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Kenshin
Feathery snow fell upon the dojo; one might say it was feathers in a way. Nothing seems to move in the quite blanket of colorless feathers, save one man standing in the white. His red hair standing in eminence of color to the world. Held in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck.
One might wonder
at why such a small and gentle looking man would hold a blade at his
side. Which seemed to also clash as much as his flaming hair did to
the snow. Now and then a puff of steam was seen from his face, his
breathing composed. Cold did nothing to touch him; it was mild for
the first snow. One single feather fell and touched the crossed scar
upon his cheek. His right hand went and swept it away, but stopped,
letting the cold kiss of snow linger on his skin.
A small smile
touched is lips, letting old memories of the scar surface and chase
in his mind's eye. The scent of white plum, soft of skin, and deep
unreeling eyes twinkling up at him from years ago. The man, this
samurai let out a long breath, making some of snow swirled and dance
around him once again.
His deep blue eyes closed and reopened,
scanning the dojo once again. He might wonder why or how he came to
such a peacefully place. Images of a young woman, full of fire and
love, deep sky blue eyes looking at him, full of an untiring kindness
and fierceness made him smile. Anther of her holding a brokken in the
dojo training hall, sweat beading on her forehead, and dark streams
of silken hair held back in a pony, made this man smile even more,
letting the warmth of this image fill his eyes and body, driving away
any cold he had felt before.
His small hand let go of the blade handle, anther image playing in his mind, still making of the feeling of the woman grow even more. A young boy, just between the edge of childhood and manhood. It would seem to the man with in the last year, the boy had begun to grow at a rapid speed. His bones growing, letting his limps become lackey, but with well defined muscles from his training of the way of the sword that protects. His wild hair had grown, and no matter what the young man did, it would remain on tamed. Very much so did his deep brown eyes hold a spark of life, and determination to be the best. And yet, it was when he looked at the red haired samurai, his eyes shown nothing but respect and fondness, much of that of a brother would.
The small man let out a soft chuckle, letting the image of the young man play in his mind. Then, his other friend, anther young man. One hard of fist, still good to his core, had let man heal, knowing he could have friends with fear of his past. Where the swords man was small, the man was tall, where the red head was calm and humble, the rooster head was unreel and argument on all things. Often, running head in into danger, ready for a good right. Like the small man, he too had tasted for life of battle, lost, and finding himself. Still, his fist and body where his weapon of choice, eyes often meeting those with no fear, and shining when with friends.
In all these thoughts of friends, the samurai smiled, gentle in all nature. His blue eyes looking back, seeing the outlines of his family in the house. The argument over who got the last bit of cooking. Still, the fighting was heard with an undertone of laughter and love. This once wondering samurai let a word come to his lips as turned and walked back to his friends. One he held in his heart for ten years. Home.