/This short actually takes place after another story I wrote as an
alternate conclusion for Kenshin's Shishio fight, as well as an end for
the series. There were two endings, and in the original draft (that this
is based on) I had Kenshin killed for treason (my Japanese friend told
me that the original man that Kenshin is mostly based off of, Kawakami
Gensai, was executed, so I used that). I don't plan on posting that
story because there are far too many major errors of mine, but that's
okay because the details don't matter for this. It's from Saitou's point
of view, fighting with his feelings after Kenshin's death. /

/And please don't interpret any of this into some weird yaoi thing.
That's not what I was getting at. /

/Disclaimer, yada yada yada, Watsuki's characters, not mine, don't sue
me, please./



"Bring the assassin up to the scaffold."

He stepped without hesitation or fear, filled with no sorrow or anger.
He smiled faintly at the crowd below, at the multitudes that had come to
witness his death. The recognition he held of many of those faces was
painted clearly in his eyes. His bright, violet, clear eyes, so strange
and yet so innocent. They were eyes that should have never belonged to a
man such as this.

"This man has been charged of treason, his crime being the assassination
of a Tennoh of the Japanese government." The announcement brought cries
of outrage from the crowd. "Punishment is death by beheading."

Still the man remained in his calm demeanor, closed his eyes as if in a
pleasant sleep upon the deathly stage. After a moment of pause he knelt
on the planks, speaking softly and with reassurance to the young woman
near the structure's edge. The tracks of tears burned on her pale
cheeks. The words were indiscernible to all but the two, and when he was
finished her despair flowed even more freely than before. Several others
of this man's friends stood nearby, and he spoke to each in turn,
perhaps wishing them farewell, or granting some bit of advise to
remember him by. At last he was dragged to the guillotine.

"Has the damned any last words?" the executioner grumbled, forcing his
prisoner to kneel. He shook his head slowly, and was then thrust into
position on the block. The blade-his punishment-gleamed brightly in the
early morning light.

The woman wrapped herself in her arms and wept. The blade came down.

 

***************

Saitou Hajime awoke with a start, and immediately the memory faded from
his mind. All that was left was the mist, a thick veil of uncertainty
that had for the last several days prevented him from reliving the scene
clearly. Realizing what had just occurred in his dreams the man reached
back into the visions, tried to call forth that which he could not
remember, but it was lost to him. The last part of his consciousness
that remained in tact was one image: sitting in a carriage with the man
that was to be executed, looking into his child-like eyes. Eyes that he
would be forever jealous of. Eyes that would haunt him the rest of his
life.

"I am restless," Saitou muttered to himself, throwing the sheets aside
and climbing to his feet. The night air stung his throat as he breathed
and froze the layer of cold sweat that covered his flesh. Slowly, as to
not aggravate his injured abdomen, he made his way into the other room
in search of something to drink.

"Dear?" Discovering that her husband was no longer beside her, Tokio
raised her head. She shivered at the night's cold, hugging the blankets
more tightly around her. "Hajime? What are you doing up?"

Saitou didn't answer at first, searching for something that would
fulfill his appetite. "I'm fine," he called back gruffly. "Just thirsty."

"Again?" Tokio followed his voice into the next room, growing concerned.
"Does your stomach hurt? The doctor said-"

"It doesn't hurt." He scowled, unable to find anything satisfying. "I'm
just thirsty."

She moved to the small cabinet by the wall, and plucked out a few herbs
to make tea. "I'll make you something. Remember, you have to be careful
about what you eat."

"I know." He sighed, running a hand through his sleek, shortly cropped
black hair. It surprised him to find that his hands were shaking, and he
confined them to fists at his sides.

Tokio began to prepare the drink, all the while sneaking glances up at
him. "Are you sure you're all right, dear?" she asked, trying to
distinguish the emotions in his face the way no other could. "Were you
dreaming?"

A sly smile crossed his face, one that-she was certain-had been used to
cover up some other hidden expression. "Were you?" He asked coyly,
lifting an eyebrow.

"You tease too much," she rebuked mockingly. Her manner became suddenly
serious. "But really, Hajime; it was the same dream again, wasn't it? Of
the execution?"

Saitou's grin faltered but would not vanish. Some things he would hide
from everyone, even those he cared about-few as they were. "My sleep is
valuable to me. Why waste it on something like that?"

