of others
In the beginning, there was a brave boy and a gleaming blade in the heavens.
And drawn to its radiance, he rose ever higher..
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Much appreciated beta-ing by lolo popoki and musicsage92, thanks you two.
Oh, a little hint, connect the seasons.. :D
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At last, the clearing breathed free, released from the spell; skill and strength, sheer power and god-like execution. The dragon ceased, winded. He ended his dance.
He could once more hear the rhythmic monotone of the water cascading soundly, steadily ahead of him. Bodily he drew away, separating himself from it. He dropped his gaze as ki seemed to dwindle and overlap and merge—the ripples, an arm's length away, reacted, obeying.
A smirk, characteristic and familiar, made its way to his lips as he turned and headed back. The swish and billow of his cape followed closely by the crashing of a swell of water. His grin only grew as he retrieved his precious jug from its high perch.
Strides strong, he seemed to enjoy the treacherous, dipping, rocky pathways that meandered up and down as he made his sure way back home. The slight autumn breeze tickled his long hair and ran cool fingers across his sweat matted face and neck. His eyes shone, hard and clear. The sake jug at his side was musical and inviting.
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He rose slowly, depositing the platter of half-eaten, boiled oats beside the steaming pot of miso soup. His gaze sharpened, boring into the worn curtain that filtered in what little light gained entry to the cluttered up cabin.
Even this light dimmed, a soft shadow had stolen across the drape. Geta were visible beneath the fraying hem.
The cloth was bunched up and slowly drawn.
A delicate seeming face peered in between the doorframe, his head a torch in the summer sun, a mix of hot glass and cool gold. Soft nightshade eyes stood out in the cool shade, unobtrusive, friendly and not the least bit frazzled by the stern gaze that Hiko held him in.
The large man shoved past the redheaded swordsman, for indeed a blade rested at his side, very much a part of him, and out through the doorway before his mouth could shape out the polite greeting.
Kenshin stood upon the doorframe, a smile firmly plastered on his features, though his eyes were lowered as if in defeat. He made to open his mouth once more but was silenced by a raised hand from Hiko, who grunted a curt order and walked away.
Kenshin entered the shack in silence. Feeling cold in the sudden gloom.
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The climb had grown easier for Kenji.
Though he'd never admit it, just when he'd begun to second guess this "adventure"—the steep gradient and the treacherous rock face drilling the danger into his inexperienced mind—did the climb ease.
The slope gently undulated, an easily followed track leading steadily higher. Hemmed with sparse, short trees and thorny bush.
Fatigue had caught up surely as the adrenaline from the demanding climb drained. It didn't help that he hadn't slept the night before, and had been walking for hours, long before daybreak.
He had made up his mind to not stand "another mindless ramble of that stupid loud woman" and had stubbornly followed through, slipping away from the Aoiya in the relative silence when the residents had gone to bed. Skirting a few alleys, he had re-entered the brightly lit roads of the big city.
Kenji had, en route, decided to climb the mountain that was so often in Yahiko-san's tales. Though he learned that things in the distance were easier seen than reached by the time he arrived at the bone gray foothills.
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He reached the legion of cotton plants, panting, gasping for breath. The expanse ahead was like a field of green spears decked with clotted downy mist hailing the departure of spring. He looked behind, eyes darting in desperate search. No sign of his pursuers, no life to be seen nor sound to be heard. The soft unending whispers of the stalks ahead remained undisturbed.
His fingers tightened around the saya at his side.
Sweeping a large palm across the first of the green stems, he dove in.
The shadows of a nearby stunted oak seemed to elongate and darken, defying the morning sun. Two figures robed in shades of liquid black glided across the grass and merged into the thicket.
The cotton stalks parted lazily as he pressed through, his long black mane skimming the tops, often tangling in the near ripe, milk white, tufts of lint. They swayed and heaved in dizzying, close-knit rows of bright green and cream, near silent as he rushed past. He craned back his neck often, though the same hazy sight met him each time.
With a small effort he tuned out the continual crunch of the shoots as they snapped underfoot, the fresh grass scent filling him deeply. But eyes hardened with each step, for his goal was near, seemingly an arms length away. He clutched at the tall plants and shoved clear a path.
His body tensed all of a sudden. He had felt a shiver run along the rows ahead and around him, as a dark shadow flickered in and out of his vision, only visible by the stark contrast of its surroundings. His face blanched further.
He crashed through the last of the rows, attempts at stealth forgone, and stumbled out of the whispering wall.
A short stretch of grass lead onto the base of the mountain, rising from the ground like bleached bones sullied, grayed with time. He made a mad dash.
The air howling in his ear seemed to tense for a second. Obeying deep-set instincts he dove low even as the low whistle—metal cleaving air—reached him. He caught the twin flashes speeding away, glinting in the sun.
Coiling up, he bounded off the turf. And abruptly stopped.
Two solid figures stood in his path, feet away from the first stony outcroppings. Seeming, more than anything, out of place in their black garb in the swiftly brightening sun.
