Dear FFML members--

Here is the first chapter of my first
"Rurouni Kenshin" on-going series,
"Twilight."

Of course, comments and criticisms will
be welcomed and greatly appreciated.
However, please keep C & C
constructive and tasteful.  (I bruise
easily.  ^_^)

You may send all comments to me at
sme291@hotmail.com or via the FFML.

Thank you and I hope you enjoy this
story of mine.

B.Na

-------------------------------------------
TWILIGHT by B.S.N.
-------------------------------------------
DISCLAIMER:  The characters of "Rurouni
Kenshin" are the property of its creator,
Nobuhiro Watsuke, Sony, Shueisha/Jump
and all other associated parties.  This
fanfiction does not intend to reap benefits
or profits of any kind; it was created for
entertainment purposes only.
-------------------------------------------
WARNING: This is a re-telling of the
"Revenge" story arc.  Spoilers abound.
-------------------------------------------
TEXT CONVENTIONS:

_  _ denotes emphasis

--------------------------------------------

PART I: Remembrances

The path before him gleamed faintly in
the darkness.  A pale, luminous band that
spooled outwards towards the black
horizon, winding past white hills and
tumbling through milky hollows.  Kenshin
scanned the landscape but he could
distinguish nothing in the strange
blankness that surrounded him.  The smooth,
white mounds and fields that rolled before
him and the sky that stretched out above
him were an endless, vast and empty expanse.

"What is this place?" he wondered.  "Where
am I?"  Kenshin stepped forward, puzzled.
An explosive crack broke the stillness.
Kenshin looked down at the ground.  The
fragments of a human skull were scattered
about his feet.

"This place. . .  When did I. . .?"  His
eyes swept across the bleak and desolate
land.  "Hills. . .hills of bones and
skulls. . .  This--this is like hell. . ."
Kenshin whispered in horror.  He slowly
turned, his feet crunching on the bones
beneath.  "No, this--this is hell. . .
I. . .am in hell. . ."  His head swung
ponderously back and forth, like the
pendulum of a clock, as his eyes followed
the grotesque swells and dips of the land.

"Hell. . ." the man repeated.  "A place
fit for Shishio. . ."  Suddenly, the image
of a youth appeared before him--a boy with
a thin, cruel mouth and cold, hard eyes.
Kenshin stopped and passed his hand over
his face, overcome with anguish and
remorse.  "No, I am just as fit for hell.
I am no different from him.  Though I
wielded my sword for the new age, I too
killed many innocents. . .

"I was a killer, a hitokiri, the same as
Shishio. . .  I too am stained with
blood. . ."



CHAPTER I: Madness in the Smell of Blood

The man gasped.  So, he thought, the
story is true. . .  His eyes are truly
like a demon's. . .

In the gloom of the dank and narrow street,
Himura stood, his hand lightly resting
upon the hilt of his sword.  The moon was
shrouded in a pall of cloud, but the
charred remains of the lantern cast a
faint orange glow.  Its radiance flickered
fitfully on the pale, stern features of
the boy, momentarily lighting the sharp,
jutting cheekbones, the stern mouth and
the firm, pointed chin.  Yet its gleam
seemed to linger and gather in his eyes--
two narrowed ovals of amber.  They were
the eyes of an executioner or a saint.

"Come forward to die," Himura commanded
quietly.

"I shall not die so willingly nor so
easily," the man retorted.

"We shall see."  Himura's fingers curved
gently about the hilt.  "You speak bravely,
but I can tell that you are shaking with
fear."

"Bastard!  I'll kill you, you arrogant
son-of-a-bitch!" the man screamed as he
withdrew his sword.    Himura waited
quietly, his arms hanging loosely at his
sides.  He watched the man rush towards him,
the tiny point of his weapon winking faintly
in the darkness.  The point grew larger and
larger but still the boy waited.  Suddenly,
a ribbon of steel flashed forward and the
sharp ring of metal upon metal sounded in
the alley.

Himura gazed impassively at the man before
him as he strained to break through the
slender barrier of steel in front of
Himura's throat.  Sweat began to form on
his brow and his arms quivered from the
stress of his blade but the man could not
bring his sword close.

