The cold winds of Ionia howl outside. It tears through anything in its path, its fury surmounting nearly all who came before it. Ripped papers, old children's dolls, broken blades and knives are all swept up alike by the unrelenting gale. It sweeps through the ancient forest, leaves and branches breaking and snapping in its warpath. It sweeps through the front gate, old iron hinges groaning as they toppled to nature's wrath. And it sweeps through an old abandoned courtyard where stains and stones still lay motionless on the ground, their stories yet to be discovered.
But though the storm rages through nearly all in its way, one monastery stands firm in the face of the tempest.
Alongside the outer walls lay inscriptions, the meaning lost to the ages of time, the intentions, lost to the wars of man. White clay and gold carvings have become broken foundations and red rivers. Once proud wood hinges and decorated traditions are now shadows of the past, forgotten by those who lived on. Discarded, they fade to the shadows, the light fading with each passing hour.
But there is one who does not follow the path. There is one who patiently waits and watched for the day that the traditions of the older times will return and the ways of the past will resurface once more. Though the sky that hangs above his head is darker than ever, his hope holds resolute and he does not fade in his duty. The world around him may forget. Those who fight against and for him may forget. Even those closest to him may forget. But he holds an unending vigilance as he stands at his post.
Creaking open the door to the monastery, the cloaked man walks in once more. His feet have treaded this path beneath him thousands of time. He knows the way by the bumps and the alcoves of the ground alone. Shutting the large wooden door behind him, he stands in affirmation as he surveys his surroundings. There is no sound, only the beating and the faint scream of the wind outside reaches his ears. He takes a breath and wills himself to move forward.
The steps to his location are short but they are long as well. It is only 20 paces but each pace holds memory upon memory for him. As he methodically glides over, visions of the past come to mind. Visions of a young brown haired girl, her karmas hanging from her side as she playfully chases her friends across a meadow. Visions of an old man who kneels down with an ancient sword in hand. Visions of another boy who offers him his hand as they climb an old rickety tree together. Visions of a beautiful woman and a child, the faces of many others smiling in jubilant joy.
The cloaked man stops, shaking his head. He looks around him once more. The visions are gone and he is left with nothing but the darkness of the room once more.
He continues his pace until he finally reaches what he has come to see. This is his post. His burden. His greatest joy and his greatest sense of despair. This is what he cannot abandon, what he cannot flee. This is his unending duty.
The tall figure sits, fabrics shifting beneath him as he lowers himself to the cold ground made of olden marble, blackened by the vehicle of time.
In front of him lies a shrine. But unlike the other parts of the religious ground, it is simple. There are no jewels or incarnations attached to the stone. It is bare. A stone carved with a small prayer is all that composes of his monument. The dedication does not show much but it does not worry the man. For it is what lies beneath and its meaning that gives it its purpose in his heart.
It is silent once more as the male ninja closes his eyes. All is quiet, the wind outside dying down as if to pay respects to the very time of this moment. The windows silence themselves, the wood ceases to creak as the entire monastery watched the procession. For minutes, all is hushed.
Opening his irises, he gazes at the shrine once more.
"I have returned."
He sighs, at a loss of words to say to the incarnate before him. The man feels a faint moment of foolishness for talking to a stone, but his heart and soul push it away and he continues despite the brief moment of doubt.
"It has been a long struggle. Though we have gained the upper hand, I feel as if we lose each time we fight. When I walk the battlefield, there are always the young and the old who lie in the rivers and the forest. Their lives have ended for our cause."
A quiet moment passes before the man finds his tongue once more.
"We have been taught to never doubt. Never to look back on the choices that we have made. But as I examine our history, I cannot help but wonder our other possibilities. What could have been for us? Would we have fought the same battles? The same fights? Argued the same things? I have always seen things so clearly but now, it is all but fading away from me."
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small match and lights a small fire at the base of the rock where there is a plate. Drawing into his cloak once more, the man pulls out several sticks of an ancient incense, their original purpose long forgotten. He places their tips into the fire and ignites them before setting them atop the stone.
"I wonder what you would have said to me about all of this. What you would have thought about what I am doing right now. Would you scold me? Would you tell me that I am wrong to look back on the past? Or would you embrace me for contemplating the things that we did? Urge me to be cautious like you always were and I was not?"
"….."
