probably wasn't supposed to know, but Araya had cut a small portion of the floor out and kept some of what he thought to be important things inside. A few weeks after his death, Renzo had finally opened it and examined the contents in full view. There was nothing of great importance to him except for some money. Renzo had used most of it for food and provisions, and there was little left. He dug around and pulled the small purse out in order to set it off to one side, dappled in the geometric squares that the moonlight made through the shoji.

However, Renzo had put something of his own into that small hiding place when his father had passed on. It was strange, how he was able to get rid of all of his father's masks, but had been unable to let go of the weapon that had killed him.

It was wrapped in a simple white cloth. Renzo had never seen a blade like this before, and found it primitive in shape. This was no sword. Rather, the blade was a triangular wedge with a sharp hook-like extension on one side. Sinister. It disgusted him to the point of physical nausea, and yet he heaved the weapon up--it was so heavy!--and out of the hole with a grunt and a heave. It met the floor with a loud thud, and Renzo stopped quickly to make sure that no one next door had heard.

The air was silent, and then broken by the sound of a shoji sliding back in its frame. Renzo quickly re-adjusted the wrapping around the blade, tied it tightly, and threw the entire package over his shoulder. With a quick motion he took hold of his purse, and he fled down the stairs with swift efficiency.

By the time he was back into his sandals and on the street, he was set on the calm path of a man with a mission. Behind him, a tired man was looking curiously out his window, but Renzo did not look back. He simply kept on his way. The anger was still there, the burning and the sadness, but with that was a surge of dull resolve.

He would have his revenge. Asano Rin and her accomplice would die by his hand.

This fact calmed him, if only for a little while. Renzo moved across Edo and stepped up into Kageyama the Sword-Polisher's shop as if he were just returning from an errand and not stalking off on a journey of vengeance in the late hours of the night. The small building was a silent and dank as a dead moth, and in his silence Renzo was nothing but a ripple at the edge of the surface. He left his burdens outside and slipped through the sliding doors without a sound.

Kageyama was lying on the floor in the corner, wrapped tightly in his bed-wrappings. He did not move, save for the heavy risings and falls of deep slumber, but Renzo could feel him as if the he were a beacon of light. The man was asleep for now, yes, but it would take work to keep it that way. He would have to hurry. With pointedly stealthy steps, Renzo moved into the tiny storage room and did not take his eyes away from the sleeping man until he had fully entered.

It was dark, yes, but Renzo's eyes had long since adjusted. The room was filled with sword stands. A few were Kageyama's, but most belonged to customers. Despite the cold, violent air that had settled in Renzo's lungs, the boy still felt a pang of guilt over what he was going to do, and with careful eyes he turned in a small circle and tried to find the least expensive looking weapon there.

Eventually, he stumbled onto something. Kageyama had a very ancient sword, something created by a great master whose name Renzo had forgotten out of disinterest. It took great talent to care for such an antique blade, and Kageyama kept it in order to show off his craft.


Beneath that sword, on the same rack, was a ratty old sheathed blade. Renzo did not know why Kageyama would pair such a great work of art with this, but did not care. The casing looked old and uncared for--and thus cheap. With a glance from side to side, Renzo moved in and knelt to silently remove it from the rack with both hands. He was afraid to make any noise in pulling the sheath back in order to check out the quality of the actual blade--what if it was in worse condition than the sheath itself?--but the fact that he was stealing from a man that had been so kind to him kept him in check. Renzo wouldn't allow himself to take a sword that was of high quality. This one would have to suffice.

Renzo looked over one shoulder and took the sword in one hand. The sheath felt rough and ragged against his palm. Silently, he pulled a small square of paper from a stack nearby--they were used when touching the actual blades, as oils in the skin could damage them--and glanced around for a moment. Spotting a lantern, he dipped his smallest finger in the somewhat sooty oil and quickly sketched a few strokes onto the paper. It hardly showed, but the character was clear enough to be read -- a symbol for an apology. This was all that he could do.

Renzo paused in the doorway on his way out and gave Kageyama a final glance. He felt a strange urge to wake the man up, to make a noise as he left the building. This was his last companion. After he stepped through those doors, he would be alone.

His lower lip trembled for a moment, but when Renzo left the sword-polisher's shop he did not make a single sound.

Glossary

tatami- straw mats edged in cloth, usually black; measures about 3 feet by 6 feet

A/N: Thanks to all of you who reviewed -- it feels so wonderful to know that people are reading this and seem to be enjoying what they read... that's what we all write for. ^_^ It's also nice to know that people seem to be willing to tackle a longer story, as longer stories (most of mine, at least!) have a tendency to be less packed in terms of action at points. I'm kind of struggling to get the story rolling here--hence the longer chapters, I'm so sorry!--but once it does, there'll be a lot in terms of fighting and drama. The fifth chapter should have the first sword-fighting scene! Hurray!

Furthermore, if anyone notes any mistakes in terms of both culture and storyline, don't be afraid to e-mail me. I'm not inhuman, I'll make research mistakes. Furthermore, I'd love hearing from Japan- or Samura-buffs. ^_~

And please do try and read the rest of the Blade of the Immortal fanfiction out there, if you haven't already. Despite the meager-tiny amount, there's still a lot of great stuff out there (Being the evil person that I am, I've read but not reviewed... maybe writing that out will get me on the ball). Bath Time is cute, as is Stars and Fires and the newest O-Ren story... and I adored both Makie pieces out there, although I'm quite bitter that someone else wrote the Makie/Anotsu pieces before I got the chance. =P Luckily, they're both amazing writers and they did the tale great justice -- be sure to read them!

And, as always, I hope you enjoyed and continue to enjoy. I'll stop being all long-winded like now.