Just as he knew she would, Tokio saw through all his pride. She sighed
deeply, turning her attention back on her cooking. "Hajime, it's been
almost a week," she told him sternly. "You have to forget about that
man. It's over."

"I have sent hundreds of men to death, if not in that fashion, then
another." He sat down heavily, leaning his back against the wall. Pain
swelled in his stomach, but it was quickly extinguished through use of
ancient tricks of concentration. "Why would this man be different?"

"I don't know, but he is." Tokio turned to face him, showing concern.
"You haven't been able to sleep well for days, and you never talk to
anyone. Why are you so obsessed with him?"

"I'm not obsessed," he shot back defensively. She let out another sigh
in exasperation. "Of course not." Her skill at sarcasm was fit to match
his own. "You've only planed revenge against him for ten years out of
boredom."

Saitou would have responded to this in kind, would have thought of a
counter-argument, but none came. He only sat silently, a hand
unconsciously drifting over the sword wound in his stomach. Three weeks,
and it still pained him from time to time. Longer than a normal injury
should have-for a swordsman, at least, and for a samurai of his ability.

"Anyway, here you are." Tokio handed him a cup of tea, and then poured
one for herself. "Drink slowly, alright?"

He smirked at her constant reminders of his condition. "You're never
this concerned about me," he said pointedly. "Don't be mistaken, Tokio.
This wound is like every other. Soon it will be but a memory, like all
the rest."

But to this the woman only shook her head slowly. "No, my dear Hajime,"
she whispered, and there was true sympathy in her voice. "No, this wound
you will remember for a long time, and it will hurt you just as long. I
know it will."

"I'm going out." Saitou drained the rest of the tea and climbed to his
feet, suppressing a grimace. He didn't want to listen to her nonsense
anymore. With long strides he made his way to the other room.

"But it's only five in the morning," his wife complained, alarmed by the
oddities of his behavior. "Where are you going?"

"Out." He knew he owed her more than so simple an explanation, but it
was all he could say. His own destination was unknown to him, nor were
his intentions for once he'd gotten there. All he knew was that he had
to get away, away from this house. Perhaps somewhere far away, to a
place where he was known. For no one in this Tokyo knew him, not for
what he truly was. Once there had been one man who knew him, but he was

"You'll catch cold," Tokio warned, following him stubbornly. She was
surprised to see how quickly he had changed; already he was out of his
sleeping kimono and halfway dressed. "Please, just stay. You're not on
duty for the next week, remember? Mr. Kawaji said this was your vacation
time."

"It still is." He finished dressing, though for once not in his navy
police uniform. The fabric was stiff on his limbs from not being worn in
a long time. "I'll be back in a few hours, to have lunch with you and
help Tsuyoshi with his schooling." He brushed the back of his hand
across her cheek, a simple sign of affection that they'd developed over
the years. It was the best he could manage in times like these. "Go back
to sleep."

"You're an impossible man." But Tokio did as he said, knowing better
than to contradict him. Of all men she knew, his skull was the thickest.
Reluctant yet trusting, she slipped between the covers of her futon.
"But quick."

"I will." And he left.

Saitou Hajime, age thirty-six, had worked for ten years as a member of
the government's highest ranking and strongest police force under the
alias of Fujita Gorou. He was respected highly among his peers and
commanders, but never for his true name. For the name Saitou Hajime,
"Wolf" of the Shinsengumi, was a name written down in the legends of
war, and he dare not speak such a title in public. Hence, all knew him
as "Fujita," or "captain," save those that knew him before his identity
changed. Those men either strove to forget or had long since returned to
the earth, except one, and that one was now deceased as well.

As Saitou wandered aimlessly through the early morning city, he found
his mind moving in a similar path. Random thoughts seemed to burst from
his brain, ignite his curiosity and intellect, and then disappear back
into the abyss. Most of those blurbs of conscious were all focused
around the same man, the same death. In frustration he tried to drive
the haunting images of those strange eyes away, but they would not
leave, for they were the last things he remembered of that day.

Eventually a new thought occurred to him: with the loss of memory,
Saitou had also lost all knowledge of the assassin's last words. "I
think you are right, Saitou." Those were the last words he remembered in
that small, innocent voice, though certainly there had been more. "It
feels as if we will meet again."

"Oh, Sir Fujita." Saitou turned as another officer came up to him,
though he was blatantly uninterested in what the man had to say. "Are
you on duty today?"

