It's difficult, if not impossible, to imagine a life without his master-- a life in which he does not know exactly where he should be, and what his purpose is. Rokuro finds peace and structure in routine. To be cut off from the man he has based his entire life around, and left to his own devices, does not feel like freedom. It feels like punishment.

"How?" Spoken almost too softly to be heard. If Kylo thinks Rokuro looks more shell-shocked by his current predicament than when faced with a gatling gun, Kylo would be correct. He is staring straight ahead with a thousand-yard stare, and the voice leaving his mouth feels strange and unfamiliar.

How is Rokuro supposed to know what to do with himself when he is alone, when he doesn't know who he is when he's alone? For all his reading of classical literature, philosophy, and self-reflective poetry, this is a question he has never been asked to answer-- or even think about.

The only time Rokuro anticipated leaving his master's side, he was not half so afraid, as he had already written his death poem and planned to die by ritual suicide that same night. Returning honour to his family whilst selfishly avoiding a life of uncertainty with one deep cut.

Of course, Rokuro's master had rejected his resignation, and here he is. More uncertain than ever.

"I do not feel better. I feel ill. I feel... weak."