Bleach is not mine, my story is not for profits. All quotes (at each section header) are from The Voice by Celtic Woman. I apologise for the long but necessary preamble.

Need-to-know: the Boshin War was a battle between the Tokugawa shogunal forces and the Imperial Court forces that led to the Meiji Restoration and era. It began in the winter of 1868 (Keio 4).

Quick Dictionary:
There are many more terms that I used, but those not listed are either commonly seen or can have their meaning easily inferred from the surrounding text. If you have any trouble with individual words, consult Google. If you have any trouble with the setting like the history, culture or the calendar feel free to PM me and I'll try my best to help you.

Genpuku: coming-of-age for boys in olden Japan, occurs on one's fifteenth birthday.
Keio and Ansei: just two of the many eras of Japan
Ishin-shishi: imperialist patriots, party in favour of the Meiji Restoration
Odachi: long sword (over 3 shaku)
Shaku: unit of measurement, about 30cm/a foot
Wakizashi: short sword, like Ichimaru's
Hitokiri: title for powerful warriors with unrivaled power in the Bakumatsu
Toba-Kaido and Fushimi-Shigai: paths where the Battle of Toba-Fushimi took place

From the Earth to the Sky

Part I

"Listen my child," you say to me,
"I am the voice of your history."

He was cold. Crouching on the cold wood, he stole a glance at the sliding door behind him, listening on in slight envy at the gentle clinking of porcelain bowls and wooden chopsticks. He could feel his muddy tabi begin to freeze in the unforgiving late evening temperatures.

'Boy!' the sliding door was still tightly shut, but he knew that without a doubt the large man could only be referring to him.

He hadn't heard anyone call his name for as long as he could remember - he considered it a miracle that he himself knew his own name. It's Toshiro. It's the name that my mother gave me.

'Boy! Bring some water!'

With a sigh, he willed his fingers to stop shaking. 'Y-yes sir.'

The sky was a dull orange, the warmth of the afternoon disappearing over the horizon with the sun. Stepping into his oversized waraji, he shuffled carefully to the family's private well, trying his best to not rip the aged straw. Taking up the wooden bucket - it was better taken care of than he - he let it fall, grabbing the rapidly unwinding rope only when he heard the splash of the bucket hitting the water. Could it be, that cold water was heavier than warm water? It was so much harder to tug on the rope in winter.

Heaven only knew what would happen to him if he let a drop of water touch the polished wood of the house that he couldn't bring himself to call home. With red hands, he knocked on the door. 'Takenaka-sama, the water.'

It flew open more forcefully than he anticipated - he guessed it was what they called the strength of a samurai - and a large, calloused hand reached for the bucket.

'What's this?'

'W-water, sir.' He hated the way he stuttered, but loved the way the warm air was flowing out of the heated room, eager to engulf his entire being. 'J-just like you asked, sir.'

The man grunted, still peering with slight disgust into the wooden bucket. 'Get your shoes off my veranda, boy.'

He swallowed the gasp of shock, instead sliding himself off the wooden platform to leave the straw sandals on the flat stone beneath the house. Climbing back onto the veranda - it took much effort; it was cold, and he was small. He shuffled forward on his knees, afraid to let his muddy socks touch the wood. 'What did you say this was? Water?'

He nodded, focusing his gaze on the grain of the tatami in the room. The edges were trimmed with elaborately patterned fabric - mats that only the rich could afford, that commoners could only dream of touching. Nervously, he was fidgeting with the thin material of his hakama, not daring to let his gaze venture any higher than the flooring.

It was the calm before the storm. Takenaka Shigekata was a dangerous man - a skilled swordsman accompanied by power and money; a sharp tongue with an even sharper blade, a quick wit but an even quicker sword, and most terrifying of all was not his short hair but his even shorter temper.

'Do you expect me to drink tea made of such cold water?' He winced at the words shouted barely a distance away

He looked up, jaw slack - in surprise or fear, he didn't really know. Takenaka's face turned shades redder, and the man reached out to push his cheek non too gently. 'Don't look at me, boy,' he snarled.

Still reeling - he could feel a bruise forming on his face - he should have anticipated Takenaka's next action. The large wooden bucket hit him square in the shoulder, the biting winter water sloshing over his already cold body, the force sending him tumbling backwards off the ledge into the house's back garden.

'I have no need for a piece of shit like you. You should be thankful I kept you even after Saya's death.' With that, the door slammed shut.

He gripped the bucket - it was chipped now, so they would probably buy a new one the next morning - and crawled under the elevated flooring of the sprawling house, refusing to stop until he was a good few metres away from the edge.

Saya was his mother, and also Takenaka's favourite mistress - the only reason why he was still alive. He didn't remember her at all, didn't even know what killed her, but he had heard the neighbours commenting on the uncanny resemblance, and he could only hazard a guess to the reason behind Takenaka's hatred for his large green eyes. She left him a name, etched painstakingly onto a palm-sized piece of wood, and that he was grateful for. The five kanji characters on the wood were difficult for any other seven-year-old, but he could write them perfectly with his eyes closed if he wanted to. Takenaka Toshiro - he wondered what Saya's family name was, for the man was definitely not his father.

