Disclaimer: I do not own the Prince of Tennis.

A/N: I really want reviews. I seldom blatantly ask for them, nor do I expect to get them granted the stories I write - not as lovey-lovey or exciting as the average reader wants (I write more mature stories.) - so, when I do get them, I'm really thrilled. Reviews personifies the reader, gives a face to the visitor's number tracker in the details of the story.

So thanks to Luna Dragnoir for reviewing! I hope you like this chapter.

With regards to The Boy Who Stands Still, I'll either be updating this coming week, I promise. Because if I don't promise, I may not make an update ever again. Haha!

NOTE: Sakuno's a year ahead of Ryoma. Her birthday is on Jan. 14, his is on Dec. 24. The way I visualized their characters, the one year difference makes Sakuno look older, more mature than Ryoma. This is important when they regard or interact with each other.

Now, on to the story! Cheers! I hope you guys like the update.

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The Dragon and Horse

PART I: The Assassination

Chapter One

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Sakuno cried for the nth time that day as she fell on her back the same number of times. Before her, her grandmother huffed and shook off the tremors in her limbs brought by her old age. The old woman took a turn in the clearing, adjusting her senses to the immediate vicinity lit by the fragments of light seeping through the thick bushels of bamboo surrounding them. Her sword, engraved with the characters of her family's namesake, shone in the light with every tilt of her wrist.

"I - I can't do it, Obaa-san." The girl cried, close to vomiting whatever was left in her empty, unfed stomach. "I won't be able to make it without you." She looked up, pleading. "There is no point to training me!"

"We're on the run, Sakuno." The woman bellowed in frustration. "I need some assurance you'll live!"

Sakuno, unable to take anymore, broke down into a sob, everything - from the murder of their family to the sleepless nights running and running away - resurfaced in her mind as an horrific living nightmare.

Her grandmother throws a dagger next to her; making her scurry away in surprise and fall yet again.

"The Katana may be too heavy." Her grandmother said with not the slightest sympathy in her eyes. "Let's try again."

With her mouth sour and eyes stinging from tire and grief, Sakuno turns to the knife beside her and reaches out with a trembling hand.

"Get up!" Her grandmother yells, jolting the girl with shock. In an instant, Sakuno is on her feet, gripping the short hilt of the weapon with her shaking hands. Her grandmother's eyes narrowed. "Fix your grip." She said, throwing the dagger off Sakuno's grasp with a mere slap. Quickly, the girl picked it up before her grandmother could yell at her again. This time, she tightened her grip. Still again, it was effortlessly slapped away. "Dammit! Pick it up, child!"

The girl freezes from the pressure - from her grandmother, from having to cope with her recent loss, from having to survive without sleep in fear of the assassins after her and her grandmother's life.

It is then that Sakuno broke down. The girl sobbed, her jaw chattering, her shoulders hunched and shaking, frozen in fear and trembling horribly. Her face was covered with grime, sweat and tears.

Sumire paused at the sorry sight of her granddaughter. The gnawing fear that disguised itself as anger and disappointment slowly subsided. In that morning, she felt as if it was the first time she's seen her granddaughter - the wailing child on the ground. And with the realization that Sakuno's anguish was her doing, her senses dull. Her tight grip loosens. And her katana falls to the ground.

Never in her life had Sumire cursed her children for failing to train her grandchild in her absence. For today, she would have to carry the burden of their lack of foresight on her weapon in Sakuno's stead.

With a heavy heart, the old woman bent to pick up her katana and sheathed it. Walking in quiet steps towards her sobbing granddaughter, she knelt before the child, her expression gentle and sympathetic.

"Gomen, obaa-san." Sakuno continued to cry, shuffling to wipe away the tears falling down her red cheeks. "Gomenasai."

Embracing her granddaughter, the old woman hushed her, calmed her down.

"I can't." The child choked. "I can't make it."

Her grandmother pulled away from her and raised the girl's chin. Her sharp, steely eyes that's seen enough deaths to last lifetimes, that's filled with the secrets of the earth, that's taught with the wisdom of the gods and goddesses, gazed onto the trembling, frightful hazel orbs of her granddaughter – this young, scared, and weak girl in her arms.

No longer, her eyes spoke in secret to the child's spirit – to her chi. You will no longer be weak.

Then, finally, the old woman parts her lips to speak.

"You can." Sumire said and would continue to say until Sakuno finds the strength to utter it herself. "And you will." The tears wouldn't stop flowing from Sakuno's eyes. "Promise me, Sakuno."