"You thought that you could kill me?"
Himura inquired.  "Truly, you are the
arrogant one.  You have no more skill
than that of a--"

"F--- you!" the man bellowed.  "I'll
silence your arrogant mouth with my sword
before long!"

"You presume too much," Himura replied.
With a slight flick of the wrist, the boy
flung his assailant towards the wall.
"Such skill as yours could not even kill a
fly."

The man glared at him, his teeth clenched
in rage.  "You dare mock me, you
stripling?!"  He raised his sword once more
and lunged forward.  Again, the blades met
in a loud clang and the sword glided along
the edge of the other, tiny sparks shooting
upwards.

"This is rather amusing, but I'm beginning
to tire of this," Himura said as he pushed
the man away once more.  "I have no time to
play.  Let us end this now."

"Not until I kill you," the man growled.
He charged at Himura again and caught his
blade in another locked contest.  The man
pressed his sword harder against the other,
bearing his full weight upon it.

"You never will," Himura countered.

"You underestimate me, Battousai. . ."
Suddenly, the man released his weapon and
slashed out.  "I threw you off balance and
now--"

"You have cut only air," Himura said.  The
assailant spun around in time to see the
sword shoot towards him.  The blade sunk
deeply and a stream of blood gushed forth,
splashing across the front of Himura's
hakama.  The man grunted, his sword
clattering to the ground from his limp
hand. Himura stared at him, his eyes cold
and hard.  "Now die."

"Bastard. . ." the man whispered hoarsely.

Suddenly, the dispassionate expression
melted away from Himura's countenance.
The straight, keen lines of his face
crumpled and shriveled like paper in a
fire and his eyes blazed with a fierce
and wild light.  The boy tightened his
hold and, with one quick turn, twisted
the sword.  Another rivulet of blood
flowed down the blade and the man groaned.
He weakly lifted his hand to remove the
sword from his chest.  His mouth worked
noiselessly--a cry of pain and an effort
to draw breath--and his fingers slowly
gripped the edge more closely.  For many
moments, he stared at the blade in
disbelief and astonishment.  Gradually,
slowly, the man's glazed eyes fixed its
sight upon the youth before him.  The
terrible light in his eyes was quenched
now; their fiery cast had cooled into a
violet hue.  Yet those eyes were even more
chilling than before--cold, lifeless and
inhuman.

Battousai twisted the sword again and as
the blade pierced deeper, a small grin
creased the corners of his mouth.  At last,
the hand fell from the sword and the lips
ceased to move.  Battousai rapidly pulled
the sword free and the man slumped to the
ground.

A beam of moonlight illuminated the slight
figure in the street, glinted in the dark
pools about his feet and glanced off the
narrow band of steel in his hand.  When he
heard the sound of running feet approaching,
the boy turned.  His face glowed with a
cold, unearthly luminosity.  As he swung
his sword once to remove the blood from
the blade, Battousai smiled again.

-------------------------------------------

Blood, Himura thought in consternation.  I
smell blood. . .  The youth glanced at his
clothing and his sword; the folds were fresh
and the blade unsullied.  This is so strange.
Why do I--

The low, slurred strain of a folk song
penetrated the shell of his thoughts.
Himura quickly looked down and surveyed the
man stumbling drunkenly down the street
with the stalwart figure of a guard
marching beside him. As he eyed the two
men, the stench of blood rose again, more
strongly than before.  It filled his
nostrils and his mouth and, for a brief
moment, filmed his vision with a crimson
haze.  The youth shook his held to dispel
the fumes that gathered round him.  But the
smell rose, stronger and stronger, choking
and blinding him in a thick, acrid fog.
Suddenly, the clouds dispersed, vaporized
by a blaze of rage.  His hand instantly
stretched out to the swords at his side.
Then, as his fist tightened over the hilt,
the youth felt a strange chill creep over
him.  The tense muscles of his body relaxed
and became heavy and loose, like a man limp
with sleep.  Only his eyes remained wakeful,
transfixing themselves upon the men below
with an icy, blank stare.