He moved - couldn't stay still for too long in the cold - fully aware that every time he crawled under the house, his hakama would turn a new shade of brown. But if he was right, it was the end of the week, and Takenaka would be taking a bath. This meant that the stove under the ofuro would be lit, and he could stay warm even by its dying embers.

For tonight, he conceded, he would be safe. (How close could he get to the firewood without getting burned? The heat was lovely, he realised with a twinge of guilt that his name dictated him a child of winter.)

Living day by day was the only way to get by. He would get through the night, fire or no, and when the sun rose again it would start over. Water. Food. Warmth. That was all he needed.

It was simple, really. Water came from the main entrance, where the mitarashi - a fountain for washing hands - was. He had seen it being used countless times. Take the scoop, rinse the right, then left, then right again. Rinse the mouth, spit in the drain; rinse the hands again, then rinse the scoop. But he had no use for that. Only people who came in from outside had to purify themselves. Having never left the compound, his muddy clothes and ratty hair were ironically clean.

So he used it to drink. The continuous splashing of the bamboo fountain in the mitarashi masked whatever sounds that would give him away, but he was cautious anyway, never letting the scoop hit the stone table audibly.

Food did not come as easily. On good days, there would be a fight between Takenaka and the kitchen servants - it occured more often than had to be healthy for anyone in the household, but it meant that damaged food would inadvertently be thrown out. Overcooked eggs, bowls of rice that had hit the floor, cold meat buns that flew off the tray, he took whatever it was. Other times, he would sneak into the kitchen, taking only items that couldn't be counted - handfuls of rice, pinches of shredded pickles. He couldn't take things that the family would notice. Some days, the growing emptiness in him forced him to fight the yard chickens for the scattered grain.

Keeping warm in winter was harder yet. Once a week, like today, there would be an open flame beneath the house, but other days saw him on the veranda, pressing himself to the shoji doors that separated him from the heated bedrooms of Takenaka and his family. His frozen hands would be tucked into his oversized sleeves, his cheeks red from the cold.

Just because they didn't care for him did not mean he wouldn't care for himself. He had the blood of one of Tokugawa Yoshinobu's powerful samurai Takenaka Shigekata running in his veins; he had been born to fight, even if he refused to acknowledge his relation to the monster that headed the house he stayed under.

He would get by.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. He'd been here for nearly eight years, he was already halfway to genpuku. Nobody could stop him from leaving when he turned fifteen in the tenth year of Keio - he was a winter child of the sixth year of Ansei, though the exact date eluded him, for calendars were complicated.

Winter was at its coldest, so he had another one or two grueling months to tide over; now was not the time to fantacise about the future. He lived in the here and now - it was only the third year of Keio, and who was to say that there wouldn't be a change in emperor before he turned fifteen? He vaguely wondered what other boys his age were doing, mildly envious of what he knew had to be a better life, but he knew he had to be content with the little that he had.

People were beginning to prepare for Boshin, the year of the Yang Earth Dragon - Dragon was always a good year, he had been told once. Dragons were always good. He, on the other hand, was a child of Kibi, the Yin Earth Goat. They said Goats had good fortune, but he had obviously been neglected - he couldn't help but always long to be a Dragon; they were always treated better simply because of the year they were born in. If he were a Dragon child instead, Takenaka might have even allowed him in the house on the cold nights.

He didn't know when he had fallen asleep, but when he jerked to his senses, the air was crisp and beginning to lighten. Reluctant as he was, he shuffled away from the stove, knowing full well that someone would come sooner rather than later to clear the charred firewood. He would curl up behind bags of sand in a corner of the drafty abandoned barn instead, where he spent the summer nights. On his hands and knees, a distant conversation between Takenaka and a man whose voice he did not recognise found its way to his ears. They sounded irate, perhaps slightly worried.

'There's been talk of an uprising against the shogunate,' the foreign voice said.

He stopped. Against the bakufu? Wasn't that the government? The Tokugawa that Takenaka was working for?

'In favour of the Imperialists?' Takenaka. He had never heard a tone other than anger or rage, but this Takenaka Shigekata sounded frustrated.

There was a gap in the conversation, before Takenaka swore. 'Damn, who does that Shimazu think he is?'

'Not just Shimazu. He has allied the forces of Choshu and Tosa with Satsuma. All Ishin-shishi patriots, they are.'

The sheer number of difficult words in the conversation made it hard for him to comprehend.

He shrugged it off, crawling on to the barn. He didn't need to understand the world to live in it, he just needed enough food and water to last till genpuku. Then he would finally be a man, not boy, perhaps people would finally call him Toshiro.

He would get by.

He would live.

But until then, he would be "boy".

.

'Boy!'

He flinched, but hastily pulled his sandals off and clambered onto the veranda outside Takenaka's private room, where the voice boomed from. Hurriedly, he folded his legs and sat back on his bony ankles, hoping that Takenaka did not speak for long - the seiza was quite painful for the creaky joints in his malnutritioned body. The man was frequently in and out of the house now, often carrying with him a katana and a wakizashi tucked at his side, with a tightly bound package of gunpowder. More perplexing, he would not return for days on end, but always returned looking more and more exhausted, not always without injury. He suspected this was all part of the uprising of the imperialists.

