I don't know whether this could be called a drabble, or if it's a one-shot. It's almost too long for a drabble, but too short to be a one-shot…Drabble-shot? (That almost sounds like an alcoholic beverage of some sort. XD)

Anyway, whatever this is, here it is. For the record, I was in a horrid mood and listening to Papa Roach's "Scars" while writing this. (Explains the cliché title, at least.)

Don't hesitate to tell me if this one sucks – I haven't had any of this stuff beta read.

Disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin is the creative property of Watsuki Nobuhiro and all companies affiliated with its license.

Trodden Path
Rurouni Kenshin
by D. Reed

Scars

The last person he'd shared his past with had died for it. Kenshin wasn't about to let that happen again, not if he could control it. After all, he was cursed for his crimes. This self-inflicted curse shouldn't have to hurt anyone else.

But this time, it was a little difficult to keep his troubled past behind him; he hadn't exactly been coherent when he'd shouted her name over and over. The young farmer and his wife who cared for him during his roughest hours deserved at least an explanation in exchange for their kindness, although he really didn't want to tell them.

When he'd promised to protect the villagers from a band of vicious thieves who had terrorized the region for a while, he hadn't expected talent. The new Meiji government hadn't organized law enforcement well enough yet in these rural areas, so a ragtag gang wasn't uncommon.

This particular group, however, were hardly simple ruffians. He had been a fool to underestimate them, even after he'd sensed their strong ki. Ex-Shinsengumi were the last people he thought he'd meet in the middle of nowhere.

And – he quickly realized – nearly two years without decent training or opponents really took its toll on his technique. He lacked a certain awareness, an edgy crispness that offered the Hiten Mitsurugi style such grace… and brutal accuracy.

In short, although he clearly beat the bandits, he was hardly left unscathed. Shortly after reassuring the village leader that they'd been taken care of by proper authorities, he'd collapsed.

The blood loss caused the high fever, he was told later. He was lucky the fever hadn't killed him.

But now he owed the couple a reason why he was so disturbed in his sleep, and why he hid the x-shaped mark under a rectangular bandage. Why he was so jumpy and frighteningly cold during his delirium. Why his small body was littered with brutal scars unrelated to the most recent scuffle.

Why he had called her name so often in his sleep.

And so Kenshin told them. After a while, it began to hurt – both in his body and in the vacant pit in his chest. He hadn't wanted to be a killer. She shouldn't have died. They offered him sympathetic gestures and stares. He felt too humiliated to let the stinging tears overflow, too open, bare, and raw.

A week passed, and his wounds turned into more puckered white records of his life. He thanked the couple for their hospitality before he left, apologized for his burden, told them to take care of themselves. They bowed in gratitude for his aid, told him they were more than pleased to be of service and that he should visit any time he was nearby. He nodded, though he knew they'd probably forget about him by the time he circled back by this stretch of road.

As he stiffly made his way from the village, he grimly noted that his scars – though steadily healing – were still tender.

500 words.