Rurouni Kenshin Fan Fiction ❯ How Did It Feel? ❯ How Did It Feel? ( One-Shot )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Serenitychan13 
This is all I have done so far and I want to know if this is going to be a well-recieved idea. Just drop a review and tell me what you think so far!
Anime/Manga: Rurouni Kenshin Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Horror / Drama / Supernatural | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 05.05.2005 | Updated On: 10.12.2005 | Pages: 1 | Words: 762 | Visits: 848 | Status: Work In Progress
This is all I have done so far and I want to know if this is going to be a well-recieved idea. Just drop a review and tell me what you think so far!
Anime/Manga: Rurouni Kenshin Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Horror / Drama / Supernatural | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 05.05.2005 | Updated On: 10.12.2005 | Pages: 1 | Words: 762 | Visits: 848 | Status: Work In Progress
How Did It Feel?
By Serenity-chan
The night was cool, still and almost as silent as the grave - the air was quite misty as well, reducing visibility to almost nothing. It was not technically spring yet - the equinox about two weeks away - and winter was still not ready to give up the fight. The weather as of late could only be described as indecisive, as if Nature were vacillating between seasons. That sort of weather made conditions perfect for sneaking about unseen. In fact, the children of the local villages referred to that sort of night as a "ninja's night." Two people could be standing five feet apart and each would be unaware of the other's presence. Almost like a night on the moors of England, the coolness and thick fog gave the night a kind of eerie peacefulness.
A lone figure stood in an open field, tall, pensive, and looking down at something on the ground in front of him. His brows knitted together and his eyes were half-closed in a way that made it seem as though he were scowling at whatever was on the ground. Looking at the man, one would have to guess his age. His face was smooth, his shoulders broad, and his body well-formed and lithe - all in all, he didn't look a day over twenty-five, perhaps even younger. The man was a soldier - even without the uniform, his bearing made it obvious. Aside from the fact that he was standing alone in a field in the middle of the night, he looked perfectly normal...
... Until a cloud moved in just the right way and a moonbeam escaped from its prison, shining down and illuminating the young man from the shoulders up. At first, it just looked like a small cut that could have come from anything. On a second glance, a thin line was visible - a line that went around the circumfrence of his neck. It was so thin that it could have been painted there with the most delicate of calligraphy brushes - then you noticed that it was red. If you continued to watch in horror, you would see the distinct red stream trailing from the line, then another and another. The handsome soldier who stood alone in the mist was dead.
His blood glistened scarlet in the pale moonlight as it streamed down the slim column of his throat and trailed down to soak into his shirt. Slowly, sadly, the soldier raised his hand and ran it along the side of his throat. He examined his fingers, sighed soundlessly, and clenched his hand into a loose fist. As he let his hand drop and swing at his side, he let his eyes fall completely closed and clenched his jaw for a moment. It wasn't really anger he was feeling, just pain.
The handsome soldier's eyes raised from the ground to where the horizon would have been if he could see it. Blue-white clouds of fog swirled in front of him, blocking all but the vague outline of the treetops from view. The air was thick, and though he no longer really needed to, he took a deep breath, wishing he could feel the soft, moist coolness in his throat again. It had been so long since he had taken his last breath, but he could remember as if it had happened yesterday. His chest tightened as the scene flashed before his eyes again.
There was a crowd, just as they had wanted. The government was showing the people how just and fair they were by getting rid of this twisted man who had caused mass confusion. He shook his head, but he found he could not shake the images away. People were talking about him, pointing at him. He had clearly heard a young woman in the crowd saying "He's the reason my brother is dead." A tear trailed down his cheek and glistened in the moonlight.
Yes, it had been his fault. He had been seduced by such delightful words as "peace" and "truth" and "equality". Some concept of justice, something in his mind snorted bitterly - murdering a group of faithful men simply to get around heavy-handed promises. At least they had made it plain which side they were on! Treason... That was a charge invented by winners of war as an excuse for getting rid of whoever they thought it necessary to get rid of.
By Serenity-chan
The night was cool, still and almost as silent as the grave - the air was quite misty as well, reducing visibility to almost nothing. It was not technically spring yet - the equinox about two weeks away - and winter was still not ready to give up the fight. The weather as of late could only be described as indecisive, as if Nature were vacillating between seasons. That sort of weather made conditions perfect for sneaking about unseen. In fact, the children of the local villages referred to that sort of night as a "ninja's night." Two people could be standing five feet apart and each would be unaware of the other's presence. Almost like a night on the moors of England, the coolness and thick fog gave the night a kind of eerie peacefulness.
A lone figure stood in an open field, tall, pensive, and looking down at something on the ground in front of him. His brows knitted together and his eyes were half-closed in a way that made it seem as though he were scowling at whatever was on the ground. Looking at the man, one would have to guess his age. His face was smooth, his shoulders broad, and his body well-formed and lithe - all in all, he didn't look a day over twenty-five, perhaps even younger. The man was a soldier - even without the uniform, his bearing made it obvious. Aside from the fact that he was standing alone in a field in the middle of the night, he looked perfectly normal...
... Until a cloud moved in just the right way and a moonbeam escaped from its prison, shining down and illuminating the young man from the shoulders up. At first, it just looked like a small cut that could have come from anything. On a second glance, a thin line was visible - a line that went around the circumfrence of his neck. It was so thin that it could have been painted there with the most delicate of calligraphy brushes - then you noticed that it was red. If you continued to watch in horror, you would see the distinct red stream trailing from the line, then another and another. The handsome soldier who stood alone in the mist was dead.
His blood glistened scarlet in the pale moonlight as it streamed down the slim column of his throat and trailed down to soak into his shirt. Slowly, sadly, the soldier raised his hand and ran it along the side of his throat. He examined his fingers, sighed soundlessly, and clenched his hand into a loose fist. As he let his hand drop and swing at his side, he let his eyes fall completely closed and clenched his jaw for a moment. It wasn't really anger he was feeling, just pain.
The handsome soldier's eyes raised from the ground to where the horizon would have been if he could see it. Blue-white clouds of fog swirled in front of him, blocking all but the vague outline of the treetops from view. The air was thick, and though he no longer really needed to, he took a deep breath, wishing he could feel the soft, moist coolness in his throat again. It had been so long since he had taken his last breath, but he could remember as if it had happened yesterday. His chest tightened as the scene flashed before his eyes again.
There was a crowd, just as they had wanted. The government was showing the people how just and fair they were by getting rid of this twisted man who had caused mass confusion. He shook his head, but he found he could not shake the images away. People were talking about him, pointing at him. He had clearly heard a young woman in the crowd saying "He's the reason my brother is dead." A tear trailed down his cheek and glistened in the moonlight.
Yes, it had been his fault. He had been seduced by such delightful words as "peace" and "truth" and "equality". Some concept of justice, something in his mind snorted bitterly - murdering a group of faithful men simply to get around heavy-handed promises. At least they had made it plain which side they were on! Treason... That was a charge invented by winners of war as an excuse for getting rid of whoever they thought it necessary to get rid of.