Note: Done in response to my request for a drabble challenge, Alc Fluteo wanted me to do one for Kikuchiyo, preferably something referencing his previous life. I obliged, but in typical Samuraiko fashion. Alc was happy with the result, as was I.


NOTHING CHANGES

Dirt.

Dirt he was used to, as well as the mud of working every day in the fields. The feeling of the plants in his hands, the water on his feet, mud between his toes as he toiled in the paddies to farm rice.

Sweat.

The sun was hot against his back as he slowly moved backward, one careful step at a time, and sweat trickled along his brow despite the shade of his straw hat. His tattered clothes clung to his damp chest and shoulders, and the salt of his sweat made his eyes water and the cracks in his skin burn.

Blood.

Occasionally while threshing the rice, he would slip and catch something, and the village elder would have to come out and bless the rice to keep it from being despoiled by the blood. It happened to everyone; in fact, it was more surprising if you didn't cut yourself while harvesting the rice.


Dirt.

Dust and debris coated his armor as the building came down around him, the result of an ill-planned sword swing, and he ruefully tried to brush it away, but only succeeding in smearing the muck all over himself even more.

Sweat.

Masamune did what he could to keep his joints well oiled, but sometimes things would leak, and his armor and joints would be coated in icky blackness. He rubbed one hand across his face, leaving a long trail of black along one side, wishing he could again enjoy the relief of plunging into a cool river to cleanse himself.

Blood.

So much blood. And for once, none of it his. He almost wished it were his... it would have been easier to live with.