'Yes sir?' The air was warming up - the tail end of the winter of the Yin Fire Rabbit was welcoming the spring of the Boshin. Sometime in the past three months, he had turned eight.

The door slid open, one glance told him that Takenaka was neither angry nor drunk, and had his wife sitting patiently beside him.

'You will be helping the shogunate in the War,' the gruff voice informed him.

Well, this is new. He bit back any reaction, wouldn't let himself show the surprise he felt. Something heavy fell at his knees - new clothes.

'A uniform that will identify you as one of us,' said Takenaka, who calmly placed an odachi over the neatly-folded pile of cloth - the longest sword he had ever seen. 'And a weapon for you to take down our foe. Someone will be by in an hour's time, so be ready. Do not disappoint me, boy.'

He was still staring in shock and mild awe at the items presented to him, but caught himself in time to hear the short exchange between Takenaka and his wife.

'Are you sure it's alright to give him that blade? He won't be able to do anything for the shogunate in battle,' feigned concern from the wife - it sounded like she cared more for the blade than the battle or his life.

A snort from Takenaka. 'It's an easy problem. That odachi is over four shaku in length; even if the brat can lift a hunk of metal longer than he is tall, he is sure to be killed on the battlefield. It'll be the noble death of a samurai's son,' he spat the word as if the child was such scum. 'He won't interfere in our household any longer. It'll be a worthwhile gamble.'

So that was the plan? Get the troublesome child killed in war?

He was not going to die. He would disappoint Takenaka, no matter the consequence, because he was not just going to survive -

He was going to live.

.

'This the kid?' He could feel condescending stares from over the man's nose, taking in his obviously amateur stance - he was quite sure that real samurai did not have to roll up their sleeves, neither did they leave a trough in the dirt behind them from where his borrowed sword trailed with the sickening screeching sound of the sheath on the ground. Schooling his face into a stoic expression, he refused to laugh at the man's moustache - it would be rude, not to mention immature.

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Takenaka dismissed them with a lazy wave of the hand.

He followed the man's wide strides, finding himself out of breath before long -

But it would all be worth it, because he was one step closer to freedom from the Takenaka household. The roads were wide and straight, lined on either side with squat buildings not unlike Takenaka's own house; he was fully aware that his eyes were bulging and jaw was slack. There were types of food he had never seen before - meat skewered on a stick, dripping sauce messily, little coloured balls threaded neatly like beads onto a stick (the people of Iwate seemed to like sticks), but most bizarre of the lot, he concluded, had to be the rice packed neatly into fist-sized balls. (Did they not use bowls? Takenaka said only scum used their hands to eat. He didn't believe for a moment that all these people were considered filth).

A folded bamboo fan hit him on the head. Looking up at the culprit, the intimidating build of the large man with the indescribable moustache was looming over him very threateningly, though surely with their height difference the intimidation factor was necessary if he were to enter the man's line of vision.

'Don't get distracted. We're reporting to the police headquarters at Ichinomiya.'

'Yes sir,' he sighed, tearing his eyes from the street stalls and chose instead to stare at the dusty footprints left by the man whose name he had yet to discover - asking was probably out of the question.

When the police headquarters finally rose into sight, he knew there had to be a cloud of dust following him, and he was very conscious of the sheen of sweat that had plastered itself to him. Walking from Sannomiya to Ichinomiya was in no way a leisurely stroll, and he regretted not taking water before leaving.

'Nakagawa-san,' the guards at the gate greeted - so that was the moustache-man's name.

He noticed that neither of the two men in uniform spared him even a glance as they bowed deeply to Nakagawa. He was used to that.

As they crossed the courtyard to the building, Nakagawa spoke (his moustache moved as he talked, he noticed). 'Several sources tell us that there will be an attack here this afternoon. Eat, then ready your blade.'

Eat? The tall man - taller than Takenaka, whom he had always thought was a large man, but perhaps it had something to do with how tiny he himself was - tossed a small bundle at him. Surprising himself, he caught it in one hand and gingerly unwrapped it.

'It's rice, not a bomb,' Nakagawa chuckled. 'Sit down; it makes food tastier,' he gestured at the rim of the large fountain, which had a statue in its centre. So, nodding stiffly, he complied, slightly afraid of toppling over backwards into the rippling water. He knew he shouldn't eat too fast, but the rice was good, and he forced himself to chew slowly. If he was going to live like a real person then he was going to have to eat like one, not from the floor in the company of chickens.

It was in the middle of his musings that he was forced to drop the meal he was barely halfway through in favour of catching the sheathed odachi that Nakagawa flipped casually his way.

'They're here.' Upon noticing his crestfallen expression that followed the rice to the ground, he added, 'next time, eat faster. Take your sword, and fight for the Shogun!'

Next time. He wasn't going to let there not be a "next time".

The sword was heavy, but he could lift it. It was taxing, just holding it off the ground as he lowered his stance, waiting for the figures clad in black to rush at him. Extremely surreally, he could see more clearly - the light was brighter - he could hear the soft thumping of the dirt as loudly as drums as they approached - could have been his heart, though - he could see the twitch in the men's arms the instant before they reached for their sword - could it have been honed from the years of Takenaka's explosively violent outbursts of rage?

