The Rivers Ran Red
Disclaimer: RK is not mine. Oh and the song belongs to Hoobastank – it too can be found on the Spiderman 2 soundtrack.
A/N: Well…I've had a little (or more than a little) inspiration for this. I have great sympathy for Sou-chan. He had a terrible childhood. So, without further ado…part the second. Comments and criticisms are always welcome.
Ni: Path of Least Resistance
Did you find what you're looking for?
Did you get your foot in the door?
Can you look at yourself and feel proud of all the things you've done?
Did you inspire the ones that you knew?
Make a difference to those who knew you?
Did you finally figure out what it is that makes us who we are today?
The sky glows a brilliant red, almost like the sun is crying out for attention with its dying rays. When the sky turns that colour it always brings back memories. He's walked a long way today, but he's not tired. Not really. But, when he thinks about it, it must be nice to be tired. To know that fulfillment of a hard day's labour. In some ways he envies the "normal" people. They've found what their looking for.
Rather, they're not looking for anything.
They're not haunted by memories.
Their past is not washed with blood.
Even now he finds himself smiling at the thought of it.
'Funny…how the blood tinges my memories. It's like all I can remember is red, washed in red. Has it always been like this?'
His hands, the hands of a killer, an assassin. Calloused from holding a sword. Even now, he doesn't really understand. 'I just…have to find my own truth. But where is it?'
He didn't want to be here, in this house with its large rooms and the people who yelled. It seemed like they were always yelling. No, he wanted to be back with his mother. Home, with its warm candlelit glow. It had only been an upstairs room in a brothel, and he and his mother had shared it with two other women. But it was home.
He couldn't remember it very clearly; he'd only been five when they took him away. But he remembered warm touches, kisses on his forehead and the lingering scent of cherry blossoms. He'd felt safe then. Safe in a way he didn't feel now.
That time, before here, was a time of love and of being loved.
Those memories, faint as they were, were what he clung to desperately. They were the only things that told him that the world wasn't full of violence and brutality. There was no pain in his memory, there no one hit him.
Here, they called his mother a whore, a slut. Common garbage. Hence, he was, by default, garbage as well, and they made sure that he knew it. Here, there were no gentle touches, no kisses before bed. Instead, there were kicks, punches and nights out in the cold. Nights that passed in a haze of feverish shivering and aching hunger.
"Soujiro! Where are you, you damned brat?"
The voice was shrill and snapped him from his daydream.
His feet thudded against the dirt path painfully. A month without rain had dried out the surrounding countryside. It had made everyone irritable. If the weather kept up, the rice crop would suffer.
"Yes?"
"Didn't I tell you to go fetch me water from the well?" the old woman demanded, her voice rising with every word.
He wracked his brain frantically, he didn't remember if she had or not.
Her hand connected with his face. Hard. He felt tears well in his eyes.
"Damnit, you brat! Why can't you do what you're told? Stop being so lazy!" She slapped him again, then thrust the water bucket at him, causing him to gasp with pain when it connected with his ribs.
He told himself he would not cry.
That had stuck with him for the majority of his life. His smile had become a weapon, a mask. Defensive, and secretive. Ironic that something that symbolized joy and happiness had become the symbol for all his misery.
He dropped his pack on the ground and readied himself to make camp. He didn't require much. A fire and that was about it.
Thinking back, it's no wonder that he joined Shishio's revolution. His life had been violence. It was the only thing he had understood, even from a young age. Years of living in that house had pushed aside any memories he had of his mother and her love. The only person who had shown him any kind of kindness in his love-starved existence was Shishio. And even then, Shishio wouldn't have cared if he'd lived or died.
His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he ran. And ran. Lightning flashed across the sky, and he screamed.
"Someone, help me please!!!!"
Where to go? How to escape them? His breath was coming in gasps now. "Help me, please!!!!"
