Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ.
Author's notes: Yajarobe is one of my favourite characters. He is also one of the most under rated characters in the show. What would have happened if Yajarobe hadn't taken off Vegeta's tail, or if he hadn't carried Gokou up Korin's tower? So I thought a fic about Yajarobe's childhood and how he got his katana would be something new. Please read and review.
The sun shone through the leaves, leaving lacy patterns of light and dark on the old worn stone path which weaved through the trees. The breeze had an icy edge to it at odds with its gentleness. It tugged at the end of the departing samurais' long pony tails and sent the coloured leaves on twirling earth bound death marches. The sun lit up splashes of red and yellow on the mounds of fallen leaves, and in cased the ones that fell in shafts of gold.
Yajarobe had no eyes for this. He watched the easy swing of his father's pony tail with his head resting against his mother's deep green kimono. She dropped her hand on his shoulder a light comforting touch. A silent assurance that all was well, that she was there for him. His dark brown eyes followed the long black pony tail shining against the burgundy haori until it disappeared from view. He loved his Kaasan above all else but more that anything he wished he could be like his father. A skilled samurai who not only wielded his Daisho with grace and skill, but was kindly as well.
Simple feelings perhaps but for a child such as himself they meant everything. Once the dark pony tail vanished into the trees, his mother's hand ruffled his hair.
"Come finish you dinner, Yajarobe." She smiled at him, her dark eyes soft and kind, her hair fluttering around her face. He smiled back. Hadn't his father said she was the prettiest woman in all the Daimyo's lands? He followed her back into the house, only once glancing back to trees.
The house seemed oddly empty without his father's presence, though you were hardly aware of him when he was home. It was an odd thing that Yajarobe could never quite wrap his mind around. He had never needed to glance at the sword rack to check for his father's katana, a sure sign of his presence. Always and forever, had he been aware of his father presence. When he was home, there was no need to check, Yajarobe simply knew. He pushed his chopsticks down into the rice and reflected. His father would ask.
"You knew I was home Yarji." And he would respond.
"Hai!"
His father would smile just faintly, his eyes shining and ask yet another question, one his son could never answer and yet even so his very uncertainty would bring a pleased and proud smile to the man's lips.
"How did you know?"
He was too young to understand the significance of such a small thing. His father a well known and respected samurai from an old clan however understood the significance perfectly. His son not yet 8, recognised his ki and so he would smile at his son with a mixture of pride and amusement. Safe in the knowledge that one day he would become a great samurai.
That night his father didn't come home.
"He's working" was his mother's only response to his questions on his father's whereabouts. He brought her fire wood, carrying split logs as big as his leg in one by one and adding them to the neat stack next to the fire.
Out under the trees in the crisp air, he played with his friends all of them the sons of the other samurai. When the sky began to darken the small group of boys dispersed and even it was only with the greatest reluctance that they returned home for their dinners. The house seemed hollow, even from the trees. Yajarobe's shoulders slumped for he knew his father had still not returned.
He had lain in bed for several hours, the quilt pulled up to his chin listening to the wind whispering in the trees. The moon, full and beautiful shone through the shoji making the tightly woven straw in the tatami shine sliver. He held a hand up in a shaft of moonlight and turned it this way and that watching his hand change in the strange light.
Then though the darkness he heard the soft grating of a shoji opening then closing, followed by his fathers voice muted to incomprehension by distance and anxiety. He lay very still frightened by the tone and tension in the voices below. He wriggled down under his quilt and listened. After a time he heard the shoji slide open then shut again, followed by soft sobbing.
Some instinct made him follow. His father's ki burning like a star in the distance drew him, his small feet padded silently weaving this way and that through the trees. Ahead he caught sight of a flicker of black hair and the swish of a deep burgundy haori. He ran. He had never run so fast in his whole life. For surely up ahead was his wise, quiet father who hand never once raised a hand to him. His feet pounded over the leaves turned silver and white by the moon, his lungs burnt, but he ran on.
