With thoughts uncertain
I stand by a distant shore
Waiting for answers
The grass waved to and fro, rustling, a victim of the restless wind. The breeze carried over the landscape, ever onward, finding neither rest nor peace. Darkness had fallen upon the land, encompassing it in a temporary blanket until the sun was prepared to once again rise the next day. The bright gods' eyes that were the stars beamed down from above, casting a serene light on the otherwise unlit world.
All was quiet.
Nearby, the sound of a running stream could be heard over the breeze. If one were to look into it, one would see all that is wonderful about the world reflected back at them. It was hopes and dreams, forever running onward, forever chasing, never stopping for a moment. It was life, running always in one direction, ever onwards, until it had finally taken its course. It was kindness, the great current that swept up everything else, good and bad, and carried it away with it. It was the heart, so full of all of these other things, so deep that it just barely kept from overflowing. It was pure.
Where he rested, there were no reflections, and when one looked up, all that is malevolent about the world would be looking back at them. Sullen and lifeless, he leaned back against the wooden wall that supported his weak carcass. Balanced against his shoulder was the sakabatō, beginning to show signs of rust from unuse, restrained by a large chain. There was no wind. There was no breeze. There was no stream of running water. No life. No kindness. No dreams. No heart. No purity.
All was quiet.
Yet there was no peace.
This was a different kind of quiet.
Heaps of junk lay in all directions, as far as the eye could see. There were no buildings, no shops, no markets, no small communities. There were no neighborhoods, no forests, no roads. There were simply walls. Forlorn groups of people huddled at selected spots all over, making little noise. They sat by the remains of fires, in circles, speaking of both something and nothing in particular, not attempting to move or think. Some wandered aimlessly, searching for something and yet nothing at the same time. It was as close to death as a living being could come. It was akin to Purgatory. A single three-beam arc stood at the front of this miserable encampment, made of used wood that was rotten to the core and could barely stand. On it was mounted, with a single nail, a small sign. It proclaimed, in onyx-colored kanji that had been burned into the small plank that formed the top beam, this melancholy establishment's purpose to the whole world.
"Fallen Village."
It was a place, a single location, where those who could not be saved went to live out the rest of their meaningless lives in despair, loneliness and isolation, but most importantly...quiet.
And there he sat, deep pools of darkness that had once been bright eyes clouded over with dispair, loneliness, and self-inflicted isolation, hunched over and gripping the useless sword in the manner of one who is dead, whose hand can not let go. He clutched it and sat, unmoving, as he had for a time unknown to the gods themselves. Visitors had come and go, old friends had attempted to penetrate the stone barrier of his unmoving form. Hidden within the dark recesses of his mind, he had silently waited for them to leave, never twitching. He was secluded in the quiet. The sakabatō, a microcosm and mirror of its owner, had not moved. It no longer had a purpose. It seemed to be decaying. Just like its owner.
It was lost.
He was lost.
He had done this to her. Brought her to Death. She conspired to have him killed, yet fell in love with him anyway. He had found rest, peace, and reason within her arms. The scent of blood he so often cowered from had been replaced with the ever-present fragrance of Hakubaiko. In the folds of each others' arms, they had found forgiveness. In each others' lips they had found comfort. In the futon they intimately shared, they had found relief. They had lived a good life, free from dispair and pain, unbothered in a small lot in a village that nary a living soul visited. He had played with the children, and they had taught him to forget his pain and her to smile. They were happy. But he had brought her to Death. And as she lay dying in his arms, she silently made a swift gash in his cheek, forever a momento of her and all that he had just lost. And then she smiled. She told him it would be okay. She told him not to cry. And then she faded away amongst the bitter cold of the night. He had brought her to Death. The anguish over what had happened to her consumed him and drove him to a life of wandering, a life of vagrancy.
