Warning: This fic speaks blatantly about suicide, self-harm, rape, and a variety of unpleasant things that happen in war. There is no sick delight taken from these topics but they are discussed. Please be aware.
You can read Passage (Chapter 8 from the Assorted Fire Emblem Drabbles) for a little bit of the context on both the author and Morgan's side, but this fic stands alone just as well.
The Art of Suicide
"Lady Say'ri, I have a question!"
Say'ri finished her final down stroke with a piercing war cry. Ignoring the intruder, she held the form a moment longer with her blade still quivering from the force of her swing. Her thighs ached from her low stance but she tarried outside the flow of time a moment longer.
Then, Say'ri exhaled, collected herself, and turned to face Morgan. He stood at the edge of the practice ring, with a wooden sword slack in his hand.
"Hail, Morgan, lost son of Chon'sin." Her address of him always made him giggle, turning his eyes into smiling crescents and forming wrinkles around the edge of his lips. Half, he always reminded her. Just half. Yet he was the one to return again and again, hungry for stories about Chon'sin. As far as Say'ri was concerned, half was more than enough for him to lay claim to her stories, even while his full-blooded father seemed hellbent on squeezing himself flat to the side of the Feroxi khans.
"So I was talking to Owain and Cynthia about the ancient warriors and heroes of different lands and I remembered what you said two days about honor-"
Say'ri sheathed her sword as he jabbered. Just at the mention of his friends, his voice grew in both pitch and loudness, until Say'ri only heard a buzzing of excited child-speak. With such a reticent father and prudent mother, Say'ri wondered which one was it that Morgan really took after.
"Morgan, pray tell, what is it that you want?" she interrupted. Morgan did not even stop to breathe as the question came out in a slew of words, all bunched up and running into each other.
"I've heard it was common practice. Ritualistic suicide by warriors."
Morgan's eyes locked onto Say'ri's. Those of Ylisse had a habit of pinning people with their stares that made her forearms itch. Even if the eyes in question were the dark Chon'sin eyes he had inherited from his father. When Say'ri did not respond right away, Morgan continued.
"We read that the famous general Oda Nobunaga was forced to kill himself when he lost the war and that many of his soldiers killed themselves when he did so."
"Is this really so fascinating to you and your friends?" Say'ri asked. War wore hard on the Shepherds with the Fire Emblem now in the hands of the Grimleal, yet these children still had time for such morbid small talk. Even if it must have been an idle curiosity, borne of nothing serious, her mind conjured up memories of that day in the shadowed hall of her childhood home.
But Morgan had no way of knowing her thoughts and so he exclaimed an unabashed "Yes!" without hesitation.
Say'ri nodded and motioned for him to sit on the nearby crates with her. This too was a way to remember Chon'sin. The road had washed away the scent of plum blossoms from her bags and she had to replace parts of her broken armor with Feroxi substitutes, but her swords still bore the seal of the Chon'sin royal family. From her belt she withdrew the tantō gilded in gold and mother-of-pearl. Morgan threw his own practice sword aside carelessly while his eyes fixated on the heirloom she turned in her fingers.
Once she too loved the blade. Loved watching Yen'fay carve through the air like a singing sparrow in the rays of early morning light. When she was a child, before the calluses had grown thick on her soft baby palms, the wooden planks of the veranda had been cool under her bare feet. Her eyes had fluttered with every step she took for they were heavy with sleep and ached in the harsh morning sunlight. Still, she never took her eyes off her brother. With a childish conviction, she had been sure if she turned away for a moment, he would move too fast and the magic he weaved through the whistling of his blade would be lost forever.
Later the headband, donned as her crown for a fallen kingdom, kept her hair out of her eyes. She had seen every rustle of fabric, every bead of sweat, and every strand of hair on Yen'fay's peaceful face as he died.
A suicide of a selfish king that chose his sister over his honor. If she repeated it enough times, she could accept it as she accepted so many other earth shattering revelations in her short life: her parents dying, Chon'sin disappearing, Yen'fay betraying her.
"Do you carry that blade around everywhere?"
"Hush, child, not so many questions before I have begun." Say'ri chided and Morgan pulled a face.
"You are referring to seppuku, the death through disembowelment by the blade and beheading for warriors. Tis a little more... nuanced a ritual than just suicide. To call it common would be an exaggeration but every Chon'sin child knows of it. Before I learned the blade and became a warrior, when I was no more than a wee babe of five years, I learned jigai."
