It was a quiet night, crickets softly chirping in the gardens as the man knelt in the room. His head was bowed, his hands folded in his lap. His long ponytail, the colour of autumn leaves and burnished gold in the candlelight, fell over his shoulder. The man was still, almost unnaturally so, every line of his body drawn taut. Two swords sat on the floor before him, the hilts stained with a thick, coppery liquid.
Kenshin stared at the wall, violet eyes half-closed, muscles cramped and aching. He tilted his head to one side, now looking at the envelopes on the lacquered table before him. Another night. Sighing, he rose, gathering up the little black slips of paper and tucking them into his sleeve. He closed his eyes fully, jaw tightening. I do this for you, Katsura. Always, for you. For the dreams that dance into your head. When you are so passionate...it almost makes me feel alive. For you, and the world that you will create. The Hitokiri Battousai opened his amber eyes and slid the swords into his obi.
He opened the shoji and slipped out into the corridor, another shadow in the dark hallway. Making his way out of the inn, he avoided the other Ishin. I see them turn their heads then quickly look away. Do they think I'm blind? Do they think I'm deaf? 'The hitokiri who makes the sky rain blood.' 'The fey, tragic child-killer.' There must be a poet residing here, his lips quirked into a sad half-smile, inspired by tales of bloodshed and darkness. Do they talk about nothing else? Oh, when I'm not around, it's all about women and dice, but when I enter the room...
Silently opening the gate, he slipped out into the night, hand on the hilt on his katana. No paper lanterns lit the darkness, no candles pierced the gloom. There were none of the usual flotsam- drunks, thieves, yakuzas, prostitutes. It was like the end of the world. Yes, this is what is would be like. Black. No light, no voices, just the endless shadows, rolling and uncurling. Everything just faded away, the world painted black.
Amber eyes narrowed, the hitokiri slipped from one rooftop to another, focused on his target with an almost inhuman intensity. This was a mind stripped of anything spare- spare thoughts, spare words, spare emotions. Bleak, metallic, cold. Battousai unsheathed his katana, dropping into a low crouch as he descended. This was the moment. The metal hits the meat. He could taste metal in his mouth. Kenshin could never quite, however much he tried, block out the scream, the crack as ribs snapped under the force of his blow, the steady drip-drip of blood.