"The paths in front of you lead you to your old self or to death."
His small and delicate fingers slipped against the walls of the dojo. Those that were faithful witness to the birth of a style that marked the beginning of its history or perhaps of the horror that marked an era. he turned his gaze towards the center of the room where an altar sat. And he could not pay enough homage to it with the shame he carried on his shoulders and it hurt.
"it's my father's sword" said a voice behind him, it was that girl again saving him from his memories. "and those are mine" he said pointing towards the altar, looking at her again. A smile curved kaoru's lips "this is a dojo, this room is the perfect place for a sword". he smiled slightly, she was right, that place was the right place for a sword, a practice room, the school of a hired killer.
He took his sword in his hands, wondering how it could seem so heavy now, and of course it was heavy, the infinite victims who saw their lives cut short by its edge, the rivers of thousands of villages stained with the blood of its victims. A tear fell on the sheath, awakening him again from this epiphany, returning him to the dojo and that instant, that instant in which this girl with jet hair, with large round eyes snatched the sword from his hands, returning it to its rest, taking away the weight of all the deaths inflicted.
Ignoring his identity she did not hesitate to receive him and heal his wounds. "surprised he turned his gaze towards her, his eyes fixed on her pupils, those words imprinted in his ears like a tattoo.
Kaoru smiles at her and with his fingers he wipes away the trace of the tear that rolled down her cheek. "welcome" he said softly as he walked away "make yourself at home, we don't have many luxuries, but you can take a bath, I had the water prepared for you".
He left the practice room, that place was huge, he wandered through the corridors until he found the room that gave off steam from the hot water, they had left him new clothes and bandages. slowly he undressed leaving the history of his scars in plain view.
They say that scars are traces, traces of a life that perished before yours. a witness of survival, others say they are memories. that those who create them leave the memories of their life imprinted in your flesh. as if it were another way to continue living, something like a kind of resurrection. as if you were the phoenix of your victims.
She frowns at the contact of her fresh wounds with the hot water and releases her hair as she submerges herself completely in the vat. she comes back out and looking up at the ceiling her mind slips into memories, but more than memories, nightmares of an event she wished she could have avoided, but life gives you lessons, it puts people in your way, in your destiny to teach you to value and recover something you have lost.
"no matter how much it hurts you inside, the dead can never come back".
they say that a wound that is made with rancor never heals and he made his life the will of his enemies. once the edge of a sword, in a dark night caressed his cheek leaving an imprint with blood and a name that he called love.
and suddenly the water vapor that moved and swirled under the roof of that dojo took him back to death, back to the day he had decided to tear out his own heart to eat it and give it as an offering to those he had offended.
as he crawled through the snow once he discovered the betrayal of the one he once loved, while with each step life escaped through his clothes in spurts, she hid herself, that woman with sad and serene eyes. his heart turned to ice and the wounds with the cold hardly hurt anymore, he could hardly feel any pain.
that day, blinded by confusion, fear and excessive love, his sword scourged the body of the one who had managed to make him lower his guard.
And again, he stopped the heart of another victim, one more death waiting for him on the other side of that river of blood he dreamed of every night. a new weight to carry, a new name to mark.
He shook his head, waking up. the warm water had made him sleepy. while he was getting dressed he was unable to bandage his wounds properly, his mind, still dizzy from the memories, took away his strength and concentration. at that moment, the doors opened and kaoru entered. "Let me help you. And he just remained silent, while the skillful hands of that girl went over his wounds. she noticed that she had to sew again one of his wounds, which had come loose.
"I am here to pay for all the lives I have taken."
No one can count the wounds, as he can count the deaths caused with his sword. no one can dance this waltz of darkness, for he says that darkness and this weight should be no one's responsibility but his own. No one shares his ghosts, nor his nightmares. no one goes deep into the confines of hell as he did and declares his love for unhappiness.
but as she with her needle and thread sewed up his wounds, she seemed to sew up that hole in his heart as well. and with her smile she thawed his soul, until for a moment he felt that there was a small chance.
and in her dreams, while she dried her hair, that river with all those deaths waiting for him seemed to move a little further away.
"all those deaths can no longer reach you."