--Solace--

While the era known to many as the time of the Mejii, there was an embracing of bureaucratic ideals, disbarment of weaponry, peace for the citizens. But there were those like Kenshin, who found it so very hard to let go of the not so distant past, when only a decade before his world was colored red and darkened with sorrow. The revolution was violence personified, and Himura, the Battousai-hitokiri, was at its very heart.

He remembered the sick fear in the eyes of men just before his blade pierced their flesh and spilled the crimson heat of their blood, the screams and tears of the women and children left behind, the bandits who took advantage of the mayhem caused by the battles, plunder and pillage, rape and senseless murder.

He remembered, and his heart was sick with remembrance.

His days were filled with doubt, with second questioning, with hindsight that plagued every aspect of his existence…what good was the blood on his hands if the government he had fought so hard to support was so riddled with greed, oppression and extortion, flawed and scarred as his very soul…where was the good he had battled for?

There were times, when it seemed there was no redemption left on heaven and earth that could save him, as swordsman…as hitokiri…as rurouni…as a man…as a human being…he had failed so desperately.

But…but there were times when his guilt did not wreak havoc on his mind, tormenting and raging, soothed away to a rare, quiet calm. It was the times she stood before him, her eyes as warm and gentle as the faint sunlight of the setting sun streaming through the window, boldly meeting his, though at odds with the endearing rosy blush painting her complexion.

His lips sealing over hers, firm but undemanding, her slender arms embracing him, holding him close. He shed his inhibitions as easily as he did his clothing, her hands soft and deft as they danced along his back, healing the scars long left by the mark of steel and iron.

She was his solace.