Without knowing nor grasping her grandmother's wish, the girl nods. Her eyes fill with uncertainty – at the old woman's request, at her fate. But, she nods. And she nods again.

Soon after, they depart and continue with their journey home.

"Obaa-san." Sakuno weakly called out, eyes on the hot cup of tea warming her palms. She and Sumire had stopped in a small eatery for their first decent meal in days. Dango and tea. "I've never asked but," Her grandmother turned to her. "Who is trying to kill us? What—" Her voice breaks. "What is it we did?"

Sumire sips on her hot tea, it's warmth flowing through her system calms her.

"The shift to the Edo period means a shift of power. Those that rose with the shogun happen to be our enemies." The old woman says simply.

"And now, we must die?"

Sumire nods and Sakuno loses her appetite, not that she had much to begin with.

"We've made it so far because it has been mostly bounty hunters after us. Those lot are mostly untrained and without talent in battle. But, I gather it will take merely a single honed samurai to end our journey." Sumire fights back a self-deprecating laugh. "I'm not as sharp as I used to be, child." Then, she continues pleadingly. "Which is why I need you to learn to protect yourself."

Sakuno looks down, thinking for a moment. And this time, when she turns back to face her grandmother, she tells her finally with surety, understanding, and conviction.

"All right, obaa-san." She says with a quivering voice. "I will."

Before long, they return to their journey and check into a cheap hostel for the evening.

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It was a few hours before midnight when Ryoma arrived at the busy village market. Although the night was pitch black, the many lamps from the stalls around them illuminated the streets generously. He walked straight ahead. His head tilt to keep his kasa hat's shadow over his face, affording him stealth through the bustling village. His eyes narrow and focus before him, at the sight of a man in dark garb approaching him with the incoming crowd of travelers. The boy keeps his palm open at his side and, as he and the man crossed paths, took the inch-long parchment into his robe from the other's hand and went on his way as if no exchange had just occurred.

By the night food vendors, Ryoma opens the note and glances at its contents before throwing it into the fire.

Kurosawa's Inn, second floor, second room.

The man fanning his sale of charred seafood skewered onto bamboo sticks glanced at the boy lost in thought.

"Shounen." He called out. "What'll you have?" He ventured to ask amidst his already surrounded station.

Ryoma turned to the man, his expression failed to reflect his surprise at being called out to. Eyes lowering to the skewered goods, the young man nods curtly and steps over.

"Squid, oji-san."

The old man nods, adding a squid to his grill. Ryoma took a step aside while his dried squid was being grilled. As he did, he bumped into another customer. Irked, he tilts his head to glance to his side - ready to glare at the man beside him to keep his distance. But, he hesitated upon meeting a pair of surprised doe eyes. Full lips, a porcelain face, and rosy cheeks greeted his sight. This was no man, he realized. He was about to apologize when the young lady spoke in a soft voice. Their proximity required a mere whisper amongst the crowd of hungry travelers.

"Gomenasai."

His gaze lingers in hers, bright hazel orbs looked into his in a mixture of wonder, fascination, and tire. Dazzled - captured by the light in her eyes, he continues to watch even as she turns away - handed her purchase. She leaves then. And he is left staring at her figure as she vanished with the distance and away from the market lights.

A light bump from another patron removes Ryoma from his stupor. He turns away from the dark alley and eats his skewered squid. He later disposes the empty stick on his hold into a crackling bin of fire and heads to the inn where his target was waiting.

Upon arriving, he casually enters, without mere question from the innkeeper - who was most likely intimidated by Ryoma's proud gait - a true marking of any high born, and stops in front of the room indicated by his clan's informant. He studies the atmosphere, the presence in the room, its movement, and - finding none, slowly slid open the door. He enters into the unlit room and waits for his target in the shadows. Before long, Ryoma hears light footsteps approaching. The young samurai notes two pairs of shuffling feet - both light in step. The boy breaths out and keeps his hand over the hilt of his sword.

Then, the door opened. And in a single second and fluid act, he unsheathes his katana, slices the gut of the man who first entered, and, in a second flawless stroke, stabbed the chest of the old woman behind him who was donning a silk kimono and an intricate flower arrangement on her hair. The instant Ryoma pulls back his sword, the blood and veins of his victim clung on in a grotesque clump. The woman drops dead on the ground, profusely bleeding and writhing. The boy, senses now filled with the metallic stench of blood, pulls out a piece of cloth from his kimono and carefully wipes his sword clean. He stands and quietly makes his way out of the room. Then, before he left - his mission complete, slid close the door behind him.

