A/N:

YES! Finally its here! The last chapter! Sorry about the delay. My brain has been out-of-whack but I've finished! Thank you for your time and patience and all the great reviews! Hope you've enjoyed this story as much as I did. Here's the last chapter.

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Chapter 12 – Death of Battousai

Evening in the hidden districts of Kyoto. Silence rang though the air, seeping through the thin rice-paper walls of the Ishinshishi headquarters. The sound of muffled footsteps broke the eerie quiet, as a dark form stepped along the inner hallways. Passing vacant rooms, the figure stopped before the last door, the fusuma glowing with amber candlelight. He inhaled softly, raised a hand and lightly knocked on the wooden framing. Though there was silence, he boldly placed his hand on the door catch, and slowly opened it.

The room was quite empty, only a single paper lamp flickered away the shadows that played upon the walls. Alone upon the tatami, Battousai sat, clutching his sheathed katana to his chest, his downcast eyes shutting out the world. He seemed asleep, however the figure knew better. The young swordsman had heard the knocking, and instantly raised his eyes to meet his superior.

The figure nodded and sat down on a floor cushion in the center of the room. He was a few years older than Battousai, around thirty years of age, his dark eyes bearing a look of wisdom and experience. His garments proclaimed him to be a samurai, though his swords had been put away, his forehead unshaven. The leader of the Choshu Ishin, Kogoro Katsura was known as the greatest revolutionist of that time, and the most cunning. However, his power lay not only within his own skills, but also in that of his fellow men, the most powerful being the scarlet swordsman before him. Battousai lowered his gaze again, unwilling to stare into the eyes of his leader. His motive, however, was not one of respect, but of resentment.

Katsura, feeling the tension in the room rise, spoke softly so as not to anger his young friend. "I see you have returned. You are early, as expected. Was the mission successful?"

Though the youth did not acknowledge his query, Katsura could feel the heat of his anger, a lurking demonic spirit crouching in the darkness. This did not disturb him, for it was the same sensation he often felt when asking the success of his greatest warrior. There was no need for the scarlet swordsman to speak, for the intensity of his rage and his tightening grip on his sword was all the reply necessary.

"I see," Katsura smiled slightly. "Forgive me. I find myself forgetting that I need not question the strongest of the Imperialists."

Battousai let out a quiet sigh and turned his head away. In the dim light, Katsura had, until now, failed to notice the bandage that donned his left cheek. The sight of it disturbed him, for in the three years Battousai had served as a hitokiri, he was ever victorious and unscathed. What manner of battle did he endure to receive that kind of blow?

Again, he sensed a growing agitation; only it was much greater than before. Battousai's spirit was low and deeply injured, rage consumed his heart, and guilt poisoned his soul. Something had occurred during the few weeks he had been absent, and it was apparent that it had been quite unpleasant. Katsura often warned his young follower not to become involved with the people surrounding his opponents. Such reactions told him he had done just that, and had suffered for it. What could have happened to cause his spirit to be inflicted with such pain?

Sensing that questioning such a riled man would lead to disaster, Katsura decided to leave him to his own thoughts. Perhaps he would leave off assignments to him for a while, at least until his soul settled. Though he did admire Battousai's skill with the sword, each time he sent him into battle he would return more and more restless in spirit. This worried him most of all.

Katsura rose and went to leave. As he shut the door behind him, he caught the heart-wrenching sound of sobs coming from his young friend. Guilt nagged at him, and he understood who was truly at fault for this dying spirit. As he retired, the cries echoed though the empty house, and faded into the night.

The silk ran through his fingers as he let the curtain fall behind him, ignoring whatever he might have seen in the night. Now his entire focus was on the beautiful maiden that lay before him. Her raven-black locks spilled down her back, framing her milky-white arms and slender legs. Battousai kneeled and caught her up in his arms, feeling her body tremble beneath him. His fingers tangled in her hair, caressing her temples, and stroking the fine strands at the nape of her neck. His lips, warm with baited breath, closed in over hers, desire consuming his soul. Her gasps aroused him, a violent passion welling up within his heart; he struggled not to tear into her. Fingertips trembling with impatience, he grasped her shoulders and drew the kimono away, his tongue drawling over her throat. He wanted her, wished to feel the love that she offered him, desired the freeness of passion and to drown his guilt. He had killed so many, taken countless lives, and lived upon the thrill of the fight. Now it was different, now he had returned to the child within, only it had grown into a man, longing to experience the thing young men desire most: the love of a woman. Battousai moaned in pleasure as he felt her soft hands race along his spine. Closer and closer he drew to her, almost connecting, soon to join into her mind and spirit. Soon she would be his forever; soon he could put away his guilt and sorrow, for she was with him, forever at his side, forever in his heart.

Suddenly, her breathing stopped, her sparkling emerald eyes dulled, the flush of her cheek fading. Her body grew cold and lifeless, her eyes glazing over, the light in them consumed by darkness.

'No...she can't be gone...'

Flames erupted from his hands and singed her skin, engulfing her body in a raging inferno. Wicked spirits cackled from the black void surrounding him, screaming that her demise was because of his own folly. They jeered at his sorrow and turned her body to ashes. In his wild grief, he saw the cinders suddenly burst to life. For an instant his sobs abated as he felt her ghostly hands on his cheeks, caressing his scars, her voice filled with song as she whispered,

'Akai....'

Battousai jolted into consciousness and the silence of the early morning hours. His body shivered in a cold sweat, his heart pounding, eyes filling with tears. Raking his hands through his sweat-drenched locks, a sob slipped through his quivering lips and his body shook with grief. The nightmare was real. In his mind, she existed, warm and alive, forever beside him, forever his. However, in the cruel harsh world of reality, the horror of her death plagued his very being, ripping apart his essence, destroying his soul.

