Disclaimer: This work has no affiliation with Nobuhiro Watsuki and the Rurouni Kenshin franchise. Please enjoy the fanwork!

The glorious Beta for this story is Sueb262- Please go check out her stories too!

Rain, rain, go away; Battousai is back again.

He walked amidst a mourning. It was as if the heavens were broken; and the sun had been struck from the skies, the stars knocked from their pedestals. And now the souls of the damned had overturned heaven, rolling restlessly, unfurling greedily over one another, blending murkily into one mass grave upon the sky.

In the distance, their voices resonated, the hundreds of them in a strange unison: deep, booming, and grieving. Their last will and testimony thundered over the grey city. Kyoto was gripped by their orchestra, enthralled by a bombastic symphony.

For one man, years on, alone, the ghosts of the revolution came calling, calling. His gi, soaked in their blood; his ears, ringing with their screams; his face, wet with their tears.

The Killer returns to Kyoto, welcomed.

What a fine day to come down from the mountain. Nothing made a sake-run more motivating than the soul-crushing regret of not bringing a simple umbrella. It didn't matter that today was not a particularly fond day for umbrellas. The man needed something to sulk about. Hiko Seijuro lumbered over the terrain, his hulking figure squelching inches-deep into mud. The rain made him heavier. And crankier. The grace of a master quelled in the muffled haze, he plod on; black hair slicked to his face, and throat itching for a swig of sake. He tugged his cloak closer as a chill began to set.

It hadn't rained like this for a long, long time. Maybe years. Who knows?

The burly man shook his shoulders, trying to shake off some of the excess water that had gathered at the ridges of his coat. And it didn't help knowing that his not-so-local sake-dealer might not even be in business today. If that were the case, he half-hoped for a band of bandits to ambush him on the return trip. There was nothing more stress-relieving than a bout of angry murder.

He sighed grimly. Kami-sama, Seijuro. You know that's bad for your blood pressure. Another sigh blew out from his nose. Recoiling back into a, somewhat, civilised manner, the spastic thought sounded alien. In a single moment, he was relieved. Just how long have I lived in this Meiji Era?

He trudged on, his trenches marring the path behind him. As his thoughts fell silent, the rain cried louder, blinding the master to his senses. The rain was unrelenting, and soon, scouring ahead was like trying to remember a distant memory. Fog had set in. Hiko Seijuro tensed at the strange city, instincts aroused at how changed the tiled rooftops looked, the soaked wood piles and ripping lanterns. He went on through the cold city, no sane soul outside in the downpour. As he went further, the streets became sprawling, and sunken. But the city felt younger. And familiar. With one more foot forward, Hiko Seijuro had stepped into another Kyoto. The Kyoto of the revolution.

And suddenly, the six metres ahead fell into focus, and a shiver ran down his frame. Before him, a figure stirred. Slumped against a wall, was a bundle of navy blue curled over the hilt of a katana, completely soaked. Hiko wouldn't have thought it human, except for the knot of red hair. Red hair? He faltered mid-step, breath frosting before him. Recognition set in his eyes. And something within him swayed with a pain.

"Kenshin?"

The figure stiffened, strenuously propping his head in his direction.

"..Shi…shou…?"

The rain bore down on him, ruthless, each droplet pecking him apart, chiselling away at his soul. It weighed him down, exhausting him; and he could hardly lift a finger, open his eyes. It pelted his skin with cold until he was half-numbed, and even then it wouldn't stop. Unyielding. Unforgiving. The ones he had slain were strewn, headless on the battlefield in his mind. For each corpse stabbed dead, a generation were left angry. He imagined their tears falling on his back and counting his sins. So many. The cuts on his face were bleeding now; and two trails of red ran down his cheek, merged into the tears of the wronged.

"Kenshin?"

For one lost soul, his first salvation stood by in the storm, staring, mouth parted, at the disgrace at his feet. He could hardly believe his eyes, and for a moment, he was staring at nothing as his vision blurred out of focus, rain filling up his eyes. But, his heart sunk further. There was no mistaking that colossus ki.

"…Shi…shou…?"

They stood there, both struck with a daze, halfway between one extreme to the next. The runaway hitokiri was hapless, hopeless; and he subsided, lowering his eyes to the man's feet, bowing his head forward. Expecting him to pass, inconvenienced—like leaving behind a worthless beggar.

In that fleeting moment of clarity, all that he had lost in his life culminated in a single surge of surprise. The feeling of sadness as he turned his back on a little, frightened boy, blood speckled on his face; and the wonder he felt as he saw his field of graves. The pride that swelled when he picked up his sword for the first time; amusement from watching him stuff his face with food. Chuckling at his ugly, wayward handwriting, scowling at his pouty expression. Hearing his laugh as he finished a story of his younger days, waiting for the kid to quiet down before going on.

The feeling of tears leaking from unblinking eyes, as he simply stopped—three days after he left. Remembering how terrible crying felt, wishing he couldn't feel a thing. Not knowing how to sleep well since, alone in his too-silent hut. And the red-headed disaster, the source of his aneurysms, didn't dare look his master in the eyes. His bones were ingrained with the horrors of war, like Hiko's once were. And he could only blurt out, simply,

"Scoot over. Baka."

I've planned for 4 chapters.

Thanks.