He had remained like that for 10 years before his traveling led him to a bustling town. It was there that he had met a young woman who reminded him so much of her. She held the same compassion, wore the same-colored hair, similarly kept a single, all-important purpose. Most importantly, this new young woman brought him relief from the pain, just as she had. Gradually, he had found a place in her home and her heart, and she had in his.
But in the deepest recesses of his mind, where his exausted soul now hid itself, she always reminded him of her, for those same simple reasons. And perhaps it was for those reasons that he had not anticipated the coming of her brother.
He came with swift vengeance, losing no time in announcing his true purposes for revenge, his personal Jinchuu. He lost no time in gathering a small army and forbidden weapons. He lost no time in launching his attack.
As he slumped forward, losing himself and letting the sakabatō rust by his side, he came to the conclusion that his worst mistake was not being quick enough. He knew what would happen to her. But he was not fast enough. He could not reach her side on time. His strength already drained, all he could do was dash back to the dojo, sword hanging limply by his side, until he reached her.
She lay there, slumped against the wall just as she now was, a slight glaze over her beautiful, constantly gleaming eyes. Her hair, tied up as it always was when she was focused on a task, draped down over her shoulder. But it was unable to cover the crimson blood that stained her gi. It was unable to cover the cross-shaped cut on her left cheek, from which blood was slowly running. The sword that was embedded in the wall through her chest, sticking straight out into the air like a bold signal of Death's visit, was what he could not tear his eyes from. And he could do nothing but fall to the floor, crying out her name in pain. There was nothing else he could have done. He was not fast enough. He didn't protect her.
This time, he had not brought her to Death. But he had allowed Death to come to her.
And it was for this reason that he now sat, back slouched and slumped over, all traces of life eradicated from the empty shell of his body, in the godforsaken place known only as the "Fallen Village," with a physical chain around his sword and a metaphorical one around his heart. He was still alive in the recesses of his mind, alive enough to realize just how tired he was. His only wish now was that Death would come for him, too, and give him rest.
They all came to see him, to talk to him. The beautiful doctor from Aizu, who he had rescued from a tyrant. The fighter for hire from the "false army," whose rage he had quelled with kindness. The young boy whose father had been a samurai, who he taught to be strong and kind to those who were weaker. Even the young girl from the restaurant that admired him, and recognized his place in that young samurai's heart. She had come to beg for him to wake up, after the doctor had left, after the fighter had hit him, after the young samurai had told him that he wouldn't be coming back.
But he hadn't woken up. He was too tired.
He wanted no more.
He only wanted rest.
So he continued to sit there, chained to the Fallen Village, his soul as empty as the night by the stream he had envisioned, but devoid of the wonderful pleasures embedded in that night. In his mind, he stood by that distant stream, uncertain, waiting for answers.
He was too tired. And so he resolved to sit there, waiting for an answer. The answer that had alluded him, after he had killed her, after he had allowed her to die.
It was an answer that, no matter how long he waited, might never be found.
But he would stay there.
Waiting.
I will keep waiting
Although I know in my heart
I won't find answers
Fin
A/N: This is a revised edition. I deleted the original chapter in order to preserve this one-shot-ness.
Review and tell me what else to change if it doesn't suit your tastes. I'm quite proud of it, though. To those that did not read the first, don't worry. It's the same contents with improved material in this one. I encourage constructive criticism just as much as praise.
Also, if you want a new sequel, you know what to do (it starts with re- and ends with -view).
I can't lie, though. I must admit that whether you review or not, I am depressed over the end of the RuroKen manga and am possessed to make a sequel either way. It might even become a one-shot trilogy. Review or PM or e-mail me name suggestions for the sequel. It will deal with Kenshin's realization that Kaoru isn't dead, and his decision to go find her. I'm working with Return or possibly Realization. But I am open to all suggestions.
EDIT: It might seem superfluous, but I made three small edits to this story, which is why I have to repost it. Before I figured out how to do an ō, I wrote sakabatō the novice way—sakabato. Well, I fixed all three instances. It looks much better with ō.
LL