He wouldn't know. But this way, he could keep just half a step ahead of the attackers.

With the sound of straw against dirt, the first man cam charging at him - the man's sword was noticeably shorter than his own, he realised. If he could defeat this man with the long sword, he could take the shorter one. Maybe it would help him move a little faster, look a little less like the kid that he was.

The man's blade was still sheathed at his left hip, his right hand gripping the hilt just below the guard. He was right-handed, his torse facing the left - charging with the right shoulder facing forward, his sword arm at the ready, angled parallel to the ground.

It would be a horizontal strike, from the man's left to his right, which would be his own right to left. With some effort, he spun his odachi around, bracing himself against the tip-down vertical blade. The hit connected - his defense was successful, but the man was moving again, so he would have to as well.

He had to hold his sword with both hands, feet planted firmly on the ground right in front of the fountain - not really a good idea, in retrospect. But as he defended himself against the patriot, he was getting used to wielding a blade. The trick was to move fast. Once the hit connects with the defence, move. This man struck quickly, retracting quickly, so the next strike would be from the other direction, and he would angle himself for it. The shifting of the man's weight told him which direction to block, and the angle of his sword. He discovered that, with the weight of the blade, swinging it around was barely effective, so he had taken to using it as a pole, dodging behind it whenever the man lashed out.

He needed to attack, to be fast, or the fight would never end. He vaguely wondered how many patriots had attacked, and thanked whatever it was in the heavens that had chosen to look in his favour for once, for not allowing him more than one opponent on his first fight.

When the man raised his blade above his head for a powerful top-down slash - was he frustrated, not being able to land a hit on a child all this while? - he was left wide open. The boy knew he only needed to be faster. Leaving his odachi standing in the grass, he dove down between the man's legs, a move he had mastered through diving into the space under the house whenever Takenaka appeared. Without much hesitation, he grabbed the long sword's sheath from the groundand swung it into his opponent's manhood (he was short, he would hit wherever he could reach). And as the man spun around in a mix of surprise and anger, he jumped onto the fountain's thick stone rim, using it as a leverage to crash as heavily as his small weight could manage onto the man's shoulders. Planting all his weight, he jumped again, this time away from the fountain towards the ground. People with long legs fell easier, for their weight was higher up. Raising the sheath once more, he struck the attacker square in the back, who stumbled head-first into the freezing-cold water of the fountain. He winced inwardly when he heard the hollow impact of the man's head hitting the statue's ankle.

Before anyone else could descend upon him, he rushed to the fountain to grab the wakizashi and its sheath from the man in the its waters.

It was so much lighter. He could hold the blade in one hand, and the sheath in the other.

He looked up at just the right moment to see two more men clad in black rushing at him, swords raised. This time, he could be faster. He felt lighter. Jumping off the stone rim once more, he snapped the blade and sheath to himself, letting momentum take control over him as he rolled under between the two men.

The moment he was behind one of them, he swung his newly-acquired sword. It bit through flesh and muscle, tearing its way through the man's right calf. He quickly collapsed, releasing his hold on his katana.

If he didn't kill, or at least severely injure, his opponents, they would come back for him. And if he was going to survive, he couldn't let that happen.

I will live, and show them that I can be just like any of them.

Who was them?

What were they like, that he so desperately longed to be?

He shrugged the questions away to the back of his mind, stabbing through the palm of the fallen man's sword hand with his own blade.

The other attacker was eyeing him with caution.

'Who are you,' he growled. Not a question, but a demand.

He toyed with the idea of giving away his name, but decided against it.

'Who I am doesn't matter, does it?' He stepped over the moaning form of the second man he defeated, towards the other man. He noticed that he had involuntarily taken a step back.

'Did Tokugawa hire you?'

'Doesn't matter,' he retorted, his childish inflection giving him a tone of flippance.

The man was stepping backwards awkwardly, and he realised only a second too late that the man was stepping towards the neglected odachi that pierced the ground.

He couldn't get there faster than the man even if he tried.

Bracing himself to dodge, the man's next words stumped him. 'You have the makings of a hitokiri.'

Not shifting his gaze, he continued holding the sword in his right hand and the sheath in his left.

He observed as the man spoke again. 'But I won't let you! The Emperor will rule, not Tokugawa!' He had shifted his blade to his left hand, standing light on the balls of his feet near the odachi. He was going to grab the blade, and he was going to charge. He was going to take advantage of his greater reach against a child with a wakizashi.

Perhaps he could try the man's own strategy against him.

He stepped back, hoping that his large eyes would betray some notion of fear - it would lull the man into the trap of superiority and confidence. If the man was going to have an extended reach, he would just have to acquire one as well. He let his eyes flit nervously, combing his peripheral vision for the long sheath he had left by the fountain. Making his slow, seemingly timid way to the fountain, he had to stop himself from smiling upon seeing how the man was falling for his own trap, smirking as he gradually closed the gap between them.

'Don't worry, boy. Death will be quick and painless.'

His left foot touched the long navy sheath just as the man broke his stance into a charge. Dropping the sheath of the wakizashi, he pulled the extraodinarily long one up into his grasp as he ducked under the deadly swing of the man. While he was on the ground, he swung his short sword, dealing him a similar, albeit shallower, injury to his companion who still lay groaning on the grass.

