This is my first fanfic, and I am anxious to hear opinions on it. I
don't really know where it's heading right now, but I think I can go very
far with this storyline. Maybe I'll abandon it. So, enough with the
possibilities, on to reality. This is the prologue to Scarred Memories.
Though I like more blood than I do kissy emotional stuff, I wrote this to
describe Kenshin's initial sorrow after losing Tomoe. (Please note that I
did not realize that there was more Samurai X after Tomoe's death. I wrote
this to begin to bridge the ten year gap of his wanderings.) If you want
more, please Read & Review.
Disclaimer:
I do not own Rurouni Kenshin, nor do I own Samurai X (Rurouni Kenshin). I make no monetary profit from this composition.
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PROLOGUE
"The stars, they're so bright tonight . . . that they are," he whispered.
A lone figure sat near the road, his back resting against a ghostly tree.
The darkness was ever so complete that his features were utterly obscured. Only his silhouette suggested any means of identification, implying only long hair, tied back loosely, and what was unmistakably a sword at his side.
No one knew from whence he came or where he intended to go. In fact, most hardly noticed him at all. Throughout his journey he had passed through many cities, but with the hustle and bustle of the construction of the new government, everyone seemed to have more important things to do than sit and ponder the strangers that passed by.
Sitting motionless, the man continued gazing at the stars . No sound echoed nearby. No wind whispered in the trees. Nothing pierced the veil of silence that had settled, until he spoke.
"Tomoe," he said. "I'll never kill again, to honor you, Tomoe, that I won't," his voice faltered as he murmured the last words. "I will never forget you. I'll never forget the time that we spent together, nor will I forget my love for you."
The stars only twinkled in reply as he rested, blinking back tears for what seemed an eternity, gazing solemnly at the stars, seeming to dream of times before the end of the revolution, when happiness might have dwelt inside his now frozen heart. Slowly, endless hours passed, and dawn made her way over the horizon, bringing the new day's warmth and light to the land.
The samurai stood, squinting hard into the east, as the sun rose into the sky. His face was now bathed in warm sunlight and, for the first time, his features were clear.
He couldn't have been more than eighteen at the time. His fiery, red hair fell gently into his soft, blue eyes. Yet, though he was young, his eyes were hard as the blade of his sword, and as dark as midnight. Dark, sinister memories showed themselves if one looked deep enough into his eyes. The sorrow that he so obviously bore from these recollections would tear one's own soul in two. He was simply too young to bear such burdens.
On his left cheek was the memory of an old wound, one that showed itself at a dark red scar that ran parallel to his jaw. It had healed long ago, as the memory of the one who had dealt the blow was almost forgotten, compared to the most recent injury to both body and soul.
This injury was a deep laceration. It that had penetrated deeply into the skin, crossing the first almost perfectly, forming an "X." He had been cut weeks ago, but it still refused to mend. Blood still flowed from the wound regularly, and though he constantly tended and bandaged it, it had not healed.
He seemed deeply disturbed, not just by the scar, but by its history as well. Few were audacious enough to ask about it, because of his sword, but if he was asked about its origins, he would stare at them coldly. Then, as soon as they felt utterly frozen in his glare, he would turn his back and walk away, for them never to see him again.
He turned to leave and follow the road ahead of him. As he turned from the tree under which he had passed the night, his eyes widened as he recognized the essence emanating from its branches.
Though it was late in the season, the white plum tree was still in full bloom, sharing its perfume with all of its surroundings. The white blossoms were drifting down lazily like snow, coming to rest on the ground, where they would remain. They lay in small drifts surrounding the tree. Some were carried away on the breeze. Still others retained their first eminence in the high branches of the white plum tree. Speechlessly, the samurai with the bleeding face slowly extended his hand, his palm open to the sky like a child standing in a snowstorm to catch a snowflake.