"There is a large storm gathering tonight. It reminds me of…of that time that we were together. It seems as if it were yesterday that we spent that night in the small inn, keeping one another company because we were all we had. That was when we did not know if we would live, whether we were destined to continue the tradition of our forefathers. At the time, I believed that it was out weakest point, a time when I thought our strength had nearly been close to none. You told me that all we needed was the trust and the bond of each other to be our best. I nodded, but we both knew that I didn't believe a moment of those words. So I forgot them and discarded them away. Well…"
He chuckled quietly to himself as he thought for a bit. More flashes of the past flitted through him as he tried to remember what to say. Perhaps he had truly fallen. His loss of words could signify that much of his ailing strength. But he could not stop now.
"I was too focused on the purpose that had been given to me. I could never see a glimpse of other things. But it seems you were right all along. And as I near the end of my battles, I can only see more clearly with each step that we take….My only regret for it is that I was not able to see it sooner. That I was too naïve and too proud to humble myself to the things that made our past leaders great. That I was not able to see any of it in time to save us from what was to come. I was not able to overcome the hubris and you paid the price. And even though they tell me it was not a fault of mine, we both know that I had a hand in it."
He hung his head, his proud posture finally drooping for the first time since he had entered the religious grounds.
"I am sorry for my faults. I am sorry for the way that I was and the things that I did and the things that I did not do. But most of all, I am sorry that you could not be here to see me and how far we have come. If I would have the chance to give my own so that you could live, then I would have done so without a second thought. But…..what is done is done I suppose. Although that thought does not make things any less painful for me."
The cloaked figure swallowed with difficulty, a lump forming in his throat as he struggled to get out the last words of what he wanted to say. With a shaky hand, he brought his gloved fingers to his cloak once more to pull out a small box, an ancient symbol carved atop. He nearly faltered at the sight of it. The pain was simply too fresh for him too remember now.
But he couldn't stop now. What he had begun, he had to finish no matter the pain. After all, was it not his duty?
With trembling digits, he slowly opened the box to reveal two karmas laying side by side. The weapons seemed ancient, as if they had seen generation after generation of battle and usage. Its emerald leather handles were well worn and their blades had lost their luster that they held so long ago but they were as sharp as ever. Taking the utmost care not to drop them, the man painstakingly placed the duo of blades at the base of the stone before returning to his sitting position once more.
"I know that I will never be able to show you how I have changed. It is far too late for me to do you justice. I will never be able to express how regretful I am of that. If it were my choice, I would come to join you. Knowing you, you're probably waiting for me to finish my business in this world so we can go to the next together, wherever that may be."
He smiled sadly at the thought, age lines creasing his face.
"But you know that I cannot leave my responsibility unfinished here. You would never want me to abandon those who have come along to follow us on this path. And I would never do so. We have given so much and we have come so far. I have many more responsibilities now and I am grateful that our comrades still trust in my ability to lead them. It would be a shame to us all if we were to falter here. So I will continue on this path until the day that it ends….and I will see you once more. But I have not forgotten my duty to you."
Drawing a small knife from his belt, the man grimaced as he drew a small cut on his arm. A trickle of blood flowed to the base of the shrine, pooling below the burning incense. Dipping a finger into the liquid, his shifted it back and forth until there was a promise, a message written. Crimson dripping, he placed his hand over his heart, fingers curled in a passionate oath.
"Akali…..I swear to you. Until I fall, until the sun crumbles and the land shatters. Until the seas boils and the heavens erupt, I will pursue your killer to the ends of the land. And I will bring him to justice. For you….for me…for us."
A drop water splashed onto the incense, causing it to flicker for a moment. But it is not blood.
It is a tear.
"And for our son. He will know that his mother was the greatest warrior of all of the Kinkou ninja. Her legacy will live on through the ages and past the generation. And I will be there to guide him, watch over him, and protect him, as my fathers have done before me. One day, we will watch together as he leads the Kinkou to a new age."
The wind begin to howl again, windows beginning to rattle and doors beginning shake and groan.
He stands, his eyes no longer one of regret and remorse, but of resolve.
His post is finished. His duty is complete. And now, he must see that it is upheld.
He stands at the shrine, the embers burning as he watches. They have been barren before, cold cinder unlit, living without a purpose. But now, they will burn until the day that he returns to the howling gale.
Etched Into the Crimson
慎
Shen