The sword came bearing down mercilessly from above. He was too near for the man to hit effectively with that kind of swing. From the glint in the man's eyes, he could tell that the man hoped he would dodge, placing himself in perfect range for the killing blow. But we wasn't about to let him. From his position at the man's feet, there was only one place to go.

Angling the sheath he held so that it pointed straight up, he jumped up, smashing the end of the heavy makeshift weapon into his attacker's chin. The man's concentration was broken, his sword slowed mid-strike. Feinting around him, he ducked down and swept the sheath beneath the man's ankles, watching as he lurched towards the fountain, following a similar demise as the first man he had bested.

'I don't think so,' he replied, trying as best as he could to sound unruffled as he turned to face another approaching enemy.

He wasn't sure how long he had been fighting for, but he was aware that the third man he manipulated into the fountain was the last of the group of attackers. Nakagawa had probably finished off at least three times as many imperialists as he had, but he considered it an achievement nonetheless, until a large hand landed on his shoulder.

'There isn't going to be a fountain everywhere you fight. You need to be able to kill mercilessly to win.' And, as if to make a point, Nakagawa plunged his weapon into the gently splashing water feature, swiftly taking the lives of the petrified men in its deathly-cold water. Red tendrils blossomed gracefully, curling and spreading, flowers that these men would probably never receive at their burial. Swirling innocuously, the icy water was dyed a cold pink that bled quickly into an ominous red.

Hands together and head bowed, he wondered if there was anyone in heaven listening to their prayers.

'Your sword skills are good,' Nakagawa observed calmly.

He hummed in response, his gaze hanging on the heavy odachi and his hands lingering on the wakizashi. Deciding to abandon the sword that was taller than he was, he picked a standard-sized katana off the ground and tested its weight in his hands - it was still nearly as tall as he was, though.

'I have a deal for you. Be a kyoshu. Be an assassin for Kyoto. Don't fight for Takenaka any longer. Fight for the Tokugawa shogunate. For justice against the Ishin-shishi.'

.

.

Part II
I am the voice of the past that will always be;
Filled with my sorrow and blood in my fields

It couldn't have been more than half a year since he moved from Iwate to Kyoto, but the heavy late summer air informed him that it had. As an assassin for the shogunate, he had been given a room to stay in, and that he was grateful for.

It was foreign - he had a room, food whenever he asked for it, water from the well, clean clothes to wear, shoes that actually fit him. Everything he longed for just a short six months ago were at his feet, just as he was at the command of the Shogun.

Was it a good trade?

He always told himself that it was. It had to be.

(He couldn't help but wonder if he would regret forgetting his old lifestyle.)

Glancing out, the sun had set, and the summer constellations were high in the unlit sky. The chilly breeze that streamed lazily into the room indicated the onset of autumn in only a few weeks.

Another black envelope had appeared on his table when he returned from lunch that day. At one point in time he would tramble with fear, and then anticipation, overwhelmed by a roller-coaster of mercurial emotions, each one as ephemeral as the last. He wondered when he had been desensitised to being sent on assassination missions to slowly cut down the numbers of the imperialists.

Tonight, there would be a group of them returning from a celebration at the local bar near the market. He usually wasn't one to prey on the inebriated, but these were the Ishin-shishi. Drunk or sober, they stood in the way of the shogunate. Draining the lasts of his clear brown barley tea, he gathered his two stolen swords - fond memories, he liked to think - and left silently.

Kyoto was now familiar territory, though he had yet to decide to liken it to the back of his hand. He knew its darkest corners, its sharpest turns, and lay in wait. He knew he had to change his strategies soon - in the two seasons he had spent here, the reputation of a child assassin of Tokugawa had spread like an epidemic - the proud gazes of other samurai hardly descended low enough for him to fall within their line of sight, so he had the element of surprise on his side that gave him the upper hand. People hardly paid any attention to children along the streets, and he knew exactly how to mould it to his advantage. Yet now, with his growing reputation within the rumours, things would have to change. He would have to be more covert.

Stilling himself, he willed his heart to silence its beating. People - tall men, he groaned - rounded the bend, the wavering light of their lanterns leading the way and their lighthearted, slightly tipsy conversation preceding them, while the shuffling noises of dragging feet brought up the rear.

He would blend into the shadows, just another of the many shifting silhouettes.

Tonight would be five on one.

He would be merciless.

Without so much as a single warning, he sprang, catlike, from the shadows - straight out from a child's nightmare into the reality of Kyoto. His sword was drawn, raised high above his head; it came crashing down before the men could even draw their blades.

With the elementary, self-devised technique of wielding both the sword and its sheath at once, two imperialists were down. (Two souls had left their realm - he liked to think that they could be seen and spoken to; two families would be left devastated by dawn.)

He continued to lash out, like an angry animal bent on the prize, to attack swiftly and calculatedly, like a beast swooping in for the kill.

The number of men felled by his sword was unthinkable, and tonight, five would be added to their numbers.

He knew he was playing on their surprise - on their moment of weakness - that he had started an unfair fight.

Since when has life been fair?

