Disclaimer: Toboe LoneWolf does not own Naruto, which is owned by Kishimoto. All hail Kishimoto, even if he does have to kill really cool characters. XP
Kata
He closes his eyes. Draw in, ground, and center. Inhales. Exhales. Lifts up his katana. Focus and release.
He pivots to the south, and cuts across horizontally.
—Il: Heaven.
In the quiet moments when he is alone and practicing his kata, Hayate finds comfort in the simplicity and elegance in the movement of blades. There is a calming comfort in performing a kata in perfect rendition, knowing what pattern his body will flow into before he even thinks it; he has done it before and he can do it again.
Like his father and his father's father before him, the Gekkou line has always been in the art of swords.
—Ee: Lake.
A half turn to the east, and step forward.
It is only at these times when his cough ever truly vanishes; only when he moves with blade in hand that he breathes freely. That final limitation slides off him, and there is nothing else holding him back.
They no longer said he would never be able to wield the blade as true as his father.
"But he's always ill, and that cough--it's never gone away, how can you say he'll—"
"Na, he will." Smile. "See, look."
Little toddler hands groping over his father's shoulder, reaching upward for the twin swords sheathed on his father's back. A tiny cough, before snagging the tassel at the end and gripping it tightly before falling asleep in his father's arms.
A chuckle. "Heyla, see? He's reaching for them already."
—Sam: Fire.
With a sudden shift the rhythm of the kata changes, and Hayate quickly slides into the east, whirling from slow backstep into full extension. Slash down, in kesagiri; half-step and flow into sakakaze. It is all movement and action, swift and sure.
"Na, there. Feel how the hilt rests in your grip now, right against your palm? This is how it should be. And this— this is how you move."
Ken-ki, finely controlled and layering over with chakra, focuses the dance's intent. A slow, careful burn; not like the fierce raging blaze of Amaterasu, but the quiet glow of Tsukuyomi.
Here is power. Here is fire, bound and channeled into the steps of the dance, distilling into a cool veneer of strength and potential. This is what is; this is what can be – See, the katana whispers – this is the way I move. This is how I sing. See, and hear, for what I can become—
Hai, the swordsman answers. This is what we are.
Hands on his tiny shoulders, his father above him. "Feel that, Hayate? This is what you must listen for, this, here— this, is the sword's own ki, and when you have done it right—"
Steel blurring as he goes from wheel stroke to the four-sides cut to the thunder stroke—
—Sa: Thunder.
To the northeast, forming a circle, Hayate comes to next part of the kata, slower, but still with power. The blade travels distinct curves now, forming crescents, circles – turning and weaving to carve sinuous paths in the air. He is no Kakashi Hatake, with the raikiri and its lightning blade. Hayate's skill is not in lightning's fierce destructive power, but in the aftermath – to follow and echo in its wake. His is in the hidden power resting in the rumbles and cracks of a lightning strike's thunder.
His right foot turns forty-five degrees in perfect exactness, his katana cutting down and across, beauty and cold and intimidation.
—Oh: Wind.
They say the greatest of blades can cut through a leaf by the leaf's own weight alone, placed on top of their sharp edge and let to fall. "The blade can slice through sheer air," it is said; and the sword will keen like the wind with its own distinct howl.
These are mere tales and stories, myths and legends – but even these will often have a grain of truth inside them.
"The blade can slice through sheer air...if the blade so chooses."
Hayate rises up from his crouched position, slicing in hidarikriage, sidesteps and returns in its brother's path, mirroring his movements a moment before.
—Yook: Water.
He is lost, lost in the pattern and its movements. He cannot help it, falling to the call of the sword. It's a part of him now, and he cannot deny it.
His foot makes a half-circle trail in the dirt as he reverses his grip to a single hand and strikes, stepping back and bringing his sword to his side and then following with a rising cut, repositioning his hands once more. He flows with all of the grace and fluidity of water, sometimes still, sometimes surging; the deadly dance of swordplay made pretty by elegant arcs.
Sometimes it is easy to forget that their skill is made for killing. Sometimes, he wants to.
—Chil: Mountain.
"Never forget the sword. Never forget your heritage."
He is a Gekkou, Gekkou Hayate; he has always been and always will be called to the sword. Kenjutsu; the art of the sword. It is his life and his being.
Live by the sword and die by the sword, and he knows this is truth.
He pulls back for just a moment before thrusting forward in tsuki, straight and direct.
—Pal: Earth.
And then he pulls back, flicking his sword in the chiburi ritual and sheathing his sword, bowing to his imaginary opponent. He has come full circle, from heaven to earth, moving from the center to the outside of his circle and then back here where he started. Beginning and ending, as all kata do.
"So you've done it, son. You've got the hang of Mikazuki no Mai now."
And then he takes his stance again, and places his hand on his hilt.
This was just the beginning.
"But don't think that's all."
They say he won't live to be thirty. Most don't, anyway, and on top of it he still has his cough. Even if it only disappears when he moves with sword in hand, doesn't mean it isn't there. He's not legendary, but he's good, and solid, and he is a shinobi of the Leaf.
His hand tightens around the hilt.
Think I can't? Just watch me.
Inhales. Exhales. Draws his katana.
Think I won't?
His blade echoes the countless ones that have come before him, completing the movements of hundreds of men who have followed the sword.
Then just watch me.