Over and over he asked the darkness why the young girl was taken instead of him, why his inspiration and love was cut down in its prime, why the joy of her beauty and life now lay in torment. Pain stung through his temples as his wounds reopened, dark blood staining the bandage laid across his jaw. Laying a hand over it, he shut his eyes and struggled to bring his sanity back from the black void it had fallen into.

Taking his hand away he stared at the strange mark of blood trickling off his fingers. These wounds...I fear they will never heal. I fear...I shall never be rid of them. This cursed mark upon my face. It is my enemies who have caused me this grief...it is the evil that lurks within this world and... it is also my own self that is guilty...this evil creature lurking inside of me, this mad apparition my own hatred has created.

His amber eyes glanced over at the lacquered wood stand clutching his two warrior blades, the heartbeat of his katana whispering to him.

How can I repent for these grave sins, if I cannot take my own life? I would rather die than live with this vile spirit raging in my breast, thirsting for blood and destroying all I hold dear. How can I live with it? How?

In desperation, he fell onto his hands and knees, burying his face in the damp futon; he released his pain, his pitiful sobs echoing into the night. He could not bear it, the grief struck at him harder and more brutal than any sword, the memories ravaging his thoughts, tearing his heart in two. The guilt was almost unbearable, and what strength he possessed was unable to thwart it. Every moment of violence returned to him, the face of each person he had killed flashed in his mind over and over again, haunting him. His life seemed to be falling apart at the seams; every motivation to keep fighting was failing, every drive that was there to keep him living was fading away, all except one. The glowing presence of the young girl he loved.

The tears drained leaving his shaken body damp and lifeless, but his spirit was returning. Toshiki was there, clear as the mid-day sky, sitting beside the futon in the dark and solemn room. His eyes widened at seeing her, his trembling hands reaching out to hold her in his arms, to feel her warmth, to ease his pain. The sound of a flute echoed from his memory, and he watched as her soulless eyes slowly lifted to meet his, a small smile creeping across her perfect face. Then, she vanished.

Battousai sat there; unsure if what he saw or heard was real. Whatever his mind was still deciding on, his heart had already come to a conclusion. Her presence had inspired him. How could he just sit there and give up hope, blaming himself for the horrible things he had done and forgetting the one thing he knew was right in the world? How could he let the evil that had destroyed his love continue to torment others? Now, he understood what had to be done. Whatever evils he had to face, whatever deeds he had to commit, whatever price he had to pay, what was started was in need of an end. For the sake of all he was indebted to, for the good of all he cared for, for the survival of his country, and for the life of the one he loved, he would end it.

1868. The year had come and gone. The great battle at Toba-Fushimi had ended the reign of the Tokugawa Shogunate. All allies to the Emperor breathed a sigh of relief that the war was finally over. A new government was put in place of the corrupted predecessor, a new ruler placed upon its throne. The Meiji era had begun. The warriors of the Satsuma and Choshu groups were free to return from whence they came and start their lives anew in a world of freedom.

Leader of the Choshu Ishin, Kogoro Katsura, returned to the base a few days after the battles had been completed. Though his heart rejoiced over the great victory, his spirit was troubled at the absence of his greatest ally. The swordsman Battousai had not been seen since the first blow was struck at Toba-Fushimi. The chaotic warfare in Kyoto consumed him and no one had spotted his fearful silhouette since that day. Katsura had immediately sent men out to search for their lost comrade, but they returned empty-handed.

Laden with worry, Katsura sent the men out to search once more, and retired to his quarters. He lowered his weary body onto a floor cushion and sighed, rubbing the anxiety out of his temples. The lad was reckless, but was never disloyal. It was not in his nature to run off without leaving word of his departure. Dark eyes lifting to the small writing desk he had left strewn with reports, he noticed a freshly folded sheet of rice paper neatly placed upon the pile. A white-haired brush lay soaked with ink upon the desk, the smooth ink-stone wet with black water. Katsura reached over and took the note between his fingers. An absent signature puzzled him, but as soon as he opened the delicate leaves, the glistening, wet calligraphy startled but, at the same time, relieved his spirit. It read:

'Now that it has ended, I am no longer needed here. I am tired of killing. Hitokiri Battousai is no more.'

Breathing a sigh of relief and sadness, Katsura's hands fell into his lap, still clutching the last words of the young swordsman. Tears formed in his eyes at the guilt swelling within his heart. So many times he had blamed himself for the youth's hardship, yet the shame was always glazed over with the thought of his power and the good use gained from his help during the war. Now that it was over, that power had no more value than a grain of sand. The question came into his mind, as it had often in his thoughts during the past few years: Was it worth it?

At this point in time, he could finally admit, no...it wasn't. The future of a young man with that much talent had been ruined because of greed. The longing for peace had destroyed so many, and because of this fact, he was guilty of murder: the death of a spirit, the death of Battousai. Then, the thought occurred that, perhaps, the spirit had never gone, but remained deep in the soul of the one carrying it. Perhaps, somewhere, in that beautiful world of snowy mountaintops, glistening pines, crimson sunlight and crashing shores, there remained the spirit of a man whose heart would never die, and who's love for good would live on far beyond his years.

Gently, he folded the note and placed it in a sealed wooden scroll case. Upon the seal was the head of a dragon, lacquered in gold, its ruby eyes flashing in the sunlight. Katsura smiled and whispered softly, "Farewell, my friend."

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A/N:

Oh, did I say this was the end? Not so. There is an epilogue! GO SEE!