He didn't dare call out Shishio's name. But even now, the little hope he'd had of the assassin coming to his aid was ebbing away. "Help me!!!" He fell to his hands and knees, crawling under the house. Maybe if he was very quiet they wouldn't find him.
His hand closed around the hilt of the wakizaki that Shishio had given him.
A frozen smile crossed his lips.
The first time he'd killed there had been no joy in it. Nothing but primal instinct, the need to survive, to prove that he wasn't weak. Even now he still remembered the way that the blood had run down the sword's blade, mingling with the rain. His memories of that battle were foggy at best. He still didn't quite know how a kid of eight had been able to take down three grown men.
But he had.
He remembered how the sword had cut into the flesh, the shock that reverberated when he hit bone.
And the blood. So much blood. Mixed with the rainwater, it had seemed like he was awash in a sea of blood.
He recalled seeing one of those new Christian rituals when he had been wandering along the coast. What was the word he was looking for? Ahh yes…baptism. That night, he had been baptized in blood.
Christened as a killer.
'Will I always be a killer?'
It was just another assignment, and an easy one at that. He would have no trouble keeping up with a moving carriage. And as for the actual victim, he was just a defenseless old man.
Easy.
He smiled when the carriage drove past his hiding place. At that speed it wouldn't even require the full strength of his abilities. His hand reached the door handle almost instantly.
He had just enough time to register the look of disbelief on the old man's face. "Hello," he smiled, "Shishio-sama sends his regards." Then he plunged the knife into his heart.
It was almost too easy.
That had been the assassination that had started it all. That had been the day he had first met the Battousai. He remembered thinking that the "legendary" swordsman was rather nondescript. Surely a man like that would not pose much of a challenge. Then again, it was important not to take appearance for granted. And he had been wrong about Himura.
"I am surprised that you made it this far."
The Battousai was looking understandably worse for wear. His battle with Aoshi had obviously been a hard one. His steely blue eyes flicked to the cuts at both sides of his neck. The blood that stained his pale skin.
He smiled.
"I can't let you get any further, you know?"
He remembered their last fight. The ring of steel against steel. He remembered feeling vaguely disappointed at the outcome. After all, he should have won.
Should have.
He would win this time.
And yet…there was a niggling something in the back of his mind. A question that he didn't know the answer to. Something he didn't quite understand.
No matter, he unsheathed his sword.
He would win this time.
He had lost that battle. That had been the last time he had drawn his sword, the last time he had felt the feel of blade against flesh, seen the blood flow.
He wasn't sorry that it had been his last time.
The point of all his killing eluded him now.
Just like the answer to his question did.
Why?
He felt his heartbeat race. The room blurred around him.
So close.
Only one more step.
He drew his sword and struck.
The blade moved seamlessly through flesh, blood filled his vision. Briefly he saw his enemy's eyes widen in shock.
His heart skipped a beat. He'd missed.
How had that happened?
He unsheathed his sword, laid it across his knees. It gleamed in the firelight. He hadn't used it once in the few months since he'd left Shishio's headquarters.
"The strong live and the weak die, that's a fact of life."
"The purpose of being strong is to protect the weak. What is the point of power if you don't use it well?"
Both Shishio and the battousai had power. Two men, so similar, yet they had chosen very different paths. Why? And now, which path would he take?
Himura had won in the end. Nothing but pain had come of Shishio's grand plan to overthrow the Meiji government. Yet, Shishio was the only father figure he had truly had in his life. His smile wavered. A father who believed in hatred, not love. In violence, not kindness.
Did he want to call such a man "father"?
A single tear streaked down his cheek. It landed on the sword blade, sparkling in the firelight.
'Gomen nasai, Shishio-san…'
© 2004-09-30
Abi
A/N: Well, hope that makes sense! Again, my memory is foggy so I've taken a few authors' liberties (as I like to call them). Poor Sou-chan! He'll find his answers one day. Comments/criticisms are welcome! Coming up next…Zanza!