If I was on duty, he thought bitterly, I would be wearing my uniform.
"No, I'm not," he said at last. "I was just taking a walk." He paused
then, as if realizing where he was for the first time. The sun was
higher up than it should have been. "What time is it?"

"Almost eight, sir," the officer replied.

He hid his surprise well. "Oh, three hours then?" He chuckled
externally. "I've been wandering longer than I thought."

"Are you all right, sir?"

"What do you think?"

Clearly puzzled by the question, he didn't notice his captain's
departure until a moment later. He decided against continuing the
conversation further.

God, three hours. I'm hungry. But what was I thinking about all this
time? Can't remember. Great. I must really be losing my mind. Saitou
laughed to himself, and headed for the nearest restaurant. It was one he
hadn't been to before: The Akabeko.

The restaurant was unusually full; the people who had come to see the
execution were still around, trying to hear all the events they had
missed over the last weeks. Capturing the assassin had been a lengthy
process-due mostly to the determination of his friends-and even after
that, many things had taken place during the stay of execution. Saitou's
stomach was evidence of that. Thus, there were still many stories to be
shared.

But among the bustling commotion of the early diners one booth was
silent, a group of four sitting around their meal with grief-stricken
expressions. Each bite of food was forced into their mouths for the soul
purpose of some nutrition, for the taste meant nothing to them. No meal
would ever be the same for these men and women. Saitou recognized them
all of course: friends of the assassin, those that had protected him
when the police were sent to search. They had also launched an attack of
their own on the city prison once he had been taken, an attempt that was
painful for all and, in the end, proved to have been wasted.

A sudden thought occurred to Saitou as he entered, unnoticed by the
circle of men and women. There were at the execution, and so they would
remember what had happened in those last moments even as he did not. A
curiosity stirred inside him. He wanted to know what the assassin's last
words had been. It was a strange desire, for whatever they had been,
what purpose would his knowing them serve? Something to remember him by?
He snorted at his own foolishness. There were probably noble words,
because of who he was. I don't want to remember his twisted morals. He
killed and he paid; what else matters? Aren't you happy to be rid of
your enemy?

He had just about reached a booth of his own when one from the
assassin's group raised his head: Sagara Sanosuke, the
nineteen-year-old, spiky-haired street fighter. As their gazes met his
eyes burned in hatred. The muscles in his jaws as well as his fists
clenched at the sight of this intruder, and with slow movements he stood.

Saitou turned away, dismissing the boy's unsaid challenge. He did not
want to start anything with him, especially not here. Besides, it did
not seem right that they should fight against each other, for there once
was a time when they were side by side. Nothing akin to friendship, but
somehow it was more fitting that way.

"What are you doing here, Saitou?" Sano asked in a low tone, intending
to be threatening. "You're not wanted."

Saitou wanted to ignore him, to leave their unfinished battle as it was,
but pride got the better of him. "Don't start with me, fool," he
muttered with the faintest trace of an arrogant smile. He knew that any
insult, no matter how simple it seemed, would eventually work its way
deep inside an opponent if used often. 'Haven't I beaten you enough?"
His eyes ran a course over his body, remembering each of the blows he
had dealt in their last encounter at the prison. But there was one
bandage he did not remember being the cause of, one on his left shoulder
that had been meticulously cared for. As if it were a gun wound. Saitou
wondered vaguely where it had come from, and the more he thought about
it, the more he wanted to know.

"Get out of here." Sano ground his fists into his thighs, resisting the
temptation to use them. "You'll find no allies here. Everyone knows that
you were the one that captured him."

"And beat him within an inch of his life," Saitou added casually, a
comment that made the boy's blood boil, even though it was a bluff. "And
that I stopped you and your friends from rescuing him. Do you still want
to challenge me?"

He would have, right then and there put an end to their conflict, but
then another of the group intervened. She stepped between the two, her
face lonely and sad, begging them with a gaze not to continue. "Remember
what he said," the dojo girl said quietly yet with great firmness.
"Don't do this, Sanosuke. It isn't worth it. Please, let's just eat and
leave."

But Sano was not so easily subdued. The light of vengeance was apparent
in his flashing brown eyes, and it spread throughout him like a poison.
"This is his fault," he hissed. "Even after all the enemies we conquered
together, he betrayed us."

Saitou crossed his arms and lifted his chin, clearly caring not of his
speech. "Whatever you say, fool."