He spun, stabbed, slashed, ducked, jumped - whatever it took to win against five opponents, whose numbers were down to two now. A turn, a twist, the sickening sound of metal ripping through flesh, of bodies hitting the ground, the familiar yet foreign feeling of blood splattering his face and arms - very abruptly, he was the only one left standing.

Standing atop five slain men of the Emperor.

Surrounded by the melancholic echo of his blade singing through the air.

The air was still, and he relished in the deep, melodious chime of his sword sliding perfectly into its sheath.

He needed a shower.

He sighed softly as he turned, heading back to the compound. His movements were smooth, footsteps silent, and it was then that he realised how very lonely he was feeling - the burden of solitude that came with being an assassin was one he was not yet sure whether or not he had shouldered voluntarily.

Showers were one luxury he did not regret taking up. The algid river water was always a welcome and pleasant touch; he would slip in from the riverbank like a fish, the prescribed black robes - the mark of an assassin - covered skilfully in the grass. He could spend nearly an hour submerged to the chin, watching the mirror surface ripple hypnotically, watching as the sky dyed itself in fiery yet gentle tones that faded away to reveal the silver moon hanging surreally, suspended by nothing amidst a breathtaking depth of brilliantly clear stars against a pitch-black backdrop.

He never minded the sunset - the darkness it brought was his to claim - but he loved the slim crescent moon the most. It was thin, almost gone, but still hung on - shone brightly, made its presence known - inexplicably, he felt some form of connection, some identification with the sliver of light. It seemed so fragile, so insignificant, yet he knew there was more - more to the moon that what met the eye.

If there was any form of nature he loathed, it would be the gentle stream's tendency to freeze into a crystal of ice decorated with barely-perceptible spiderweb cracks in the winter. The frigid air and dry gales relegated his nightly tradition to a sigh of resignation from the hot tub, where a thick wooden frame enclosed the sky into a miserly fraction of what he was used to seeing, into a square so small and regular that he felt impossibly claustrophobic.

It was during one of those lonely winter nights that a messenger brought another black envelope to his room. As he reached one blistered hand for it, he cautiously licked his dry lips. It was the winter he turned just nine - a pang of jealousy shot through him as he imagined again the kinds of lives other children might be leading, the kinds of ninth-birthdays they had.

Certainly neither were quite like his, that he was sure of.

This is the path I chose, he would remind himself. This is the life I want to live.

Freeing the thin parchment from the folds of the thick black paper, he scanned the impeccably neat brushstrokes.

Mission Deployment: Attack at Toba-Kaido, Fushimi-Shigai
Proceed to Toba-Kaido before the next sunset
Under the command of Commander Takenaka Shigekata

Fate seemed to have a sick sense of humour, he thought - the very man he had escaped from a year ago was back in his life, and though he would be armed the price for retribution was too much to give up.

With a quiet sigh, he raised a steaming mug of green tea to his lips, letting its thin aroma permeate the air around him, letting the steam moisten the dry winter air around his face. If he had to face the terror of his childhood (he was still a child, he reminded himself wryly), then so be it. Come what may.

Nothing could scare him anymore - no, he wouldn't let anything, anyone scare him anymore.

But when the door moved, so did he. In a practised movement that flowed swifter than a river, he had his sword levelled at the neck of the intruder who dared enter before knocking.

The imposing figure that stood before him was clothed in navy, his dark hair pulled neatly behind his head and an elaborately engraved sword fastened securely at his waist. Glaring down the gleaming length of his sword, he muttered lowly, 'Commander Takenaka Shigekata. I thought I would never have to see you again. What a surprise.' His lips pulled apart in what looked to be a sneer, revealing two straight rows of small milk teeth. In his left hand, he shredded the letter he had just received with the ease of an expert.

The man was not intimidated in the least by the weapon trained on him. 'I never expected to see you again, either.'

'Good.'

Takenaka's stony face lacked its usual stern angles, he noted as he watched the man ease into a sitting position. He lowered his unwaivering blade accordingly, keeping it level with the man's jawline with trained ease.

'War is cruel,' Takenaka began, 'and you are only a child.'

'I don't regret leaving your household. The Shogun has treated me better than you ever have,' he hissed venomously. 'I guess blood really does mean nothing.'

'You are still young, but war cannot be helped. The battle begins tomorrow, so in this last night of peace, I believe there is something you deserve to know.' Despite the man's words, his tone remained hard as granite and infuriatingly indifferent.

'Then tell me.'

'If you will come with me, I will show you.'

Very, very slowly, he brought his blade back, and for the first time, he looked Takenaka Shigekata straight in the deep eyes that were weary with the experience of a soldier. Looking at the man he had never called his father was like staring through a looking-glass to the future - it unnerved him, the way his face shape looked so startlingly familiar, the way the man's thin lips set in a perfectly straight line like his own did. Yet the differences that set them apart were drastic - he knew his bright emerald, almond-shaped eyes were scrutinising rudely, while a patience he had never seen before settled in the narrowed, aged eyes of deep onyx that betrayed only weariness. Sheathing his blade, he stood.

'Very well. Before I change my mind.'

.

He held his lantern steadily in his left hand, his right resting on the pommel of his blade - bloodlines meant nothing; he had no reason to trust the man he was trailing behind in the dead of the night.