From the highest branch of the tree, the most beautiful and resplendent blossom withdrew from its lofty seat, and descended slowly downwards, coming to rest on the calloused palm of the samurai. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was simply chance that the blossom fell, but after all of the years that he had spent in emotional isolation, after all of the blood that had been shed by his blade, he closed his eyes, pressed the blossom to his bleeding face, and a single tear slid down his cheek.
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to be continued....
Disclaimer:
I do not own Rurouni Kenshin, nor do I own Samurai X (Rurouni Kenshin). I make no monetary profit from this composition.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
PROLOGUE
"The stars, they're so bright tonight . . . that they are," he whispered.
A lone figure sat near the road, his back resting against a ghostly tree.
The darkness was ever so complete that his features were utterly obscured. Only his silhouette suggested any means of identification, implying only long hair, tied back loosely, and what was unmistakably a sword at his side.
No one knew from whence he came or where he intended to go. In fact, most hardly noticed him at all. Throughout his journey he had passed through many cities, but with the hustle and bustle of the construction of the new government, everyone seemed to have more important things to do than sit and ponder the strangers that passed by.
Sitting motionless, the man continued gazing at the stars . No sound echoed nearby. No wind whispered in the trees. Nothing pierced the veil of silence that had settled, until he spoke.
"Tomoe," he said. "I'll never kill again, to honor you, Tomoe, that I won't," his voice faltered as he murmured the last words. "I will never forget you. I'll never forget the time that we spent together, nor will I forget my love for you."
The stars only twinkled in reply as he rested, blinking back tears for what seemed an eternity, gazing solemnly at the stars, seeming to dream of times before the end of the revolution, when happiness might have dwelt inside his now frozen heart. Slowly, endless hours passed, and dawn made her way over the horizon, bringing the new day's warmth and light to the land.
The samurai stood, squinting hard into the east, as the sun rose into the sky. His face was now bathed in warm sunlight and, for the first time, his features were clear.
He couldn't have been more than eighteen at the time. His fiery, red hair fell gently into his soft, blue eyes. Yet, though he was young, his eyes were hard as the blade of his sword, and as dark as midnight. Dark, sinister memories showed themselves if one looked deep enough into his eyes. The sorrow that he so obviously bore from these recollections would tear one's own soul in two. He was simply too young to bear such burdens.
On his left cheek was the memory of an old wound, one that showed itself at a dark red scar that ran parallel to his jaw. It had healed long ago, as the memory of the one who had dealt the blow was almost forgotten, compared to the most recent injury to both body and soul.
This injury was a deep laceration. It that had penetrated deeply into the skin, crossing the first almost perfectly, forming an "X." He had been cut weeks ago, but it still refused to mend. Blood still flowed from the wound regularly, and though he constantly tended and bandaged it, it had not healed.
He seemed deeply disturbed, not just by the scar, but by its history as well. Few were audacious enough to ask about it, because of his sword, but if he was asked about its origins, he would stare at them coldly. Then, as soon as they felt utterly frozen in his glare, he would turn his back and walk away, for them never to see him again.
He turned to leave and follow the road ahead of him. As he turned from the tree under which he had passed the night, his eyes widened as he recognized the essence emanating from its branches.
Though it was late in the season, the white plum tree was still in full bloom, sharing its perfume with all of its surroundings. The white blossoms were drifting down lazily like snow, coming to rest on the ground, where they would remain. They lay in small drifts surrounding the tree. Some were carried away on the breeze. Still others retained their first eminence in the high branches of the white plum tree. Speechlessly, the samurai with the bleeding face slowly extended his hand, his palm open to the sky like a child standing in a snowstorm to catch a snowflake.
From the highest branch of the tree, the most beautiful and resplendent blossom withdrew from its lofty seat, and descended slowly downwards, coming to rest on the calloused palm of the samurai. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was simply chance that the blossom fell, but after all of the years that he had spent in emotional isolation, after all of the blood that had been shed by his blade, he closed his eyes, pressed the blossom to his bleeding face, and a single tear slid down his cheek.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
to be continued....