"Jigai..." Morgan rolled the word on his tongue before giving a start. "They teach you how to kill yourself when you're five?"
Say'ri nodded. "Jigai is for the women. Seppuku is taught to the young warriors but for me, as a princess of Chon'sin during times of war, there be jigai. It would be better for her to die honorably than to have her body defiled while she lived and shipped to a conqueror as a prize. You do not need an assistant for jigai. The blade goes up through the jugular-"
She raised the short blade to her neck, still sheathed, to indicate where the cut would go. Morgan stared, unblinking. Still, Say'ri heard him exhale when she lowered the blade.
"No doubt you have seen similar wounds upon battlefields. Tis a clean kill, meant to preserve the facial expression. That way when the conquerors storm the castle, they will see a beautiful corpse, dignified in death."
Only a year ago, she had knelt in her ancestral home's hall while the world fell apart around her. She bowed twice, facing the altar of her ancestors and hiding her tears from diminished rows of retainers. The alarm bells had been going silent one by one as their bell ringers were killed. Her thumb caressed the short blade in her robe as another messenger tumbled into the doorway, General Yen'fay was missing, his men being slaughtered-
In the present, Morgan muttered, "It is different though. No one fights on the battlefield wanting to die, right? And when I kill the enemy soldiers, Father says I'm always... rushing too much. I guess this feels … like a different kind of intention."
The retainers had started to whisper now, urging her to hurry, and Say'ri remembered how the knot of her kimono around her legs to keep her sitting upright chafed her legs. The cool lacquered wood of the short blade handle had felt alien to a hand used to the bound and worn handle of the sword.
Her concentration had narrowed onto the tip of that blade as the decision she made sharpened into focus. Still, Say'ri had lingered a moment longer, feeling the weight of her ancestors' ever-watchful eyes. Then, praying for forgiveness, she sliced through the cloth binding her strong legs and her hand had reached for the hilt of her katana.
In the present, her sweat cooled in the undersides of her knees as her legs hung loose off the barrel. "These are but rituals for a ceremonial death, Morgan. Intent in a hall besieged by the enemy and intent to kill as a soldier is different. Everyone is fighting to live-" Again, Say'ri felt her tongue trip over the words. "To survive, when they are on the battlefield."
"But what about those that go to the battlefield in order to fight and die? That's also a type of suicide, is it not? Why do people even try to throw their lives away like that?" Morgan mumbled. He gripped his own sleeves where the eyes of Grima had been embroidered on. His mind flashed to those downturned gazes he saw between his mother and father and his stomach turned.
Say'ri watched him turn troubled with a sad understanding. If she had not buried her pain so long ago, she could have told Morgan of those nights on the run with a crumbling resistance. When the hope of the Shepherds did not exist and the weight of Yen'fay's betrayal hung like a yoke across her back. The tantō had dug into her ribs each time she awoke, slick with sweat.
Instead, she asked, "Should I explain the process of seppuku to you as well?"
Morgan nodded, albeit slowly, and Say'ri continued.
"Seppuku is… more complicated. Reasons for committing it can range from losing the lord you were sworn to serve to removing the shame of possible torture at the hands of your enemies. You need an assistant, the kaishakunin. Only the most trusted companions are chosen to be a person's kaishakunin for they must be swift, merciless, and precise. The best cut is not to separate the head entirely but to leave it hanging by a flap. That way the face can be hidden and dignity preserved."
Say'ri paused and Morgan interjected. "When the lord… dies, is it the enemy that forces them to-?"
"If the enemy captures a lord, perhaps. But if you are just another soldier with a stalwart sense of honor and your lord has just been killed, it is more likely to be self-inflicted."
Morgan swallowed hard. "I see. Go on."
She was about to object when he fixed her with that tenacious, eye-pinning stare again. She pretended not to notice and continued.
"The first cut is made across the abdomen and at the signal, your assistant will behead you. Those that can will endure the pain of cutting open their entire stomach, but it is far more customary for the beheading to happen after the initial plunge. The ritual steps leading up to it is complex and I cannot do it justice. But the cut-"
Say'ri had just raised the blade when Morgan jerked forward and knocked the tantō out of her hands. Taken aback, Say'ri did not even move as the blade fell with a clatter to the ground. They watched each other's eyes for a moment, outside from time. Then, Morgan dropped low, grabbed the blade, and backed away from her reach.