In his escape, he swiftly makes his way straight to the next floor - to the room to the corner with the balcony opening. His step was light and fast. In an instant, he is in front of the room leading to his escape and - he pauses seeing the light within lit. Quickly conjuring a plan, the boy takes a calming breath and - amidst his thumping chest - sits on his heels before the sliding door. Then, he knocks lightly on the door. As it slowly opened, he bowed his head in respect.

"Konbanwa." He greets, his voice soft. Then, he lifts his head and finds before him a young man similarly seated as he is, head bowed as well. "I'm a wanderer and humbly ask for shelter, shounen-sama." The hazel eyes before him widens in surprise at his request. Then, Ryoma acts - feigning destitution with a self-deprecating smirk. "I've already been refused by the other guests. I pray my fates take a kinder light under your care."

Almost instantly, the partly-opened door is slid fully open in welcome. And Ryoma is amazed at either the young traveler's naivety or good-heartedness.

"Please come in!" The boy cries, quickly sympathizing with the stranger. As Ryoma enters into the sitting room, the ignorant boy shuffles around, preparing tea for the night's unexpected company. Then, as he offered to fill his guest's cup, he notices both the short sword and katana on Ryoma's obi.

"You're a samurai warrior?" He gasps. Then, brows creasing, continued. "But you're just a boy." He uttered in a surprise overwhelmed by a pity that irked the young man before him. After all, the witless young man was in no position to judge Ryoma's character. Seeing from the boy's build, he himself was no warrior. That, and the fact he was lodging in a worn hostel, was enough to identify him as a mere peasant, an individual of much lower status than any wandering samurai – let alone a high born such as his guest.

Ryoma grew irritated with every passing second. The boy who opened his quarters to him stubbornly refused to leave, urging to keep the piqued assassin company in the common area and was even in all smiles. His obliging disposition amidst his social standing was getting to the young man's nerves.

"Please, don't let me keep you from your night's rest." The young warrior grits. His plan on escaping during the boy's sleep was taking a longer detour than anticipated. He initially considered killing him, the petty boy with the wide doe eyes, but then decided against it. Ryoma kept to the Bushido code strictly – kept to the way of the warrior. The young man may have a temper, but he never let it get to him.

"It's no bother at all." The boy continued smiling, so much so that Ryoma started to wonder whether there was something wrong with his brain. Then, before the irked Ryoma is able to stop him, the young man initiates conversation. "Where're your parents?"

Ryoma's dark eyes scrutinize the boy, figuring out his character. Then, finding the boy a young fool with feminine features and soft movements, conceded at the aimlessness of the endeavor. If anything interested him about this peasant boy, it would be the feeling of familiarity Ryoma felt with him. That indeterminable recognition the young warrior couldn't place.

"Dead." He answered and kept himself from rolling his eyes at the gasp of the boy.

"How horrible." He says. "I- I lost my parents recently as well." Then, hesitates before adding. "This war is horrid. Everyone just ends up dying for nothing."

Ryoma glares.

"My parents died fighting for what they believed in." He grits, then realizes that he didn't know where the defensiveness came from.

"Oh." The boy hides back. "Sumimasen."

"If the world was cruel to you – it must be because you're weak." He adds in a lashing tone. "Had you had ideals, you wouldn't be struggling blindly— you wouldn't go on saying people are dying for nothing."

Hazel eyes widen at him. Ryoma struck a nerve.

With a self-pitying rise of his red lips, the boy conceded. "You're probably right." Then, raising his head lowered with the grim realization, asked. "Which clan did you come from? Must have been a remarkable one."

"It is." Ryoma replied, offering no answer to the boy's inquiry. Not that the latter minded.

"Are you on your way back?"

Ryoma nods.

"My grandmother and I are on our way back to our village as well." The boy offers with a smile. "To Sakura, Chiba."

Ryoma looks up, the province ringing a bell to his ear.

"Grandmother?"

"Oh, yes." The boy grins. "She's been out at the baths." Then, mulling something over, said. "You'll probably get to meet her," Ryoma's eyes narrow, puzzled by a piece he can't place. "She should be back by now."

Then, before Ryoma is able to make out the growing nagging sensation at the back of his mind, footsteps stop right outside the room. Ryoma turns as the door opens.

"We have to leave-" Came an urgent voice with the opening of the sliding door, revealing a strict looking older woman with a katana hanging from her obi. Noticing company, she turned to the pacified Ryoma in surprise. Like clockwork, the gears in Ryoma's head shifted. And in that same instant - he rises, about to unsheathe his sword when the old woman screams in terror.

"GET AWAY FROM HIM, SAKUNO!"

To be continued within two weeks.

Thank you for reading.