I don't own RK, but I love the series too much to say this is a Shinta/Hiko fic.
I started the 'Tales' series about a year and some change ago. Then life came, did its thing, and left a bitter mess full of guilt to finish up the job. Which I just-can't. That world, grim as it was at times, it's just too bright. But I still had a story to tell...

And thus, BORO was born.

Boro (n.): Japanese practice of mending and patching.
Boroboro (adj.): Tattered, worn out, crumbling.

You won't find the white-clad zen-dad Hiko here. Nor the pure-hearted romantic samurai that was Kenshin. Here be a fraud and a broken boy, tangled by their fraying ends, in a world where you must carry on as long as you aren't dead. So, if you so choose to follow their story, ***do mind the content warnings*** and please enjoy the characters as their own thing.


***CONTENT WARNING***

Mentions of child traficking, rape and graphic depictions of death.


THE BOY

He was six when he first felt hatred. Marrow-deep hate—one that a waist-high boy with unruly hair and a near-toothless smile should never have felt.

Maybe wouldn't have, if anyone had tried to care.

It was one of those nights when darkness fell all at once—no moon, no stars. Beneath a leaden sky, deep into a somber mountain pass, an ox cart dragged him and a string of girls toward the next post town. There was no rope or chain around their wrists—the strain of raw and aching feet from a full day's walk, and the silent threat of the boss's men and their clubs were enough to keep them in line. And they couldn't stop—wouldn't stop. Out there in the dark, every rustle and creak hid fangs.

Grandma had told him as she sewed by the fire.

He tried to hush his shallow breath as he peered beyond the glow of the caravan's paper lanterns. But the underbrush was thick, like a wall all along the sides of the road—broken only by patches of darkness that the lanterns' dim glow couldn't pierce.

Then—a glint caught his eye.

He tripped and fell before he could catch himself. But fear hit harder than the ground, and his heart slammed against his ribs as he scrambled back.

The girls pulled away all around, looking down on him. His shoulders crept to his ears as he tugged his hood down hard, fearing even the tiniest tuft had slipped into view. They didn't like when it peeked out—his blood-red hair.

The groaning of the cartwheels died out. The girls fell silent.

He froze.

Wide shoulders swallowed what little light there was around him, the ground trembling with each closing step. He curled in on himself as two thick-ankled feet stopped at the edge of his vision. He didn't dare to anger any of them—the boss's men.

"Tch—What's wrong, ya useless whelp?!" The big, full-bellied man spat, his thick-fingered hands curling around a club, squeezing till the wood groaned.

The green-purple bruises in the boy's back flared in panic. He glanced back at the underbrush, and the words poured out in a rush: "I— I thought I saw—"

"Don't go usin' none o' that gibberish with me, damnit!"

The boy flinched. Cruel chuckles rose behind the big man. Stupid. Oaf. A waste of a son. The old words echoed again in his mind. Eyes hot and prickly, he shrank deeper into himself.

Impatient, the man's thick fingers yanked him forward by his hair—but the fabric of his hood gave first, tearing away. He fumbled desperately to hide himself as a wave of uneasy whispers rose around him.

"Get moving or else, ya little freak!" the big man barked, and flung the torn hood to the ground in disgust.

The boy cowered under the frayed fabric, torn beyond repair. Unease turned into contempt as his hair still poked into sight. The big man growled. Whimpering, the boy braced for pain—already feeling his fingers snap under the club's weight.

But instead, pink petals swirled beside him—a curly-haired girl in a flowered dress, crouching low at his side.

The boy jolted back. She was the oldest one, a bit over twice his age—there to teach them how to make the grown-ups happy.

Her lessons made him squirm inside, but she never got mad when he or the girls didn't want to do as they were told. She'd tell them to close their eyes, then whisper dreams of soft beds and polished rice, soothing them as she went on with her teachings.

He'd cling to those dreams, to how her hair brushed against his face just like Mom's used to. To how the tiny petals of her dress looked so much like snow falling outside at home.

The girl didn't seem to mind how he struggled not to shuffle away. Instead, she brought her sleeve to her teeth to tear off a thin strip of cloth.

Behind the thick tufts of red hair, his gaze darted nervously between her and the big man. Him and the rest of the boss's men were on edge most days, but that night they looked ready to snap without so much of an excuse.

Still, the girl went on to thread the pink strip of cloth into the hood's seams, sewing the pieces together with the help of a pin. The rest of the world shrank around them, her hands steady and fast as if she were at home.

"It's all good now," she whispered, putting his hood back on with a firm little tug. His cheeks burned.

He muttered a response, though the few words he knew were too broken to make sense anyway. Sure enough, she stared at him, tilting her head. Then her gaze softened, tracing his face as if searching for something—even curling a stubborn lock of red hair around her finger before tucking it beneath his hood. Then, closing her eyes, she smiled. "C'mon, say: 'Thanks, big sis Sakura,' yeah?"

