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Disclaimer – Don't own Tekken.

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He feels like time.

Time, so heavily pressed upon with the age of the past and yet lifted by the youth of future, held together by the sweet fasten of the present. Yoshimitsu is time, for he is without age, for he has been so long and will continue to be, until the world is ripped to dust and silence and light shall cast itself upon what was once was.

His essence may pass from body to body (and surely, some flesh does last longer than others) and the dark secrets sleeping within the sword allow memories to remain intact, although some are prone to haze and confusion.

But alas, such power remains cradled within human hosts and with each of his differing lives him and his magic is exposed to a human heart. The core of him, the core of Yoshimitsu, as he has come to realise, is the desire for the heat of mild, merciful humanity.

Over the centuries, he has loved his comrades like beloved siblings. Lovers, friends, brothers and sisters in arms. They flock into his presence, lingering like the faint, awakening warmth of spring, before they melt like snowflakes on hot hands and flee into the mists of his memories. He wraps their words, their spirits, their faces and voices and touches within himself, and allows their strength to purge the sickness in his sword when the dark strangles him into doubt.

But there is something strange about this man.

This man, this living tower, whom has known strife; has had it carved into his very skin. This child, barely a sapling in comparison to the mighty orchards of Yoshimitsu's spiritual years, has managed to stand the world still and for the first time in hundreds of years, Yoshimitsu feels like he is living. Not in the dusty clasp of the past, or in the bright splutters of the future, but now.

The man is stubborn. The man is silent. He is skilled and composed and careful. He is sardonic and cocky and prone to smug arrogance. Not to mention the ignorance of such a creature; he eyes the heirloom of Yoshimitsu as if it were a charlatan's dagger.

But despite the spurs of youth, he is wise. A common, earthy wisdom, trickling like the cool kiss of a mountain stream on a dry, groggy day. Despite the shades of his previous occupation, he knows compassion, even if he once buried it deep and set himself as stone. Kindness, even if it is stern, restrained, comes naturally to him and he is always the first to stand between the wicked and the innocent.

Yoshimitsu can, is the only one, who can coax humor from him.

When Yoshimitsu thinks of what came before, of what was done before, to a child separated from a family and taken underground to skulk in white washed walls in an amoral organization, in which there was violence and injections and slow, painful erosion of emotion, does his eyes blaze and his fingers tinker on the edge of his blade.

But even under such conditions, the man's character was not completely extinguished. Proud to a fault, devoted to his passions for battle, and insanely critical of any that tarnished his narrow view of their shared arts! A challenge indeed and one Yoshimitsu had greedily undertaken. But he was always so quick to steal away all that took his fancy. And much to his shame, all the gold in the world did little to accommodate his unique appetite.

In an odd way, he'd acquired his greatest treasure. And yet, in turn, something has also been stolen from him. Unknowingly, with innocent eyes, but gone it is and never to return.

One day, Raven shall die. This is an inescapable fact of the universe. Soon, skin and soul will shrivel and fall to a rest that only the weary can feel. And soon, the man shall falter and be locked in the thinning stitch of memory. Another companion, another friend, another small ripple in time and place. And Yoshimitsu, as he always will and always shall, will continue to remain.

He wonders when the end finally comes, when time finally strips the world bare, if he manages, if he can, to search inside the gape of infinity for that one single soul and bind it to him.

"This isn't the time for daydreaming." Raven pokes the fire. They are out in the wilderness, crouched beneath sky and stars. His voice is gruff and without fear. "We need to concentrate on the plans ahead."

Yoshimitsu folds the map and smiles.

"Of course. Forgive me; this mission has been tiring me of late."

And suddenly, he feels old.