Title: Rusted
Author: dahar
Series: Rurouni Kenshin, Jinchuu arc
Summary: Kenshin, sakabatou chained beside him, unable to atone and unable to protect, gives himself over to the blood he has spilled. Completed one-shot character study, Kenshin's point of view.
Category: Angst/philosophical
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through volume 24, chapter 207, of the manga, or halfway through the Jinchuu arc
Disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin belongs to Watsuki Noburhiro and others. No profit was derived or intended to be derived from the writing of this fanfiction.
Author'sNotes: Written all at once on February 11, 2006. Placed in Rakuninmura (the Place of the Fallen People) between the end of chapter 207 and when the others find him in chapter 208.
Japanese terms: shishou, master/teacher (i.e. Hiko Seijuro); sakabatou, reverse-blade sword; Jinchuu, earthly justice.
Rusted
I have chosen to kill no more. The choice has made me stronger than I was. That has been tested; that is sealed. Shishio, Saito, my shishou -- they may never agree, but they are my witnesses. Choosing to live -- that, too, makes me stronger. That, too, has been proven.
That, too, is no longer relevant.
I no longer kill. But I have killed, oh I have killed, before. That can never change. It was for a cause, it was a bloody birth of a new era. No matter. The blood remains. The blood matters. It wells up in my footprints wherever I go. It runs down my blade, even my sakabatou, virgin of murder, and leaves it so heavy I can barely raise it. It is in my dreams. It is in my eyes. It is in my tears. There is no grief that is innocent.
Rust is time's dried blood. No matter how we clean it, it returns. It is never gone, only hidden.
I have made the times roar with blood. Let me sit here now, and let them take their vengeance upon me. Upon me. Let their rust fall upon no other. Let no other fall in my wake as I walk on.
Not again.
Bind me. Imprison me. Take my blood and change it to frozen chips on tainted metal. Not theirs. They are innocent.
I no longer kill by my hand, but the blood follows me, will always follow me and choke those who come too close. Invisible, like scoured rust, it clings to me and stains all I touch.
I learned this before, and forgot. Not again.
Let time catch up at last, let it freeze me and stop my breath with its wounds.
I have killed. People may forgive, but time does not. Blood cannot. Let my sins fall only upon me, not upon those who seek to guide me to forgiveness I will never deserve. Even the seeking brings more blood, and yet more.
White.
Purity wrapped in mystery. Plum blossoms on snow. Hope.
Indigo.
Soft silk. Warm eyes. Life grown sweet again.
Rust devours them all, effaces all colors but its own, all textures and images but its own.
There is no grief that is innocent.
Rust me here. I cannot atone enough; the well of blood goes down too deep for me to drain if I drank its bitter salt a thousand years. Let it take me, then, hold me, coat me, let it bring down its wrath upon me and not upon those who are only steeped in blood from touching me.
My death will not atone for what I did. That, I understand.
But still the blood follows me. It always will.
I will leave no other footprints. I will stay here, let it pool about me, drowning no one but the one man at its heart. My guilt will not make amends. My grief will not heal.
But let my tears run, and rust me in my place, and dead time, dead at my hand, have me at last.
Fin