Disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin belongs to Nobuhiro Watsuki. I borrowed the poem from volume 10, page 121, and stole the "It is a great sword..." quote from volume 12, page 90.
Summary: Small events, little things, a decision here, a mistake there...sometimes everything conspires to fall into place at just the right moment. Given enough time, Luck smiles on us all.
Oddity
By: gure
Those who encounter me say I am one of the strangest things they've ever seen. "The blade is on the wrong side, " they say. "What kind of sword is that?" they ask. It's true, you know. I am backwards. Blunt where there should be an edge; sharpness where there should be dullness. That said, do not misjudge me. I am not harmless. With enough force, there is the potential to be deadly. Regardless of how I was forged, or with what intent, I am still a weapon. First and foremost, I will always be a weapon.
My brother and I were forged in the same fire, by the same smith. Many wondered, in that time of chaos, "Why would the best sword smith in all of Japan make those?" My brother and I, you see, are the oddities among a never ending procession of blades, each more elaborate than the last, each designed to kill. We were the last. Perhaps our maker knew his luck had run out. Knew he was damned, and wanted to take a shot at redemption, however futile. Perhaps our maker felt his luck turning. Even the most hardened heart can harbor hope.
My brother was given away. Perhaps as a joke, perhaps as a challenge. Sent to a young man who hoped to wash his hands of the bloodshed. Whatever the reason we were separated, joke, challenge, or something else entirely, it doesn't matter to me. It would be a long time before I encountered that young man. Far too long to worry with reasons. I was sent to a shrine. There, I slept, and waited. They say because I rested in a shrine that I am holy. I am not. I am a weapon. And I am stronger than my brother.
Ten years I waited. My brother was broken, shattered in a fight.
That is how I found my bearer. Some say it was destiny. I say it was luck. The right place at the right time. My brother had finally failed him, and that man, my bearer, had every intention of using me as a deadly weapon. Believing his only choice was to kill one to save another. He did not yet realize what I am. That I offered another option. Like my maker, he was willing to give up his soul for the greater good. Foolish man. By luck, I was there. I saved him. Yes. Dumb luck.
From that moment on, I have been by his side. I have averted disaster. I have prevented fatal mistakes. Perhaps by coincidence; I say by luck. The quality of steel. The expertise of the smith. A loose stay pin. Little things, yes, but many small parts form a great whole. Like grains of sand. Like droplets of water. A man once said, "It is a great sword indeed that considers its wielder's feelings." I am a weapon, but I was not intended to kill.
The day my bearer found me, I revealed a secret. My maker had left a mark. His parting words, a hidden poem. "Slashing myself, I have trained countless blades. My son reviles, but for my grandson, I bleed." My bearer survived that chaotic time. The words resonate with those who remember. I am his path to redemption. I am his answer.
Some say that I keep him sane. That I am his reminder. Perhaps. But there is more. I belong to him, and, in turn, he belongs to me. He keeps me pure. In his hands, I will never taste blood. I am a weapon. The wrong hands would flip me and use my sharp edge. With enough force, even the blunt side is deadly. With him, I will never be misused. I was not intended to kill. And neither was he.