.
Shinta limped around the smoking ruins of the villa. Filthy, wearing only a tunic, his hair cropped and carrying only a sword, he looked like a thief. Others on the path - peasants, refugees - ducked their heads to avoid meeting his eyes. One old man whom Shinta recognized as a servant from the villa sneered and laughed at what he saw as the former samurai's misfortune.
There were soldiers, too. Enemy soldiers, visibly stationed in formations around the hillside, watching the villa burn. If they saw him, they would attack him. Shinta would fight. Shinta would kill.
To reach her.
His body was racked with pains from his injuries, his weakness, his hunger.
He sought the next straggler he saw and murmured, "Please."
The woman darted away in fear.
A peasant hut in the distance. Shinta approached and knocked. The door opened, and a short man with dark features peered out. Before Shinta could even bow, the man inside rushed toward him with a knife, and Shinta reacted in his panic. He fought with his sword sheathed and finally struck the man aside his head.
A woman inside was watching with her hand clamped over her mouth, two small children clinging to her knees. Watching as her husband fell.
Shinta bowed as deeply as his aching body would allow. He spoke to the dirt at her feet. "This unworthy one has no wish to harm you. I deeply regret striking your husband. I am hurt and I am a traveler. I seek a shrine in the mountains. I will offer you whatever I can if you will help me. Please."
"You are a thief."
"No. This sword is mine. I was a samurai."
"You killed my husband."
"He is bruised. He will recover."
"You are running away. You will bring soldiers."
"No one is searching for me. ...Please."
"We have nothing."
"Please. I will starve. Please."
The woman shook her head, but then she opened the door wider. She said, "Help me bring my husband inside."
Shinta helped to drag the man to his mat and arrange him comfortably. The woman gave Shinta a bowl of porridge. An egg. A warm, dry spot on the floor to lie on.
When Shinta awoke, the man was sitting over him, carving a piece of wood. His children pressed close to his side and told him, "Our brother woke up!"
The man glared at Shinta, who scrambled to bow and became dizzy.
"Sir-"
"You have rested, traveler. Now get out of my home."
"Sir, if I can do anything-"
"The best a man like you can do in times like these is to leave."
Shinta bowed deeply, stood, and went out the door.
The woman caught him as he stepped away and pressed a dry cake wrapped in leaves into his hand. She whispered, "Pray for us, stranger, when you reach the shrine."
"I don't even know where exactly it is. Just that it's an old, abandoned shrine somewhere in the mountains."
The woman nodded. "There is an old shrine. It isn't far. Take the first path you find that enters the foothills, and keep climbing as you go. It's in a crevice in the mountains where there are always at least a few patches of snow. The winter goddess lives there. Please pray to her to spare us her anger this season but to be generous with her waters for the spring."
"Thank you," Shinta answered. "I didn't realize... that people could be so kind."
The woman shook her head. "Just go now. Take your sword and your troubles and give them to the gods."
.
Kaoru continued to climb the path with the others. She placed her hand on the cart and lent her strength to pushing it. She stepped over the roots and the rocks and the twisting vines that cluttered their way. She smiled gently to her fellow travelers and spoke kind words.
The path was dreary and dark - brown, rotten wood and dank green leaves, glistening mushrooms and mosses. Chill mists as they climbed.
Kaoru could see only snow.
She moved with the others, and she smiled, and she spoke, but her mind was a blank, quiet, blinding white whirlwind of snow.
.