For a second the risk at hand was forgotten and the boy's lips curled in a sneering smile, as a cutting taunt nearly made its way out. With a light shake of the head, he stopped, inhaling deeply.
The boy met their leers and held it, resolve strengthening.
They knew well that he would not scream for help.
They drew their blades in response to him drawing his. Not a motion wasted the boy noted.
Already he was running through the short span of training he had had under his father, no his master, "Shishou" he intoned.
Ruing the day he'd fled these very mountains, he sunk into a haphazard stance—arms raised high, shoulders squared, feet planted forward—a passable imitation he hoped.
"Drop that, boy!" A silken whisper snaked its way to his ears. It came from behind, he noted, his composure fading fast.
"Put it down and we will make it swift, easy even. You won't feel a thing." The voice croaked out, harsh towards the end, touched with unease.
The boy felt it too, that presence. His brows arched, as his eyes darted up along the stony path.
The man behind him had already broken into a gallop, as the boy reacted, turning to face him. But before his eyes had reached the man, a deafening roar rooted him. In the next instant he was flung flat out on the ground, breath knocked out and ears ringing. He hadn't been touched, but had felt the power surging in the onrush of wind.
He opened his eyes uneasily. Willing the nausea to pass. His ears, if they were not mistaken, had heard a voice in the thunder. KUZU RYU SEN
He shook his head to clear the buzzing while his eyes slowly re-adjusted. Hearing a sickening skleach, they widened. The faint sound of thick liquid dewing the grass was all too clear.
The world flooded back.
He reached out his arms to the ground and rose, eyes still lowered, glued on the deer-hide boots in front of him. His gaze slowly traveled up the jet-black hakama, till they reached the redlined hem of a white banner like cloth, long and flowing.
The boy watched horrified, taking in the sight between the man's legs. A bald man lay sprawled on the edge of the cotton field.
He bled idly from the forehead, torso and legs, where large, red-stained gashes, opened up under chunks of missing cloth, farmer's clothing, covering the familiar black. A farmer's flimsy wicker hat lay next to his left arm that was bent at an inhuman angle. The plants nearest him were weighed down and dyed, seemingly grown red from the steadily growing pool around the body. Flecks of flesh dripped off of the pristine green.
Furrows clear though light, lead to him, from where he must have last stood as he charged, to where he had been hurled, where he lay now.
Lay still, lay dead.
This was nothing new to the boy, he hated it all the same.
He winced at the shnickt—metal flowing into metal—filling it.
The giant of a man turned. His cloak billowing at his wake. He made long strides, without sparing the large boy a glance.
He followed the man with his eyes, pleading silently. Head shooting down to rein the nausea as he sighted what must be the remains of his other pursuers.
The man had already reached the rocks, without a backward glance. He craned back his neck, slightly, gray-green eyes narrowing, brushing aside strands of raven and gray, he sized up the boy.
Encouraged the boy made to follow. But the man turned away, speeding up.
"Sh-shishou," the boy uttered mutely, shrinking from his strangely unfamiliar voice.
The man stood for a second, "kuso" he spat out.
The silence lengthened.
"So baka, you are back."
It wasn't a question. The boy muttered inaudibly, eyes glued to the ground. He missed the man's slight smile.
"You don't expect me to carry you up, now do you?" The boy looked up hopefully.
"Hurry up, dammit!"
His eyes lighted up as he followed his master in scaling the small, near vertical rise. The path ahead was easier. And he knew that large able hands waited, ready to lend themselves whenever he truly needed.
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Kenshin seated himself in the low stool that he had retrieved automatically from its old nook Noting that though many unfamiliar shadows loomed, he could, here and there, sight his past within these four walls. He wondered whether he'd always feel this apprehensive on returning to his old home.
But Kenshin had come with good news and with the firm resolution of delivering it with a smile, regardless of his Shishou's reaction to him, or it.
He heard Hiko clear his throat audibly before he entered. And was shocked enough to nearly gasp as he caught the expression in the man's face, his sharp eyes also caught the two saucers housed in the big man's left palm, the cords of the large jug in his right arm were inevitability. The transformation however was passing, for the moment Kenshin produced a visibly expensive, slender flask from the folds of his gi, the old smirk stole back on his master's face.
Kenshin felt a self-conscious strain as his Shishou completed a quick inspection, taking in everything from the primly tamed red locks, to the gravitating new gi and the unstained near dust free hakama. The bottle cradled in his hands was the crowning touch.
"So baka, you're back?"
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He was dead tired by the time the sun had warmed enough to toy with the sweat drenching him. The cool breeze, with its chilly hint of summer's reign swiftly slipping, that had numbed him all night was a blessing.
His breath came shallow as he mounted a man high boulder. The stony path eased out ahead—a near even stretch of rock, untouched save the skeleton like remains of a dead tree and a small unkempt shack.
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A/N: Salvaging is going strong, but its tiring work and I don't see many actually missing Ashes. In the meantime, a bit more of the intro of Creation.