"Please, let's just sit down." All the strength seemed to drain from her
sweet voice, leaving only sick fear. "Please, Sanosuke, let it go. No
one is to blame, remember? Just come eat with us."

Finally he gave in, and allowed the girl to lead him away. With a sigh
Saitou sat down in a booth not far away, just enough so that he could
see the boy's face and the emotions it held. All throughout both their
meals he could feel the hot glare on him, that of rage kept in check at
great cost. Why do you torture the boy so much? he asked himself
silently. Of all the booths in the restaurant, why choose one so close
to these people? Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. Are you losing your mind?

The police man stared down at the drink he had ordered, watching as it
sloshed back and forth in his cup. A dull light reflected off of its
surface. Somehow, it made him remember. In his mind he could see the
light glinting off some polished object, and then off of something else:
a liquid, just as this was. But no matter how deeply he reached for the
answers, they would not come to him. They were too far away, and buried
too deep.

Suddenly his train of thought shifted, back to the question on his
choice of seating. For a swordsman, every move had its cause and effect,
so what, therefore, was his reason for sitting here? He owed these
people nothing. They were not his friends. He had no friends, outside of
his wife and son. His commander was not his friend. He worked alone. The
only others that knew him were members of the police force, but they did
not even know him for his true name. To them he was "Fujita," the way
the young man had addressed him outside.

The assassin had called him Saitou, for they had known each other before
he had need of the change in identity. Sano called him Saitou, for he
was the assassin's friend and therefore knew of him. Was that why he
stayed near? This man-this arrogant, impulsive young man-was the only
one that really knew him for who he really was: the Wolf, silent and
strong, unconquerable. And of all men left, only he seemed a worthy
adversary to his strength. It was a thought that, in some other state of
mind, he might have denied with all his being, but as he was the truth
shone clearly to him. Sagara Sanosuke, fool as he was, had become his
last remaining friend.

Saitou exhaled sharply in disapproval, and returned to sipping his drink.

At noon Saitou returned home to eat lunch with his wife as he had
promised. It was a quick meeting, conversation sparse among the pair as
their son had left to meet with friends. Tokio did her best to raise his
unusually sunken spirits, but nothing she tried would work. He evaded
her questions and ignored her witty remarks. Eventually she gave up, and
tried treating him with the same lack of interest. He did not seem to
care in the least.

"I'm going out again," Saitou said after they had finished, lighting a
cigarette. He realized that it was his first that day, another
irregularity in his behavior. The events of the past weeks were taking a
serious toll on him, and he resented the changes he could not
understand. "Don't wait up."

"You know, Hajime," Tokio replied coldly, "you're supposed to be on
vacation. I thought we were going to spend more time together, now that
everything's settling down." She then preceded to comb every strand of
hair from her face in a gesture he knew well: whenever she was upset,
she had a habit of fixing her hair, or twisting her kimono sleeves, or
any number of easily readable body signals. Naturally Saitou needed far
less obvious clues to understand her mood, but sometimes he felt it was
relieving to find indications less complicated than the millions of
samurai tricks and deceptions.

"I'm being transferred back at the end of the week," he told her,
heading for the door. There might have been the slightest taint of
remorse in that tone. "Everything'll be better after we're out of this
forsaken city."

Tokio nodded, though not entirely convinced. "Tsuyoshi* asked about you
this morning," she called after him, succeeding in gathering his
attention back-as she knew she would. "He wanted to know where you were,
and what you were doing."

"Is that so?"

She came up behind him, wishing he would face her. He seemed so distant
from her now, as had been for a long time, and she wanted to know the
source. The man she loved had never chosen to hide so many secrets from
her. "Hajime." Her voice dropped to a comforting whisper as laid her
hand on his arm. "Your son misses you. I can tell when there's something
wrong with you, and so can he; you taught him too well." She pulled
closer, hoping to draw some warmth of affection out of his proud, solid
exterior. "Please, can't you tell me what's troubling you? Why is all
this so important to you? You've never acted this way before."

Saitou stared down at her, at the beautiful creature that was his wife.
She was a strong woman, full of spirit and passion, and an understanding
of his own dark heart. Sometimes he imagined that her companionship was
the only thing that linked him to his identity in this life; other
times, he was sure of it. They had meet during the war, while he was
still Saitou Hajime and no aliases applied. She was the part of him that
no one knew. And yet there was still a different part of him, something
that she could never reach or understand. Her favor meant everything to
him but still... still there was something else he needed, a desire as
intangible as it was potent, working its way through his subconscious.
Something deep and infinitely important to him, one missing key that he
had not realized was there until it was taken out.