A thin rustle--like the beating of wings--
hovered above them.  The men gazed up and
saw a youth flying towards them, a slender
crescent of silver in his hands.  Before
they could cry out, the men were lying upon
the earth, cleaved in half.

Two men emerged from the shadows and ran
towards Battousai, their eyes alight with
excitement and wonder.  The men gathered
close around him, gesticulating wildly and
speaking eagerly.

"You killed them so quickly, they
didn't have time to scream," one comrade
remarked in awe.

"Your sword skill is improving," the other
man commented as he handed a sheaf of rice
paper to the youth.  "You don't even have a
drop of blood on your clothing."

Battousai wordlessly took the sheets and
cleaned the gory blade.  He tossed the
bloody wad of paper to the ground and
nodded before departing.  The men watched
him disappear into the darkness.  For few
moments, they stood in thoughtful silence,
still staring down the shadowy street.

"He truly deserves the name Battousai," one
man said in admiration.  "He's the perfect
assassin.  The Ishin-shi-shi did well in
selecting him."

"Yes, I suppose so. . ."

The man noted the perturbed look of his
comrade.  "Is there something wrong,
Yoshitake-san?"

"I don't know, Ibuki-san," Yoshitake
mumbled.  "I felt something strange when I
looked at his face. . ."

"What are you talking about?"

"There was something-something about
it. . .  His eyes. . .his eyes were not
human. . .  There was something unnatural
about them. . ." Yoshitake murmured.

"What were they like?  Like a demon's?"
quipped Ibuki.

"No. . .  More like a lost soul. . .  A
damned spirit. . ."

Ibuki stared at his friend in amazement.
Suddenly he laughed and slapped his comrade
on the back.  "Yoshitake-san, you've really
got some imagination!  A lost soul indeed!
Ha!  The only thing I see is a damned good
hitokiri!"

"'Not a drop of blood. . .'" the youth
repeated hollowly.  "There are no stains
on me, but--but. . ."  Himura breathed
deeply, a look of confusion and despair on
his countenance.  "But why do I still smell
it?  Why do I still smell blood?"  Himura
gazed down at the sword in his hand, his
eyes traveling up and down the length of
the blade.  "I don't understand. . .  My
sword is clean and my clothing. . .  What
is happening to me?  Why do I still smell
it?  It's as if the more I kill, the
stronger the smell of blood becomes.  And
there's a feeling. . .a feeling that's--"

Like a desire--a desire for blood. . .

For a moment, Himura stood frozen.  "A
desire for blood. . ." he echoed faintly.
He lowered his head and pressed his hands
to his temples, overcome.  A warm breeze
whipped past him, stirring the trees and
flapping the long, dark folds of his
clothing.  Suddenly, his head snapped up,
his face blanching as the familiar metallic
stench filled his nostrils once more.

The youth looked about him, frantically
searching his hair, his sword, his
clothing--any thing that would reveal the
source of the scent.

It seems like it's coming from me. . .
Himura thought as he stared at the sleeves
of his hakama.  But I looked at my clothes
and I didn't find any stains.  He fingered
the material and ran his palms
questioningly along the dark folds.  The
cloth was smooth and soft.  He raised the
sleeve closer to his eyes, examining it
in the dim light of the setting moon.
There's nothing there.  Himura dropped the
cloth and sighed in relief.  I'm just
imagining things.  Yoshitake-san was
right, after all; there is no blood.
I suppose--

A smear of red caught his eyes.  My sword,
he thought in surprise.  There's blood on
the hilt.  So this was where the blood
smell was coming from.  Clutching a fold
of clothing, he reached to clean the
offensive stain away.  His hand halted in
mid-air.

My hands. . .  My hands. . .they're
covered in blood. . .

-------------------------------------------

The water ran red again.  Though he had
filled the basin repeatedly with clear water
from the well, he could neither wash away
the gore from his hands nor rid the basin
of its crimson taint.  Himura gazed into
the limpid depths at the thin hands, red
from the repeated, harsh scrubbings.

