***DISCLAIMER***

I don't own anything-Rurouni. Just wanted nostalgia to paint it with words. Hope it reads pretty.

The AU changes are as backed-up by research as I can afford for a hobbie. The Ainu people's culture and struggle are way too complex to pretend a fanfic can cover any of it, so, take it as 'loosely-inspired' in historical and cultural elements from 1800's peoples that lived in lands currently identified as part of Japan. From a *total outsider-with-too-much-time-on-their-hands's* perspective.

Please enjoy at your discretion.

I

THE BOY

If anything, he could be thankful it happened so fast for them. ThebloodtheswordsthescreamsthePAIN. And then they hit the ground before they even knew it was over. But he was stuck there, for all of it, and he couldn't even lift a sword for dear life.

They had pulled him away, trying to make a run for it. They had tried to cover his eyes as the bandits caught up to them. She had tried to tell him to run, to live, to— But now he was deer-eyed, legs pinned down by her dead weight and the sickly thin gleam of metal about to come down right… between… his eyes…

Then it all turned red.

"You were unlucky, child," a deep, solemn voice announced as the sword now clanked against the ground next to the meat rag doll that just a moment ago had wielded it. In its place now stood a tower of a man, staring at him not with malice nor bloodlust, not even pity. He just stared matter-of-factly at him.

"The shogunate's laws have been lax since the arrival of the black ships two years ago. More and more self-declared ronin prowl as bandits in this area —" The boy started as the man jerked his sword, but it didn't even seem to register for him as he continued: "Some fate brought me here and I have taken revenge for you. But the dead will not be brought back to life by mourning or hatred. Such things happen every day, everywhere in today's Japan. You should be thankful that you, at least, are alive."

The man turned around to sheathe his sword and started walking away. Then he paused. The edge to his words now softer when he added: "If you go to the village at the foot of the mountain and tell them your story, they will care for you."

The boy didn't respond, couldn't respond. His eyes were still fixed in the pool of blood around the bandit's corpse.

And with that, the man was gone.

Only then did the boy notice the metal tinge lining his every breath. Only then he felt the silence crushing his head as the warmth of what had been people just mere moments ago started to disappear. He was drenched in blood, who-knows-where in the woods in the middle of the night, and he had no one left… The thought hit him like a rock and tears started rolling down his cheeks. No mom. No dad. No sisters. No friends. No nothing…

If I die here, it would be as if I never even existed.

He woke up to the sound of crows. Morning had crept in without him even noticing, but the flapping and cawing were harder to miss. It was all around him. He clutched the dead body on his lap as he tried to hold back the tears. Maybe, maybe they thought he was dead too…? He had held on to the body for whatever warmth was left in it during the night, and then he was so numb he just passed out. Maybe that was what dying was: Being so numb you couldn't even move any more…?

That thought didn't last very long though.

A sharp peck jolted him awake and he hissed, his hand bolting to soothe the sting. In an instant, the crows took to the air, their wings snapping furiously all over in loud protest before returning to their breakfast banquet. His stomach sank at the sight. Dozens of shadows fighting each other to pick, rip, gouge the flesh now ever so tender under the sun.

"No!" he cried when one of them started nipping at the crusty blood on the girl over his lap. He tried to fend it off seizing handfuls of dirt and pebbles and hurling them at the damn bird, but it came back for more over and over and over again. Desperate, the boy tugged at the girl, straining to even drag her an inch away from the murder. It was like dragging a bag of rocks, slowly tearing with every move. "I'm sorry…" He whimpered, feeling the skin of her knees and feet ripping, grating against the ground as if they were his own. It took all of him to pull her up and raise her knees just enough to stop it while the crow still pecked at her toes…

And then his arms failed.

He hit the floor. Hard. The full weight of the girl sent him sprawling backwards, her head coming down like a hammer over his chest, knocking the wind out of him for a second. Unable to catch his breath, he flailed, trying to wriggle out from under her. But as he did so, her head caught in his clothes, dragging her up along with him… He shrieked.

Her face was contorted in fear, glazed eyes fixed on nothing, tongue hanging limp from her gaping mouth. He scrambled away in a panic. That was not her, he thought; he knew those empty eyes, that twisted face. They were carved in the dozen bodies strewn around him. He gingerly crawled back towards her, his hand reaching out just to cower at the touch of the stiff flesh beneath his fingertips. His shallow breath pounded in his head, drowning the enraged caws of the crows. He reached out once more, this time more steady, almost tenderly. That was just… death.