Hey people! It's been a while since I've written something S7, so yeah...this is just a random piece of writing. Honestly though, Katsushiro gets no love. I do not own Samurai 7. I just like to write about it :D This fic basically starts with Episode 10, "The Journey", and stops at the ending with the last episode, "The Era's End".

He was just an apprentice. An apprentice to the finest art he had ever known—the art of swordplay. Every glimmer, every wonderful, shining gleam of the samurai steel engulfed him—set his blood hot with a fire of adrenaline. There, deep in the conscious of his mind and soul, was a fighting passion only to be felt from the hilt of the sword in his hands, a feeling that could only be felt through senses of touch and response.

One slash, another. Fighting, fighting for a purpose.

At last, a question was asked to him—from his master.

What is it that you protect?

He wanted to be ready for war. His mind was set—to be able to take on whatever hindered his path through the troubled times. That was reason enough.

That reason alone wasn't good enough. Was there something deeper?

He was then reminded. The village he sought out, to save. Then the girl. The village, her people who agreed to let her seek out seven—he found his reason.

Sometimes we only see clearly on a lense of pain.

Yes. They were his reason—she was his reason. The voice of his master was still fresh in his ears. The deep voice was still present in his mind. He figured from the first time he saw her, helped her, from the time he was shot, wounded and sick, that it was for her. Yes, she was for sure his reason for staying, for fighting. He would never turn from her, he would never desert her, or her people.

No, he lived to protect her village, he fought for her. He wanted to gain knowledge and skill. All of these he figured would bring her closer to him. The scent of battle? But he was only an apprentice. An apprentice to the art and code of the samurai, the warrior—bushido—but after all, he was still an apprentice. Never once had he thought of the eyes of his master. Then the eyes of the girl he had sworn by his sword, his blood, his body, to protect. After all, he was an apprentice to the art of love.

He never noticed the looks she gave the master, not the apprentice. He was preoccupied.

The scent of battle.

This was what he wanted, for this was what he thought she had wanted. Him stronger, weathered and experienced. Maybe she would see that he was changing, all for her. But he was only the apprentice, and not the master.

It was time to stop thinking; they had now approached Winged Rock.

The weather changed, leaves fell. Brisk, cold winds arrived in their wake. More fires were made, more coats and scarves were worn, and the day's hours were becoming less and less. He fought on—he struggled, they all did. Now their were only six left. One had died with a smile. The apprentice would never forget that smile—humility: the modest show of one's own esteem, and self-worth. The smile of a humble, self-satisfying death. An honorable death, never to be forgotten by him nor anyone.

He was an apprentice. Now he longed to be more—wasn't that his reason?

She had answered with silence. He wanted her to love him. To protect her, to love her?—now she cast him aside! All for his master.

The battles, the war—they dragged on. Of the seven, now only four remained. He was aided by the grinning deity of the rice. He had seen one die right in front of him—his sacrifice. The apprentice had seen him fall, he had seen the crimson blood splashed and dripping from his torso as he was trapped against the column. A contemptuous anger filled his heart. They would pay for this.

One slash, and then another.

Indifference.

The gun was now in his hands. He had good intentions.

His eyes were now wide with shock. He wanted to save his master—his sensei. The bullet sounds raged on, even after they had stopped. Samurai should never be allowed to use guns. They were not honorable, they were cowardly. Blood now dripped from the blonde warrior's lips, the holes from the bullets in his chest splurged blood, his dark red apparel was now an even darker shade. It was unbearable. The last mumble of words emitted from his mouth, he was now lying on the floor.

The determination to live echoed his last words. Determination—that he would carry on.

The war was won. The enemy was done, dead, lying in the deep crevasse made by the affects of the war. Three were left. Only three.

The mechanical samurai, he had the most noble death of all. He had saved everyone—they were all indebted to the dead. The dead paved the way to their liberation—the village was now saved due to them. The last of them living didn't want it—they did not win. It was only the dead who saved them all. And for that, they were all grateful.

Building began, ice started to fall. It was now winter.

It hurt to see her day by day. He could not leave, nor would he, in such cold conditions—for that, he was confined to stay until spring came. Day by day he would watch her from the corner of his green eyes, she would stare at him with a longing that was familiar. He would sit in meditation, he would be in the state of monotonous, but he could still sense her stare.

So once the war was over, only now she would pay heed towards him!

He figured that his master had rebuked her wants, much like she had rebuked his. Irony's cold hands had played their part in the unrequited. But would he return her love? He was no longer an apprentice, but now a full samurai.

But he was still an apprentice to love. Forever, he'd be an apprentice—he felt that he could never turn away from her, but he also felt that he must, if he wanted to continue on. She didn't need him before, she wouldn't need him now. It was too late. It was almost time.

He left in the middle of the night—the moon was high in the black sky. Stars gleamed his path, the white lights of the heavens—he went to the flag. Six circles, one triangle, and the kanji for the farmers. He looked at the graves. They had given up so much. The swords of the befallen stand noble and proud, and so pride fills his own heart at them—his friends, his comrades.

Kikuchiyo-dono.

Kyuzo-dono.

Heihachi-dono.

Gorobei-dono.

He gives a silent prayer, and then his ears prick, someone is near. He tenses—but is now at ease. She's behind him now.

He stares at the moon and speaks.

The scent of battle. To please you, I yearned for it.

He hears a gasp then turns.

But to get it, I had to deny my heart.

She is crying now. For him. But his time has gone. He must move on, and so she must. He's not bitter, he's accepting. He was just an apprentice.

His master now comes. He places the experienced sword in the apprentice's hands. They were now equals—so he leaves. He walks past his master, he walks past his love, and he now walks into the forest of the village.

Katsushiro Okamoto had no real destination, but only to leave that place.

I tried a new writing style for this. I don't know...like I said, just a random piece of writing on my part. Katsu's my favorite character, so yeah. He needs some more love. I mean, he accidentally killed off the character with the most fangirls (Kyuzo), and got rejected by the chick he loved for someone who was old enough to be her dad (Kambei). Haha please review, would be greatly appreciated! Please point out typos and the like, that would be nice. Thanks!