The first time I met him, he was an enigma.
His knowing smile infuriated me, and his polite speech irked me; and yet, with one small sentence he changed my way of thinking and my regard of the way things worked.
He inspired me, somehow, to change the way I had lived before. He caused me to remember my father, a noble samurai, and my mother, who loved me and cared for me even when she was on the edge of death. Such a small, feminine-looking man gave me the courage to try to get back on the right road of life.
When he rescued me and I saw the power he possessed, I wanted to be as powerful as him. I never wanted to be so weak as to have to beg for release again - I wanted the strength to fight my own battles alone. I wanted him to teach me, but he refused.
So many times I have seen him struggle with himself, fighting to make the decision that no one else would make. I have heard people say that he sacrificed for others with no thought of himself, but it is not true.
He was a human, with needs and wants. He knew, before leaving to Kyoto, that there was an easy way out. He knew, before going to fight Enishi, that he could choose an easy path. When little Iori was captured by one of the Juppongatana, he could have chosen to stay and save himself from the wounds that were to eventually destroy him. He wanted, so many times, to choose the easy way, to stay in the peaceful world he had found for just a little while longer. I have seen the conflict in his eyes and he thought.
He never chose for himself. I learned not only to idolize the strength of his sword, but the strength of his moral, his heart.
So many people have called him 'Hitokiri Battousai.' People who remember those days see him as a slayer of men and a heartless assassin. They cannot see beyond the bloodshed of the Bakamatsu.
I will always see him as he was; calm and gentle, with no desire for violence or the death of innocents, doing the laundry or some other household chore. I once asked him why he seemed to enjoy it so.
He looked up at me and, with a thoughtful smile, said, "Once, I felt the blood of men stain my hands. To know that the same hands, though with a different purpose, can still perform such a simple, innocent task amazes me."
He only fought with a sakabatou, and I always wished for one like his. It had the history of many historical fights, and yet it was in peak condition. He treasured the sword, and often said it was his only way, during the many battles, to keep himself from becoming a killer once more. Many years after meeting him, I fought him. I barely managed to cut his sleeve in the process; he then hit me, and I fell. He tossed me his precious blade, telling me it was my genpuku present.
He was a manslayer, a murderer, but he was a good man. He was the Hitokiri Battousai, and yet, he was like my father.
She was strong and strange, with a way of life that confused and befuddled me from the first moment she welcomed me into her home.
She was a pretty young woman of only seventeen, and yet she was keeping and supporting three people in her small dojo. Day by day, she went out to find work, be it in other dojos, the clinic, or the local restaurant. She would be gone for many hours at a time; but when she came back, she never complained, and instead practiced her kendo.
Unlike most swordsman I knew of, she carried not a sword of metal, but a bamboo or wooden sword; and yet she was undeniably strong. She fought using Kamiya Kasshin-ryu. Again and again she told me of "The sword that gives life," with an unmistakable pride in her voice. This made me wonder about the stories I had been told; of my father, so strong that he could behead three men with one swing. I had always been proud of this; when I met her, I was no longer so sure of my pride.
I wanted to become stronger, strong enough to protect myself and others. She taught me how, holding my arms out straight and slowly demonstrating the attacks and flowing movements of her style. During those lessons she showed me not only Kamiya Kasshin-ryu, but the ways of a swordsman.
During my training, she allowed no laziness on my part. She expected me to excel, and she made it clear that if I did not out of idleness, I would no longer be her student. I never failed her.
"You will never win any fight if you do not fight with all the heart of every battle you have ever been in," she told me, looking into my eyes with a stern affection. I have never forgotten that.
She fought hard at whatever she did. Fighting one of the elite Juppongatana with only a splintered wooden sword, she continued to try to succeed. When she was captured by Enishi, she kept believing that she would get out. She was my role model in so many more ways than one, and willingly gave me her strength whenever it was needed.
Many times, she was there for me, a mother figure who did not mention exactly why she hugged me. She offered support and love in any way I needed.
She was a small, young woman, but she was strong. She was barely an adult, and yet, she was like my mother.
They loved each other. It was obvious in the way that he would look at her, or not look at her. It was apparent in the way that she would blush slightly upon hearing his name. Everyone knew; they knew it themselves, to some extent.
He seemed calmer when she was there. She would sit on the porch, listening as he talked. No one knew what about, and no one would ask. She was the only one he was able to talk to about his past, his burdens. Although she never could feel the things he had felt, she understood.
She felt secure with him. He would be there and that would make her safe; he was the only one who hadn't left her. She would watch him with a hint of doubt in her eyes, and he would look up at her and she would be relieved. He knew that she needed that protection, and offered it silently.
They loved each other, and saved each other.
I see you now, angry and spiteful, your hands gripping the sword protectively. Your red hair flashes as you dodge from side to side, trying to hit my weak points. Just like him. Your dark blue eyes are set with determination. Just like her.
I block your attack with a quick movement and you stumble, barely catching your balance in time. Your eyes are full of rage.
You hate him for leaving you. You hate him for not being there when he woke up anymore. You hate him for not picking you up and swinging you around like he used to. You hate him for not being your father.
You swing frenziedly at me, your slashes cutting the air. I step back easily and block each blow as tears begin to sting your eyes.
You hate her for loving him. You hate her for hugging you and then crying when she thought you were asleep. You hate her for holding on to him almost more than she held on to you. You hate her for not being your mother.
Your shoulders begin to shake slightly, your perfectly executed blows easy for me to block.
You hate them.
With a quick sidestep, you jump at me with a flash of blue. I block your attack, and then counter it with a swift, smooth movement that shatters your blade. You fall to the ground on your back.
You don't know.
I stand on the ground where I land and you lie on the dirt, silent sobs wracking your body.
"You will never be better than him," I say quietly. "You will never win any fight if you do not fight with all the heart of every battle you have ever been in."
I toss you the sakabatou. "Here – your genpuku present, late as it is."