Great Samurai.

You asked me once to be with you.

Now I beg of you: please.

Ask me again.

i..

There is a breeze drifting through the valley. Tall grasses bend, the clouds dark and thick with the threat of rain.

Kirara lifts her head, shadows crossing her face. Around her the villagers scatter; women lift their wicker baskets and flee. Darkness falls on the valley, and rain begins to lash against gullies and the fields of rice behind them.

Rain pours, and she does not move. Somewhere Katsushiro rides on horseback, sword at his side and traveling alone.

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ii.

He asked her once to be with him. Face pressed close to hers, an urgent hand gripping her own. "Be with me," Katsushiro said. I will always hold your hand. I will never let you go.

When he kissed her, it was jarring, too sudden for her to comprehend. Her back scraped against the wall as he pushed against her, his hot mouth against her closed lips. Behind her she could hear people walking past the alleyway, could smell the smoke burning from the night market nearby.

His eyes opened, then widened when he saw her face. He jerked back, stumbling backwards. But then the shock eased into something else. Something harder, colder. Green eyes narrowed, his mouth a tight line.

"I'll be fine on my own."

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iii.

There is a fire on the hearth. Kirara kneels beside it quietly, folding her hands on her lap. Outside the storm grows; wooden shutters bang against the walls as the angry wind slams through the valley outside. Kirara is silent. In the room next to hers, she can hear her grandmother snoring softly, her sister curled up on the pallet beside hers.

Kirara rises, then pushes out the wooden slates to the window. She can feel the rain on her face. Lightning flashes, and despite herself, she wonders. Katsushiro would be outside. His cloak would be wound tightly across his body. His face would be hooded; his shoulders would be hunched against the rain. Despite herself, she imagines his long hair slick and wet against his skin, and the sword sheathed safely at his side. He is fine on his own. He is.

There is a letter on the table. Her friends the samurai Shichiroji and his lady Yukino are finally to be wed. Kirara picks up the letter, turning it over in her hands.

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iv

In the dark, she remembers. Katsushiro trained in the garden. His sword flashed cold under the falling petals of the cherry blossoms. She watched silently as the night seemed to swallow him, each movement a dark silhouette against a darkening sky. She thinks back to the place where he took her; when he held her hand and pressed against her tight against the wall. "Be with me," he said. But this time she would kiss him back. She would pull him closer, robes bunched under greedy fingers. Hands fumbling for clasps, half-moans caught in her throat. And in the dark he would push up inside her, his face flush against her neck and breathing harsh against her ear.

His eyes refused to meet hers as she passed him by.

"He is hurting, Kirara," her grandmother said. "The wounds of his body are beginning to heal, but those are not the important ones."

"Why can't he let this go?" Kirara said. "Why does he keep doing this--why can't he forgive me?"

There was silence then, red sakura heavy with nighttime dew.

"Because, my child, he cannot."

.

v.

Once there were wars and men they called legends. Villages set in flames, fires rising and licking the nighttime sky. His sword unfurls, like a butterfly stretching its wings. Slash, slash, spark, movement like water, deadly and beautiful.

She finds him standing at the precipice's edge, eyes half-squinting and looking down at the smoke. It is cold now, the night air heavy in the watery moonlight. He says nothing, and neither does she.

If she could ask him again, she would say:

You are alone as I am alone, traveling in dusk with the clothes on your back.

You asked me once to be with you.

Now, I beg of you, please: ask me again.

In her mind's eye, she could see what should have happened. He would stand at the precipice, overlooking the ruins of the village, the fires and the smoke. There she would stand beside him, silent but still so near.

The moon would rise; the air would tremble damp and cold. She would look out into the distance, avoiding his eyes. Wordlessly, she would take his hand, rough and calloused from battle. She would take his hand and she would not let go.

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vi.

When he leaves, Kirara can't stop crying. Strong hands lift her from her knees and pull her close. "Why?" she asks, over and over. "Why did he have to leave?"

The answer is clear, and it chills her to the bone.

"Because he is Samurai," her grandmother say, and the fireflies flicker; the crickets start to mourn.

"It is because he must."

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A/N: I realize Katsushiro didn't ride a horse in the series, but I don't know what they call those turtle things, so...yeah. Horseback it is XD