Something warm stirred inside him—but grinding sound of the big man's gritted teeth made him wither.

"Thanks, big sis," she insisted.

He echoed her words, a clumsy smile tugging at his lips. Her smile widened in turn.

But the sharp smack of wood against thick fingers snapped them back to the road.

"Quit yer messin' about! Ya can slack off after yer off the shelf!" The big man raised his club, his knuckles turning white around its grip.

"Easy now," the boss drawled from the cart, not even glancing their way. "Damage the goods, and you foot the bill. You can play with the whelp when we get to Nozoki."

The big man grunted and let his club drop to his side, but his glare lingered with a glint that made the boy wither. The cart started creaking forward again. Dread pooled in the boy's chest, drowning him. His hand balled on Sakura's sleeve as he sought her gaze with wide, teary eyes. He didn't want to get to Nozoki.

She looked down at him, just as lost for words as he was. Her eyes darted around his face—he could see his own reflection, bone-white as all blood drained to his feet. Then, something flickered in Sakura's eyes.

"You'll be okay… I promise."

He wanted to believe her. He really did. But a sharp rustle behind them made the three of them pause.

That wasn't the wind.

The big man turned at once, ready to set any stragglers straight.

Behind a row of bald, grinning statues, leaning like drunks over the cedar's roots, a long, thin glint flashed in the dark—a jagged blade, catching the light like a rotten smile.

The boy's breath caught.

A shadow emerged from the woods. A wild-haired, broad-shouldered monster covered in armor, its leather so gouged and pierced that there was no way the one who wore it could still be alive. But its single eye still gleamed—hungry, burning—like Grandma's stories.

That was no wolf or bear—that was a Wen Kamui.

"BIG SIS—!"

More monsters broke from the woods around them with disfigured faces and gleaming eyes. He swallowed a scream as Sakura yanked him into her arms. Wooden clubs in hand, the boss's men rushed in—but they were done for as soon as they clashed against metal. Pushed down with monstrous strength, blades and pikes went through straight to the bone.

The lanterns swung wildly. Sakura slipped toward the caravan, dodging shadows as if the jagged black edges could tear at their feet. Screams coiled around them as the girls clutched at each other, tugging and rearing until they hit the back of the cart. The ox bellowed.

A thunderclap cracked through the air. The boy flinched, ears ringing loudly as if the sound punched through him on its way toward the Wen Kamui. The girls cowered in terror. The few men that remained—even the Wen Kamui paused.

The boss stood in the middle of the road, wild-eyed and disheveled, pointing a long, thin stick at the monsters like a sword, but without trying to swing it. Smoke curled up at its end. The monsters reared in anger while stubbornly holding their ground. "Die!" the boss roared, and whipped the stick once more. The boy tensed, waiting for the crack—

But nothing happened.

Shaking, the boss' knees bucked as blood drained from his face. He squeaked curses as he frantically fumbled with the stick—His long fingers tangled with themselves until—

It slipped.

Wide-eyed, the boss watched it on the ground, wedged in the bloodied mud.

And the boss just… bolted.

For an instant, silence struck girls and men and monsters alike.

Then, the caravan unraveled.

The ox reared, the cart wheels carving their way downhill in its attempt to escape. The men who hadn't fallen fled. Even the big man, terribly pale and clutching his shoulder, tried to run only to collapse in the reddening girls scattered—some for the woods, others down the road. A few crumpled where they stood.

The Wen Kamui lunged at one of the youngest girls. She barely had time to scream before it crashed down, slamming her breath from her lungs. A strangled wheeze. A wild red mane over her chest.

"NO! PLEASE—!" Sakura shouted, jumping forward to protect the youn girl—only to fall to her knees as desperate screams pierced the dimming light.

Iron claws tore at the young girl's dress. The boy crushed his hands over his ears, his nails digging into the fabric of his hood. He had to run. He had to do something. But his feet wouldn't. His hands wouldn't. His breath wouldn't. He just watched.

Sakura had promised. She said he'd be okay…

Holding his gaze, the Wen Kamui's smile stretched to its ears.

The boy's skin crawled.

Hands in his ears, he looked around, desperate. The boss's men laid on the ground. The other girls screamed and clawed at the monsters in vain. Sakura wailed on the ground next to him, shaking. Blood splattered over and around them like a spiderweb.

His breath caught at the sight of dark metal half-buried in the muck.

The boss' stick.

He yanked it up, but it was so heavy. His arms shook violently as he tried to aim. It was his face he had to hit—right? Like Grandma's stories.

The Wen Kamui paused. And bared its teeth in a disfigured grin.

"Go on," it growled, mocking him. "If you can."

The words. They were words.

Not a snarl. Not a grunt. Not a growl.

Words.

His breath stopped short.

It… It spoke?