"Don't do it. Promise me you won't do it." he asked with a quavering voice. Then his mind caught up with his words and he flushed.
"Morgan, that blade is precious to me. It was my brother's." Say'ri replied instead. Yet now that her hands were free, her own heartbeat had slowed to a relaxed crawl.
"…I am so sorry." Morgan wore an expression Say'ri had seen on both his mother and father, red faced and flustered.
"Tis fine. Just please give it back." Say'ri said firmly. But Morgan had frozen in place as his mind whirled behind his eyes.
"Does it have to be this?"
"Pardon?" Say'ri could not help the sliver of exasperation that entered her voice. Still, neither of them moved as Morgan repeated his question.
"For the ritual to work, does it have to be this blade?" Morgan's voice shook but he held the tantō up higher. "I think I understand. Seppuku is to end shame, isn't it? Jigai to prevent it and seppuku to end it. That's why you need the kaishakunin at seppuku- someone to witness the end of shame. I'm asking if it has to be Yen'fay's blade."
The inside of Say'ri's nostrils heated and her body ached from holding herself so still and calm. She opened her mouth and a million curses and pleas from the years of fighting Walhart coalesced into one tremulous word.
"Yes."
When her resistance group had dwindled, from a hundred, to a handful, to just her, she had apologized for every honor-less bone in her body. If she had died in the castle like a princess instead of struggling to the battlefield as a warrior, perhaps then Yen'fay would never have reason to betray Chon'sin. He would have never sought death at her hand and she would have never had to become her brother's kaishakunin. The shame they had both brought to their kingdom had slept next to her heart in that lacquered sheath every night since.
Morgan nodded grimly, as if this was what he expected all along. In his solemn expression, Say'ri could see an echo of his mother, choosing what to sacrifice in order to win.
"I'm sorry." He repeated. Then he turned and tossed the blade far into the thicket. It flew in a beautiful arc, spinning as it fell into a bush with a distant rustle. A bird, disturbed, flew away with a twitter. Then it was silent.
When he looked back, Say'ri had not moved from her seat, having gone completely still with shock. It took several attempts, but when she found her voice, she managed to croak out, "Do you feel better?"
Bluff over, Morgan's face screwed up with guilt. "I should be asking you that! I mean, it was your brother's-" His mouth flapped open like a fish and Say'ri intercepted.
"Morgan, be at ease. It is fine. Do you feel better?"
Say'ri tried to give him a reassuring smile but found it very hard to overcome the numbness that had spread over her features. He kept staring at her with a sticky flush of shame on his face. It was such a contrast from his serious countenance earlier that it was making it hard for her to concentrate on words. It reminded her of when Yen'fay had laughed at her, when she had been more hot-headed and her tiny fists flailing against his chest had only made him rumble more.
"I will do him no honor by carrying around an object meant to take my life." Say'ri said bluntly. Her words sounded hollow to her own ears, a false platitude that an ancient manakete would have laughed sadly at, but Morgan, raised on dire predictions and comforting lies, perked up. He looked at her with anticipation and she paused as she sought the right delivery for her next lines.
"There…there is no shame in your earnestness to preserve life. Your mother and father are lucky to have you." Her voice gained a conviction that took herself aback.
Morgan bowed, deep and formal. He had no words- that much was clear. When he straightened, Say'ri could smile again and the corner of her eyes crinkled. A quiet moment passed between them before Morgan spoke up again.
"You know... I think the dead try to let their mistakes die with them. They just want us to live well, without them on our shoulders." Morgan said sadly. Say'ri looked at him in surprise and he amended his wisdom.
"Mother said something like that when Khan Basilio died. I had asked her about Papa's revenge and she told me he needed to mourn before letting it truly go. I don't think I believe it, not completely, but as a war tactician, isn't it better to believe death is the end?"
Say'ri gave a slow nod before looking out to the underbrush where the blade had fallen. She could go after dark to find it.
"Aye."
A/N: Some things to note. Morgan's conclusions are his. Seppuku, jigai, and the idea of honor and shame in war is one I have not had much personal experience with, but instead have pieced it together through stories from my elders, academic research, translated testimonials, and a good dose of fiction. Please excuse any gross mistakes I may have made in representing such a complicated act.
Say'ri and Morgan seem to take the brunt of my need to write about loss and death, especially the conscious choice of the latter. Perhaps it is because they embody the same determination of spirit while harboring a certain loneliness even among the Shepherds.