Haruki Ukita tucked his hands up inside his haori sleeves and looked up at the moon, as he waited silently for the men to arrive. He sighed and wondered at the thoughts of his Daimyo who had after asking Yorishisa to do his bidding had now insisted he commit seppuku. The young man his dark hair still in its pony tail glanced back at the shoji behind him. His job was to keep people out of the room where Yorishisa would meet his end. He wondered nervously if the man's spirit would come past him out into the moonlit night and if it did would he feel it. Or see it?
The sound of sandaled feet drew his attention back towards the trees. Four samurai were coming, Yorishisa among them. He bowed quietly as the older men approached. There were some 10 years between himself and Yorishisa and by comparison, he was just a raw boy, next to a hardened warrior. He wondered rather sadly if the small quiet man understood how well respected he was. The wind rustled the leaves and the stone path gleamed sliver. Yorishisa bowed in response to Haruki and moved to mount the old wooden steps in silence, the air around him heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Yajarobe ran his small bare feet made soft patting sounds on the damp leaves. Through the trees, the moon slivered stone path shone. There, ahead was his father his ki bright and warm in the dark. He flung his small body across the remaining distance. He clung to his father's hakama, his breath coming in tortured gasps. He buried his face in the soft folds of the deep burgundy haori, tears soaking into the cloth. He dug his small fat hands in the soft grey cloth of his father's hakama and held on tight.
His father's voice came to him distantly. Though a haze of emotions. A strong calloused hand descended on to his head, stroking his hair gently.
"Yaji." It was kindly, a little sad but not at all angry. Yajarobe lifted his head and looked up his father haloed by moonlight. Later he would remember his father's face most clearly, haloed by the moon.
"Otousan…." He sounded as uncertain as he felt, but he didn't let go of his father's clothes. The other samurai stood around them silent and perhaps just a little bemused by this turn of events. A gust of wind sent the samurais' burgundy haoris fluttering like a forest of coloured banners. It tugged at Yajarobe's yukata making him shiver. His father sighed and swept his son up into the folds of his haori. His sad brown eyes met Haruki's equally sad ones.
"I should take him home." He held his head up with his usual proud bearing but he looked to the men around him in acquiescence. For along moment no one moved, or spoke. Yorishisa's hand tightened on his son's back, would they take Yajarobe back with out him? The oldest man of the group stepped over to him and Yorishisa tensed as if he'd been threatened. Yajarobe felt his father's heart beating against his chest. It was oddly fast and the air around him seemed charged with tension. He ducked his head down and into his fathers chest as if not being able to see would make things less uncomfortable. A hand, strong and calloused by age and labour touched his back.
"Take him home Yorishisa." There was something in his voice the Yorishisa didn't feel up to questioning. He pulled his son tightly against his chest and inclined his head to his elder.
The walk back through the trees with his son resting against his chest took on a surreal feeling. His heart had stopped when his small son had run out from the trees some how though he had made the tense situation easier. Yorishisa embraced his son and rested his check against his ruffled black hair. He had always understood that the samurai were on his side but also that they couldn't go against the daimyo. For the sake of the welfare of their families, they had to do what was expected of them no matter how hateful it was, and so did he. He couldn't bring himself to kill a child at his master's bidding, so this was the only alterative. He was his father's son after all.
Yajarobe half buried in his haori slept on unaware that this time beneath the moon was last he'd spend with the man who'd sired him. Yorishisa closed his eyes and sighed, his job was hereditary and so was the family pride. He pressed his check against his son's hair.
"If this happens to you Yaji run. Kaasan won't mind. I can't run but if it comes to it I hope you do." He whispered his face grim.
"Don't worry, Yorishisa san. We'll look after them. The Daimyo won't touch them."
"You should be careful he'd have you for treason saying that." All the same, Yorishisa smiled. His old friend had never been much good at biting his tongue.
He woke to the sun shining through the shoji and the vague lingering memory of his father's cheek on his hair. He sat up the quilt sliding into a puddle around his legs. He got up stiffly his mind hazy with sleep, leaving his futon in a messy heap. His hand reached out to touch the shoji, and stopped just out of reach with his finger tips trembling. Propped against the wall was his father's katana.
(2005)