Trying to summon that thunderclap from before, he clamped the butt end of the stick as the boss had done. He shook it. Squeezed it until his knuckles turned white.

But nothing worked.

The Wen Kamui's eye locked onto him. Its ragged breath grew faster. Louder. The boy didn't dare move. Didn't dare blink. The girls' strangled whimpers fizzled out beneath it until it let out a long, satisfied grunt. The young girl's fingers twitched.

Once.

Then... nothing.

He couldn't look away. He couldn't do anything.

With a shrill laugh, the Wen Kamui stood, blood and sweat and more pooling under its belt. Then, it stepped forward.

Something curdled inside him.

He was next. He'd die like that girl. Like Mom. Like Dad. Like Grandma. It'd be worse than the lessons. Worse than a beating. Worse than his worst nightmares. He felt something warm trickling down his leg. It was going to hurt.

And this time, there was no one to help him.

Warm arms pulled him up, and the world started rushing away. He stumbled in a daze, seeing more than hearing Sakura as she ran with his arm in her hand, screaming. The pine-lined road turned a dim red, then black when the lanterns burned to cinders on the ground.

The Wen Kamui chased after them. The jagged paving stones bit into the boy's feet. His legs gave in.

Turning her back to the monsters, Sakura curled over him, clutching him tight against her chest. Her tears matted his hair, her locks brushing his cold cheeks.

Heavy, uneven footsteps grew closer. . The ground trembled beneath them.

The Wen Kamui yanked Sakura up by her hair. She stumbled, flailing wildly against its grip. Her lips trembled in a silent plea, her footing giving way.

"You have to run. Live!" Her voice broke into a soft whimper. Hot tears burned down the boy's cheeks. He started shaking. "Please—!" The words bled over her dress with a wet gurgle as a sickly-thin blade went through her throat.

A strangled breath came out of his lips, but no words came with it. Sakura crumpled over his lap—blood pooling on his legs, thick and warm and frothy as she writhed like a fish gasping for air. Please get up, please get up, please get up…! His chest heaved, tighter, tighter—until his lungs could hold no more.

The scream tore through him, raw and gut-deep. He yanked at Sakura's shoulders, clutching her dress in white-knuckled fists. The Wen Kamui cackled.

She locked onto his gaze from his lap, her eyes wide and glassy. She mouthed a breathless wheeze. Her lids grew heavy. She fell silent.

His hands fell limp at his sides.

'Shin... ta?'

Who—?

"Now, little brat," the boy heard the Wen Kamui smile, lifting his sword over his head. "You can scream if you want."

He didn't even look up. He knew it was going to hurt. It would hurt so badly… But who was Shinta?

The blade came down. It all turned red.

Whose name was that?

The sudden clank of metal against the ground made him snap. The Wen Kamui was still where he'd last seen him, not a foot closer. But something was off.

With a muffled, wet pop, the monster's eye widened. Its legs buckled, slouching over the boy. Its hands—not claws—trembled as they clutched its stomach, where a dark blot spread around the tip of a sword. As the blade withdrew, the monster crumpled down.

His breath hitched. The armor was just leather. The red mane was just a wig. The arms and legs sprawled around it like a rag doll made of meat. A doll that had not one, but two eyes. His stomach turned.

They weren't monsters—they were men.

"You were unlucky, boy," a deep voice announced. An ogre. No: a tower of a man. The stranger stared at him from above without rage nor warmth. Just looked matter-of-factly at his small, white-knuckled hands still clinging to Sakura's back.

He rambled on about something that had come—some black ships, whatever they were. How things were rotten. Broken. The boy stared blankly, the words too strange for him, his head too stuffed to even try to understand them anyway. He flinched when the man jerked the blood off his sword.

"I've avenged your dead. Go back to the village at the foot of this mountain. Get on with your life, be thankful that you, at least, are alive," the man finished, sheathing his blade without even looking at him.

Then the swordsman turned in his striped cape, and started walking away.

Just like that.

The boy's heart kicked into a bird-like frenzy—Please, don't go, don't leave. He tried to stand up, but Sakura's weight pressed hard on his knees. His fingers slipped, caked in bloodied mud, as he tried to grab a handhold—something, whatever he could to run after that man.

"Please…!" he heard himself cry.

The man paused. Looked over his shoulder.

And left.

That was the first time he felt it. Hate.

Monsters killed people—wigs or not. Bosses bought people. That's what they did. But that man. He could've stayed. Could've helped him. Could've cared. But didn't. He left, just like the boss and his men. Like Mom. Like Dad. Like Grandma. Anger burned sharp and hot inside his chest. They all left. Even Sakura.

Silence settled around him, cold and heavy.

He tried to wriggle his legs from beneath Sakura's weight one last time. But as tears pricked his eyes like so many needles, he stopped struggling. That man left and he would die there and no one would care.

But he had to be thankful.

He bent over Sakura's back, biting down on his hate.

Be thankful.