Blood, again. . . Himura thought in pained
bewilderment.  I can't seem to rid myself of
this blood.  The water is dark again with
blood and my hands. . .  He raised them out
of the basin, dripping with wet.  They're
still stained with blood.  And the
smell. . .it won't come off.  The youth
upended the basin into the trough and
filled it with clean water from the pail
beside him.  Mechanically, Himura plunged
his hands into the basin again.  As he
chafed his hands together, a dark, trailing
cloud drifted upon the surface.

Blood, again. . .  Will my hands ever be
clean? he cried out in his mind as he drew
his hands out of the water.  Can I ever rid
myself of these stains?  Himura clutched the
sides of the basin to still his trembling
hands.  Gradually, their shaking ceased.

I must be going insane, he thought.  I must
be insane.  He looked at his hands, resting
slack upon the rim of the ewer.  They're
clean. . .aren't they?  They look clean. . .
His fingers touched the bony joints and the
rigid wires of muscle of his right hand.
Himura slowly turned his hand over, the
fingers of his left dragging across his
knuckles and thumb.  My hands are clean.
There is no blood, he thought, there is
no--

A small crimson line streaked the tips of
his fingers.

He stood still for an infinitesimal moment,
his hands tensely gripping the basin, his
face strangely blank and calm.  Suddenly,
he hurled the water into the trough.  The
stream splashed about and broke against
the narrow sides of the drain, sending a
wave over the edge that drenched the dark
fabric of his gi. He then filled the basin
once more and began to wash his hands,
fiercely, violently.

Small drops of blood began to bead his
fingers and his palms, glistening red in
the light of the lantern.

-------------------------------------------

Stronger than the sharp, bitter odor of
sake and the greasy, smoky smell of food,
was the sweet fragrance of white plum
blossoms.  Though the open bottle and the
cup beside his hand were filled with
alcohol, Himura could still detect the
warm, redolent perfume of the woman behind
him.  His thoughts, however, did not linger
long upon her; a brief notion, a faint idea
had wafted across his mind, as vaporous and
evanescent as the strange fragrance that
drifted past him--but that was all.

The youth quickly swallowed the contents of
his cup and took up the bottle once more.
Himura poured himself another drink,
watching the clear liquid stream into the
cup.  He seized the cup once more and held
it to his lips.  Suddenly, he drew the cup
away and gazed intently into its shallow
bowl.  Reflected in the shining liquor was
a young face-a countenance with an ascetic
mouth, hard, serious eyes and an angry red
scar upon his right cheek.  Himura stared
in fascination at the reflection that
quivered before him in the translucent
depths.  The boy moved his wrist, causing
the sake to splash across the rim of the
cup, the image dissolving into a crimson
blur.  He stopped, startled and confused.

Blood? he wondered.  Is this blood that I'm
drinking?  Is this--

Abruptly, Himura closed his eyes and shook
his head.  He peered into the cup again;
the liquid was clear and glinted in the
light of the lanterns swinging above him.

Silly, he thought as he raised the cup to
his mouth.  Himura drank deeply, holding
the alcohol in his mouth for a moment to
savor the taste.

It tastes like blood, Himura thought as he
abruptly set the cup down.  I am drinking
blood.

The fourth bottle was empty.  The waitress
noted the depleted vessel and hurried to
place another bottle upon the table.
Himura nodded his thanks and poured himself
another drink.  The sake sloshed across the
rim of the cup and spilled onto the
tabletop.

Will this taste of blood again? he
wondered.  Is this sake that I'm drinking?
Or am I drinking blood?  I can't tell
anymore.  Water, sake, food--all of them
taste and smell of blood.  I--

A movement behind him brought Himura out of
his musings.  There was a loud clunk--the
sound of a bottle upon a wooden table--and
a voice, slurred and heavy, boomed
throughout the hot, cramped room.

"Have a drink with us!" one man proposed,
the neck of the bottle still held in his
brawny fist.  He tipped the bottle in
pantomime, the action oddly lewd and
lascivious.

"We're Aizu patriots!  We protect the
people with our lives, day and night!" the
other man boasted.  He seized the handle of
his sword with his right hand while
proffering a cup with his left.  "To thank
us for saving your life, you should drink
with us, ne?"

The girl gazed at the man in mild wonder,
seemingly unaware of the threatening glares
of the drunk beside her.  She sat quiet
and still, her slender hands slack upon
battered tabletop.