"I'm sorry, Tokio," he said, his golden eyes meeting hers for only an
instant. Then they wandered off again. "I couldn't explain it to you.
Now please, I'm going out a while longer, and I'm sure you can find
something to busy yourself." He took a deep breath on the cigarette, its
effects seeming to comfort him. "I'll be back in a few hours."

Tokio moved as if to call him back, not wanting to spend the rest of the
afternoon alone, but he walked on and she held her tongue. "Hajime, you
fool." Using annoyance in place of anxiety she marched back into the
kitchen and finished the meal's dishes.

As before, time passed very quickly for the wandering wolf, and
seemingly minutes later sunset was upon him. After that day he had left
any feeling of surprise at this fact far behind, accepting things as
they were. When finally his mind drew back into his body the world
jumped at him, the sun harsh against his eyes. His latest cigarette was
smoked halfway through and he tossed it aside without concern.

Where am I? Saitou paused to look around him, and saw that he was by the
small stream outside Tokyo's southern limit. The residences of the city
were behind him, and everyone was preparing for the oncoming night. A
chill wind began to blow. I wonder what brought me here. There is no one
around-what is this place? I must've been here before

His foot knocked against stone, and it was then that Saitou wished he'd
worn his boots that morning. He stooped down to examine the object: a
large rock that had been smoothed for some purpose. Following his
intuition he lifted it out of the ground.

It was as he had anticipated. The headstone was simple, smoothed but not
shaped, dull to match the stones around it; if it had been carved or
shaped, any passerby might have noticed and guessed at the grave's
occupant. As it was only a message of crudely carved letters had been
left in its gray underside:

Himura Kenshin

 1851-1880

Died protecting those he loved

May his heart find the peace it deserves.

Saitou ran his hand over the engraving, inadvertently clearing the soil
from the words. He stared at it for a long time, as if trying to draw
some deeper meaning from the object that was his enemy's tomb. Their
dual had lasted for a decade, each constantly trying to kill the other
in any way possible, but he never expected to lay eyes on the man's
tombstone.

"What are you doing here?"

Saitou glanced over his shoulder just barely, enough to see that it was
the dojo girl from that morning. But even as he planned some obnoxious
greeting, the words proceeded his mind. "This is where you buried the
assassin's head," he stated plainly.

She nodded, and he noticed that she was carrying a small package that
had "From Kyoto" printed on its surface. Instantly his curiosity leapt
at the item, whatever its contents. "Are you here to pay your respects?"
she asked.

He stood, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Certainly not. You know,
that head was supposed to be on display in the main square. Your friends
stole it."

The young woman knelt in front of the headstone, each movement of hers
noticeably more weary than the first time they had met a year ago. She
had been given a great loss to contend with, that he could see on her
face. "He didn't deserve to be there," she replied quietly, as if each
breath was causing her physical pain. "I didn't want him to see all
those people staring at him, accusing him the way they have for over a
decade." She began to unwrap the parcel. "He doesn't deserve that,
Saitou. He killed many people, yes, but wars are like that. He killed so
that things could be better for the people here, and thanks to him they
are now. You should understand that."

She pulled out a bundle wrapped in cloth. "You were in the war too, and
probably killed almost as many. But nobody fears you. They don't blame
you for the evil in the world. But they blamed our Kenshin, and he
accepted that." She smiled faintly, yet with great despair, as if gazing
back on some memory she could no longer reach. "He accepted the sins of
scores of men as his own, for our sakes. For this nation. You fought
with him, so you know that. If you had ended up on the same side all
those years ago, you might have been friends."

"I doubt that." The reaction came much too quickly to be true, and she
could tell; but Saitou would never let any weakness show, nor allow his
ease to falter in her presence. The words, however, had struck a chord
inside him. They might have been friends, for they had worked together
in times of great need. And what if fate had found them on the same side
of the war ten years ago? Would they have been as loyal to each other as
the assassin's friends were now? Would Saitou have betrayed him to the
government after the murder? Maybe then he would remember the last words
spoken, some truth that he could understand. And if so then the assassin
would have been one of the last that would call him Saitou, his true
name, his true identity.

