Disclaimer: Copyright to Rurouni Kenshin belongs to Nobuhiro Watsuki. Read the piece and then tell me who else should be credited for the man we call Kenshin.

Author's Note: A brilliant fanfic writer called Punk Manueverability wrote stories for X-Philes (people who are obsessed with The X-Files) called Our Mulders, Our Scullys, and our Kryceks, which is not just a tribute to the characters, but was more importantly dedicated to X-Files fanfic writers everywhere. Feel free to visit http://home.teleport.com/~punkmanueverability/index.html to know what I'm talking about. I asked permission, so you all know where proper credit for the idea goes to.

Our Kenshins


We wandered into his life, and he was forever changed.

It was that cross-shaped scar that intrigued us, that lured us from our humdrum existence and threw us into ancient Japan. We didn't know any better then, so we armed ourselves with historical facts and a foreign language before joining his battles. How we fought for him, with our pens and our computers and our imaginations. Fighting with him, fighting for him, until we drifted into our dreams of a red-haired man: half-assassin, half-wanderer.

All ours.

He was a contradiction unto himself. He came to us looking lost, but his trail held the scent of blood. He was steel and danger, the most feared slasher of his time. But still we gave him tons of laundry to clean. We sent him to the market day after day for a bucket of tofu.

He was polite to begin with, but we weren't contented. We brought his chivalry to a whole new level. He protested the perfection he found himself in, calling himself sessha, unworthy, but we held none higher in our esteem.

We added new scars to his lean frame, reveling in the different ways we could break him. We found new methods of torture – physical, emotional, mental – just because we could. We stole his friends. We killed his wives. We even gave him Kaoru's miso soup.

We constantly poked fun at him. We rejoiced in making Hiko call him baka deshi. We never tired of hearing him say, "Oro?" We teased him about his pink – okay, magenta – gi. Yet we loved him despite of it. Or maybe, because of it.

We made him wander into his past, his present, and his future. We brought him to alternate universes and different dimensions. But we never let go of that scar.

We filled his life with fireflies and cherry blossoms, white plum, and jasmine. We drove him crazy because we couldn't decide which woman – or man – we liked better. While we argued and debated, he went wandering again, chasing new demons.

We waited for his eyes to change from purple to amber, because we wanted to see the fiery hitokiri in our gentle rurouni. Then we waited for the right time to reel him back in, delighting in our ability to push him to the edge only to save him from himself in the end.

We took his pains and made them our own. We took our fears and made them his. Together, we wore our scars like a cross on the cheek.

He took us on his journeys, and showed us the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu succession technique faster than we can say Ama Kakeru Ryuno Hirameki. He protected us from warlords with grudges, from killers with vendettas. He gave us his patented one-minute lectures with a smile that begged not to be disappointed. He fished for us.

In return, we gave him a family to come home to. And salvation. And love.

We gave him ourselves.

He wandered into our lives, and we were forever changed.