"The Aizu patriots are allies of the Bakufu,
idiot!" a bystander hissed contemptuously.
There were murmurs of angry agreement and
low, scornful jeers among the customers.

"What did you say?"  The man whirled about,
a menacing look upon his red countenance.
The crowd fell silent and looked away.

"That's what I thought.  So," the man
drawled, turning back to girl beside him.
"What do you say?"

"I say that you should stop before the
situation becomes worse," a voice quietly
suggested.

"What?!" the man shouted, enraged.  "Who
the f--" The man spun around to face a
small, thin boy behind him.

"Let me offer you some advice," the youth
said.  "The violence in Kyoto will become
worse.  It is no place for false patriots
such as you.  If you value your lives,
return home to the country."

The men stared at the boy for a few
moments, a snarl upon their faces.  Their
hands tightened upon the hilts of their
swords, eagerly, tensely.  Himura felt a
strange tingling sensation--a brief, white
violent flash of anger.  His hand twitched
with the sudden emotion.  Then slowly,
gradually, a cold crept over him--a fierce
chill that cooled the spark of rage in his
eyes and eased him into a deathly languor.
His eyes narrowed slightly and a faint smile
touched the corners of his mouth.  The men
unconsciously drew back.  Suddenly, they
spun around and fled through the open
doorway.

The proprietor stepped forward, a relieved
and thankful expression upon his wizened
features.  "Ah, my young man. . ."  He
paused, uncertain, when he saw the look
upon the boy's face.  For one,
infinitesimal moment, the man wondered if
the lad before him was a fiend.  Then, as
suddenly as the thought had come, it
vanished: the boy was bowing, a slight,
apologetic gesture.

Himura tossed a few coins upon the table.
"I'm sorry for the commotion I caused," he
murmured before he too departed into the
quiet street.  But before he left, he shot
a surreptitious glance at the girl.  She
sat quiet and motionless, her hands upon
the table.  Her face was still serene, but
her hands were trembling.

I suppose she is not as fearless as I
thought, Himura reflected as he walked out
into the narrow alley.  I wonder. . .  He
halted abruptly and held his kimono sleeve
to his nose.  "That's odd," he muttered, "I
can smell her perfume on my clothes."

-------------------------------------------

As Himura walked through the dark, deserted
streets, the scene at the bar arose again
and again in his mind.  Once more, he heard
the derisive jeers and saw the arrogant
grins and the eager, vicious gleam in their
eyes.  And as this reel spun round and
round, as the picture flashed again and
again upon the screen of his mind, he felt
the same brief flare of anger and the same
deathly chill.

I don't understand it, he mused, Guys like
that never would have angered me but
now. . .  Now, I think I might have killed
them. . .  Again, Himura recalled the
evanescent rage that had thrilled his veins.
No, he thought, shaking his head.  I'm
certain that I would have killed them.
Somehow, the taste and smell of blood is
growing stronger and stronger. . .blotting
everything else out.  It fills my
senses. . .and I-I can't seem to control
myself. . .  If it hadn't been for--

A terrible scream tore the fabric of
silence in two.  Himura glanced over his
shoulder and saw the man from the bar
running towards him.  "Help me!" he cried
out, "Help-"  Suddenly the man's face
burst in an explosion of gore.

"Hitokiri Battousai."

"What is this?" Himura inquired as he
turned around.  "What's going on?"

The thin, cold light of a sword gleamed
in the darkness.  It winked repeatedly with
the measured movements of the man as he
stepped out from the shadows.  "Don't play
innocent, Battousai!  You can't fool me.
I know who and what you are, hitokiri," the
man growled.  "I've been waiting for you."

"Really?  Then you must be an assassin
like me."  He gently shook back his sleeve.
The hilts of his swords emerged from the
dark folds of his hakama.  "I suppose
you've come to kill me then."

"I'll have your life, Battousai!" the man
shouted as he hurled his sword at the boy.

"Come," Himura replied.  "I am waiting."

"I have you now," the assassin crowed as he
savagely jerked the chains taut.  "There is
no escape!"