The dojo girl-no, that was not her name. It was Kamiya Kaoru, leader of
the Kamiya kasshin School of Kendo. She had lost so much, and loved so
fully, that Saitou found he could not think of her as the energetic
little girl anymore. She was a woman. Presently she was setting out
several scraps of paper over the grave, and a few tiny charms. "These
are from his friends in Kyoto," she explained idly, not really speaking
to him or anyone. "And his teacher. His teacher wanted Kenshin to know
that he was forgiven. I wish Kenshin could have known that." She tore
the letter into tiny fragments and flung it into the river. "Now the
water will take the message to him, or the fireflies will. They would do
that for us."

"Interesting."

Kaoru said a prayer over the grave, a ritual that he imagined was now
routine for her. He waited with some patience for her to finish the
brief ceremony. "You did come to pay respects," she said at last.
"Didn't you?"

A low sigh, the closest approximation of a "yes" that she would receive.
Before he could stop himself he told her what had been bothering
him-that which he could not even tell his own wife. "I don't remember
what happened that day."

She glanced up at him, curious. "You don't remember?" Her eyes seemed to
glaze, the dull sunlight glinting off heavy tears. "Then you're lucky."

"What were his last words?"

Kaoru exhaled a low sigh of her own. "You really don't remember?"

"No."

For a while she debated with herself, as if deciding whether nor not to
share these things to their sworn enemy. "They were 'Be happy, all of
you.' Those were his last words." She lowered her head. "That was all he
really wanted, you know. For us to be happy. For me." Her voice choked
on the tears. "He died for my sake."

It was if a door had been opened in that instant, standing on the river
at the assassin's grave. Finally he remembered: the hot, blazing sun,
the crowd, and the blade It was all perfectly clear to him. The assassin
had been escorted to the guillotine while Saitou stood back. And then
something that was not in his dream: the street fighter had attacked the
guards, and a gun went off. Saitou remembered having turned his head
away at that part. Somehow the assassin managed to calm his friends
down, had spoken to them with his farewells. He had been bound and then
asked for his last words.

He had shaken his head.

It was all there now, and the realizations staggered him. Battousai had
no last words ­or rather, words that were meant for none other than
those closest to him. And Saitou was not one of them. Of course this was
that case; what would he have to say to an enemy? Despite the
obviousness of it he felt disturbed, jealous of these people who had the
right to hear his last words when he did not. He had been given nothing
to remember, even as the two of them were so similar.

"I think you are right, Saitou. It feels as if we shall meet again."

Saitou took a step back, tearing his eyes from the girl and the grave
she sat beside. Neither moved for a long time. Finally Kaoru climbed
-somewhat shakily-to her feet, and retrieved the remnants of the
packages she had brought. "If you are going to stay," she said quietly,
"then please replace the headstone before you leave."

"I could leave it," he murmured thoughtfully, trying to regain his calm,
callous demeanor. "If I left it and it was found, the grave would be
desecrated."

"You could." She said no more, slowly making her way back into the town.
No tears were shed that night, for they had long since been drained from
her. She had nothing left.

For several long moments Saitou stared at the headstone and its carving
before finally setting it back down as she had asked. It bothered him
that she trusted him so much. They were not friends. If things had been
different, then perhaps, but after what he had done

A low sigh, cast into the darkness as stars began to poke out of the
growing twilight. Fireflies began to dance at the streams edge. They
were beautiful that night, like eyes poking out of the void to stare
back at him. They reminded him of the assassin's eyes, pure and innocent
looking, so unnatural for one of his age and for one so hated among the
people. So unlike Saitou's own, even as they were the same in their pasts.

"Truly, I did not win this battle," Saitou whispered, for the first time
in his life feeling empty and devoid of existence in this strange world.
Ten years of hatred, now gone, leaving him to fight alone. "After all
these years, you won, didn't you? I was never as good as you, not ever.
You always beat me." He closed his eyes briefly. "Damn you. You would
leave me here? Where is my honorable death on your blade? How could you
find yours, and leave me in this hell where no one knows my name?"
Another deep sigh lost, and Saitou reopened his eyes, leaving the grave
sight with heavy footsteps.

The moon shone brightly that night, and if any of the residences of
Tokyo had gazed out into the streets they would have seen it
illuminating the sole figure of a man: Saitou Hajime, lone wolf of the
Shinsengumi.