They walked on, for hours into the night, until the stars that were rising were slowly meeting the horizon again, until his lantern which once burnt strongly was flickering weakly. The ground had changed - from paths to stone to sand, to gravel and to grass; the few buildings they passed were darkened and silent. Kyoto looked a dead city, and it disturbed him slightly that this nightscape was the town he was most accustomed to, that the battle at Toba-kaido would be his first detail in the sunlight.

The rampant tall grass fought for the space he occupied, and he noticed that Takenaka had stopped walking. A burly hand landed on his shoulder and steered him to a slim stone column only slightly taller than he was.

'She wanted to be buried in Kyoto,' was all that he said.

Four complicated kanji characters had been engraved skilfully into the solid stone, four he had never seen strung together before, some he had never even seen in his entire life, yet a strong voice from deep within him was sure of how to read them. Was it memory, or a buried portion of his soul? He didn't know.

日番谷彩

(What's in a name? He didn't know either.)

He knelt at its base, studying every stroke of each word, gazing at the innumerous stars of the sky that kept him company, ignoring the cruel cold that was slowly eating away at the feeling in his fingers. He reached into the folds of his clothes and retrieved his most prized possession, his small plate of wood. Running his numb fingers over the amateur chiselling, he raised his other hand, letting it mould into the indentations that formed his mother's name.

He mouthed the words silently into the night.

Hitsugaya Saya.

Exhaling deeply, he let his gaze linger on the cold mist that swirled before his eyes with its hypnotic laziness. With only a hint of reluctance, he placed the wood that held his name against the stone.

This time, he knew very well, that he was her child.

He was - is - Hitsugaya Toshiro.

.

When he next looked up, a low mist was hanging in the air, tinged with an isolation he couldn't describe. Fresh dew had soaked into the legs of his clothing, the warm radiance of the dawn sun warmed his flushed cheeks while the thin, motionless morning staleness effortlessly stripped the air from his lungs and wiped the moisture off his eyes. Breathlessly, he dared himself to tear his eyes away from the stone under which he knew his mother had to be lying.

Takenaka was still standing there behind him, and he realised that sometime in the night he had placed his sword carefully on the ground. He berated himself for being so careless - for letting his guard down for as many hours as he had that night - but could only sigh in resignation as Takenaka spoke.

'Let us return. You need to rest well before tonight,' he reminded.

Despite the reluctance that dragged his every bone down, he resisted, and rose to follow the man's retreating figure.

.

Evening came all too quickly, he realised with a start, when the sun began to sink like a flower drifting to the bottom of a pond. As the sky grew more vibrant, he found that nature no longer influenced his mood - his soul - as heavily as it used to.

And as he stood among ranks of full-grown men, all wielding their blades proudly for the Shogun, he could only press his lips into a grim line of determination. He had been given one mission - to slink unnoticed and eliminate any of the Emperor's men by the most destructive weapons. He realised then that he was just another weapon. Another excuse for someone else not to bloody their own hands.

It didn't matter now, though. Lives were at stake - his life was at stake, and he wasn't going to let it slip through his fingers like sand did so easily.

He moved quickly; it was his only compensation against other soldiers that towered over his child-sized frame. Whirling thoughtlessly, he swung, stabbed, he tore. He ran, jumped, slid; he kicked and lunged - all his movements were calculated to bring any man down in the fewest attacks possible, not sparing a glance to the faces of his opponents.

(It was always so much easier to take the life of someone you never saw)

Men twice his size closed in from every direction - if there could be a smell of fear and panic, it permeated the air.

The air was thick with clashes and shouts resounding through the foggy evening - it was so very different from what he was used to. Gone was the tranquility of silence that he loved so much, and instead he found his instincts leading him to the sidelines for reprieve. He was tiring much faster than usual, and the pounding of his heart seemed almost as loud as the pounding of the feet around him, it seemed one with the loud cannon shots that he knew he was meant to be headed towards. He could feel the black void of panic creeping up in him, seeping into his bones as it engulfed his very being, yet he continued running, weaving between trees that stood in the way.

He had a pursuer - he could hear the extra set of feet stepping in the cold soil, but he knew his own panting breaths were much louder. He needed to put an end to this. To finish off the man behind him, to take down the men behind the cannons, then maybe the war would be over and he could rest. Stopping harshly and abruptly, he threw his weight into the swing. The clash of metal against metal told him that his opponend had blocked - he parried, and twisted around for another attack slamming his sheath into the man's side only seconds before jumping back as a sword swung fluidly towards him.

The man was not accustomed to fighting against an opponent so much shorter - he wasted movement.

As the sword dipped near the ground, he took a chance, and jumped forward. He landed as heavily as he could on the man's knuckles before jumping again, raising his blade high for a vertical slash that caught the man in the shoulder. He tried not to notice the flaring pain in his left arm where the man's sword had met its mark as he plunged his own blade emotionlessly through his opponent's torso.

He was glad that he only had to fight one person - he figured that the other soldiers he had taken down in the chaos didn't quite count as victories - for the compounding fatigue that he couldn't comprehend was eating away at his senses. (He could still hear the deafening cannon shots getting louder, but from the serenity of the beaten woods he had wandered into, he could only imagine the destruction it was causing.)