Battousai looked at his assailant perched
on the gate above him.  He could see
nothing of his opponent's face save for the
small, round eyes that twinkled viciously at
him.  Battousai gritted his teeth and
strained against his bonds, but the chains
held him fast.

"It's useless, Battousai," the man said.
With a shout, he heaved his sword at the
youth.  "Now die, Battou--"

Without warning, Battousai leaped up from
the ground, dodging the flying blade.
Surprised, the assassin loosened his hold
on the chains.  In an instant, Battousai
freed his hands and, grasping one end,
pulled his opponent down to the ground.
He withdrew his blade and with a single
stroke, sliced through his metal bonds.

"Now you die," Battousai said as he charged,
his sword held aloft.

The assassin lunged towards him, his mouth
foaming in rage.  "Battousai!!" he bellowed.
He flung his blade at the youth but he
deflected it and snatched it up.  Suddenly,
with a terrible, blinding speed, Battousai
appeared before the assassin and plunged
the blade into his skull.

The youth rushed onwards, sliding the sword
down the length of the body.  Blood rained
down on him, spraying his face and hair,
drenching his dark gi.

Through the crimson shower that fell upon
him, Battousai perceived a slender, pale
form at the other end of the road.  A ghost?
he wondered.  As he continued to pull the
sword through the body, the nebulous shape
grew larger and more definite, solidifying
into the graceful outline of a girl.

She stopped a meter from him, her hands
clutching the azure folds of her wrap
closely about her.  Unconsciously,
Battousai tightened his hold upon his sword.
For one, long moment, the two gazed at each
other across the shadowy expanse between
them.

Strange, Battousai thought as he stared at
the white-clad figure before him.  Her
perfume. . .I can still sense it--even in
this rain of blood. . .

In the tense, pregnant silence of the dark
street, the girl spoke.  "In plays they
always say, 'A rain of blood fell'. . .
But you. . .you truly made it rain blood."

The sword fell from his hand and clattered
to the bloodstained earth.


-------------------------------------------
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Be warned: this is a long,
long-winded account of my various thoughts,
motivations, etc., so if you don't want
to be bored out o' your noggin, skip it.
^_^

First of all, I want to let out a jubiliant
shout--"Finally, this chapter is done!"  As
some of you know, I've been working on this
thing for more than a year and it's taken me
a long, long--ridiculously long--time to
finish it.

I believe that the reason it took me so
long to write this is because I had a
difficult time as to where I should start.
After reading the "Revenge Arc," I felt
rather dissatisfied with the ending.  I
could go on and on about this, but rather
than ranting, I decided to do a
"re-telling" of the story arc.  Some of you
may want to hack me to pieces and stir-fry
me in a wok, and though I admit that
Watsuki-sensei is a consummate storyteller
(not to mention a wonderful artist as well),
I felt that it could be tweaked a little.

Others may say that this is just a re-hash
of "Revenge Arc" events; this, I admit,
is true.  But I felt that it was necessary
to start from this point in order to
explain future events, consequences.  In
my "twisted" rendition, I had to reveal
the source of actions, circumstances, etc.
that will happen later on in the story.
In other words, this chapter may seem
rather pointless, but trust me, it does
have a purpose--you'll just have to see
it later.  ^_^

I also took the liberty (I defend myself
on the grounds of artistic license) to
"tweak" a few things.  Moreover, I used
both the manga and the OVAs for background.
(Maigo-chan, if you're reading this,
you're translations are simply wonderful!
Thanks so much!)  I also took--again--
another Ayn Rand description; I loved it
so much and felt that it was so proper,
I used it.  ^_^

Okay <B.Na draws a great breath>, I just
want to conclude with a dedication of
this work to the following people: Allyn
Yonge, Brian Payne, Jitou, Ashfae,
Callista-chan and Harumi--all of whom
are good friends and great writers (and/or
artists).  To them, I owe a debt of
gratitude, not only for their friendship
and aid, but also the inspiration that I
have received from reading their own works.

B.Na (who now finally concludes this
long-winded jazz that she calls
"Author's Notes"--but don't try to whip
out that sax, Brian!  ^_^)





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