Does it look like I own Kenshin to you? Or better yet, does it sound like it?
It had been a long time since he'd been in Kyoto. He'd left shortly after the battle of Toba Fushimi, stopping only to receive a gift from one master swordsmith, Arai Shakku. The sakabato. His penance for all the lives he had taken. Hers especially.
Not much had changed really; with the exception of an inn here and a brothel here; people still walked through the streets of the market, vendors still yelled out their prices, fishmongers mongered their fish, the streets still sprawled out in an endless maze as they led travelers stoically to their destination; whether that destination be an inn, a shrine, a mountain path, …a cemetery… Wherever you go though, one scent remains. One that has been there so long the people who lived there no longer noticed it; it was blood, and if you worked hard at it, you might smell something else as well. More specifically the scent of flowers…her perfume…Hakubaiko. He could always smell the two, and no matter what, his drink always seemed to taste like one of them.
After all, this was Kyoto…