Of course. The Imperialists were causing the destruction, he told himself. (How did he know it was true?) He needed to put an end to it, so that they could live in peace. Once again. (Had he ever lived in peace?)

His feet were moving, but he was barely conscious of where they led him - he presumed his instincts knew, and let his body follow as he attempted to clear his mind of the thoughts that had been continuously assaulting him. He was moving quietly, sword gripped deathly tight within the curls of his fingers - painfully aware of the blood dripping down his left arm and constantly irritated by the stiff cloth crusted in blood that clother him.

Takenaka was right; war was terrible. (When was it not?)

It was no place for children - it was the turf of the soldiers.

He had no way of telling how long he had spent alone, but he knew his mission was close to over - the shouts of men, the shots of the cannon, both were clearer than ever in the chilly air, for the carnage was just a tree away.

Yet, at that moment, he felt as if he were a separate being, as if he was watching his own movements from afar, unable to process what he was doing. He knew it was a practised attack, honed over a year of assassination, acutely aware of his every last movement as he felt his own body lurch forward, weapon at the ready, aimed straight for the Imperialist who stood behind the cannon - the bulky man seemed to be laughing maniacally, but he wasn't quite sure.

(Did every enemy really deserve to die?)

He stared in mortification at the scene before him as he slowly pulled his blade from the back of the man behind the cannon, lacking his usual energy and drive. He could feel the fire - the passion - that used to burn in his eyes slowly sputter and fade, and let his arm fall limply to his side. The blade hit the soil with a dull crunch.

Why do I kill?

To live.

The carnage was indescribable, worse than any of the small-scale assassinations he had conducted. Men were ripping at each other with everything they had - blades, Armstrong cannons, Gatling guns. Clawing at their enemies with their teeth and nails.

Why do I live?

To prove that I can be one of them. To show them that I am not just a burden.

To show them that I am human, just like all of them.

He heard a snarl, and a roar. 'I won't let the Shogunate fall to dogs and wolves like you!'

'The Emperor will have his way! We will pave the way to a country of peace! The future of tranquility and safety for all has no place for scum like you! Die!' Machine gunshots. The singing of metal in the air. The cries of men.

Metal clashed, blood flew, but he was barely aware of the details.

He stared at the deep crimson that stained his blade and clothes. Though it wasn't there, he could see with startling clarity the darker, redder stain on his hands and his soul. His heart.

They have always been like me, a monster, but I never saw it.

No, I have always been one of them.

Human? These are not humans. All of us in this war are no more than animals.

They are all monsters, but I never saw it.

What do you live for, then?

His warrior senses were fully aware of the Gatling gun turning on him, but suddenly he was very, very tired. The scene around him was hard to concentrate on, for everything seemed so still and clear yet so dull and glassy at the same time, and he knew that, to the world, his empty eyes must have seemed equally hyaline.

Some samurai died smiling, some even died laughing, like the last life he had taken.

The quivering sound of his sword filling its sheath for the last time sent shivers down his back, and as the gun fired, he could only sigh and turn his gaze to the sky - the one place not yet torn with battle or tarnished with bloodshed.

But he couldn't bring the edges of his chapped lips up even the slightest bit.

.

.

.

Part III

I hear you call out my name
And I hear your voice on the wind.
"Listen my child," you say to me,
"I am the voice of your history.
Be not afraid, come follow me;
Answer my call and I'll set you free."

As the world around him faded away, another realm rose before his tired eyes, the blinding white revealing a creature he had never seen before - it was long and blue, magestic wings extending from its back, its tail coiling below it as it hung in the air. And though he seemed to be made of ice (how did he know it was a "he"?), he seemed so much warmer than the world he had always known.

Asking quietly, he dared not look at the creature. 'A-are you a dragon?'

The low rumbling sounded like crashing thunder, but he seemed to be smiling. 'Yes, child.'

Child? 'Am I you? Are you me?' I - '

Am I dreaming? Or am I dead? Or is it both?

'The answer is for you to find, Toshiro. But know this - you have always been, and always will be, a dragon.'

It was a long, long time since he'd heard someone call his name. He missed it, but it was back, he was back to being human - dragon? - it was no reason to cry, but he couldn't stop the stinging in his eyes that made his vision swim. Reaching up one dirty arm, he hurriedly rubbed his face on the sleeve. The ceasing of the wind was the only warning he received - the dragon was much closer now, his wings curled protectively against the icy gale that whipped around them.

The dragon did not speak with an authoritative roar or a booming voice - it was a gentle sigh, a quiet whisper.

'Rise, and I will teach you to soar in the sky.'

I am the voice of the future;
Bring me your peace
Bring me your peace and my wounds, they will heal

end

I hope you enjoyed it! Please review, or else I'll just wither with my keyboard over here.

Actually, I had considered not putting in part III and ending it with the scene right before it. Atmosphere-wise I prefer it that way (I like the implied irony), but I thought that the Hyourinmaru scene would be a form of reconciliation for poor Toshiro, and some sense of continuity into canon. After smashing all his hopes and dreams, I thought I would grant him at least one - the one of being a dragon. Tell me what you think, please!