It Was Just A Dream
A Ronin Warrior Fanfiction
Set Far Before the first episode.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Ronin Warriors (though it would have been nice).
Rowen knew he was dreaming. It was the only logical explanation. This… dream… was simply a result of his subconscious mind processing the random firing of his neurons while he slept into something his mind could recognize; the figure in his dreams, a figure clothed in a long dark robe and a white full-sleeved under-robe carrying an ornate, mystical-looking staff of Oriental origins, with a bamboo hat and white, long hair, was simply a by-product of watching too many sci-fi and fantasy movies. Perhaps a combination of Star Wars for the robe and an Oriental fantasy-quest or samurai movie for the guru-look. He had watched many such films over the week, bored out of his mind at his father's small house.
But yet… this dream was unusual. It looked like something from the very movies he thought of, where the hero stood with the ancient and wise guide in a sacred meeting place. But he was no hero and the place was covered in a thick white mist. He looked down at himself, surprised at his ability to do this in his dreams- well, it was his dream, he shouldn't be surprised, since in dreams he had control, even if this dream was different than usual- and saw that he was wearing his pajamas, the very clothes he had fallen asleep in. The oddity struck him further. If he was in a dream, then would he not have had different clothes- any clothes he had wanted? And yet, here he stood in his dream, all too close to reality- but this was a dream, and weren't dreams supposed to be an escape from reality? And yet, hadn't he read somewhere that all dreams are based in reality, so it could be that this was therefore in accordance. It was something to muse over on a rainy day.
The figure before him began to chuckle, surprising him with the sound. Rowen blinked- was he laughing at him? And why? He could only be laughing at him if he had known his thoughts, and was remarking on the musing of his mind. But how could that be?
This was just a dream, wasn't it?
"Yes, Rowen, you are dreaming, but this is … a most unique dream," spoke the figure, raising an old and wrinkled hand to lift slightly his hat so that his face could be seen, all but his eyes. His voice was soft and kind, but spoke of years of wisdom, of pain and suffering, of joy and happiness.
"How is this dream any different from any other?" Rowen asked, suspicious, and yet the figure— a monk, Rowen realized— chuckled again.
"You have already marked the differences yourself, child. I need not note them again for your inquisitive mind," he replied.
Rowen blinked again in surprise- it appeared that this monk had been reading his thoughts.
This should have surprised him more than it did, but somehow, this mysterious atmosphere alluded to this fact, and he tried to take it in stride as best he could.
"That isn't possible. As this dream is… not really possible either," he stated matter-of-factly. He paused. "What exactly is this, then?"
The monk replied patiently, "This is a meeting. It is not our first… nor shall it be the last. It is a dream, in that you are asleep and dreaming this encounter, but yet I have come into your dream with my own power in order to speak with you like this, and so… it is not exactly a dream any longer."
Rowen stated again, "This isn't possible."
"Is it?" said the monk. "Then how do you explain the fact that I am speaking with you such?"
Rowen paused, then opened his mouth to speak, but the monk chuckled, holding up his hand. "No, no, my son, I already know your explanations, you need not tell me." When he saw that Rowen did not believe him, he replied, "You believe this is merely a phenomenon created by the mind in an attempt to process the many… movies… you have witnessed over the past evenings."
"So… you can read my mind," Rowen stated; he surprised himself by his acceptance, but, then again, Rowen wasn't one to object to reasonable evidence. He would have liked it to be in repeatable scientific conditions… but one couldn't have everything. "So… so…" he said, trying to comprehend this.
"Let me ask you a question, in order to help you understand," said the monk.
"The Socratic Method," identified Rowen in an instant. He took a breath. "Okay."
"Do you believe that every event has an explanation?" asked the monk.
"Yes," was Rowen's instantaneous reply. The monk gestured for him to elaborate, and so he did. "Every action, event, or phenomenon has an explanation based on some rule or principle of physics or nature."
"What of the things that cannot be explained by these rules that you speak of?"
"These rules are only the known ones," Rowen replied; it was odd, having this philosophical discussion, but he found that he was enjoying this, whatever this was. "Theories, mostly, being tested and often disproved in a learning process, seeking the true principles and rules. New ones are discovered as time goes on that explain previously unexplainable events."
"Then, perhaps, could the existence of this," the monk gestured around him, indicating the meeting, "be evidence of a new principle or rule? Could magic- for this is what this is- be a plausible explanation for this event?"
Rowen hesitated, pausing, considering. It was plausible, given the explanations he gave, and given the circumstances. "Yes," he began after a moment, "it is possible… but unlikely."
"But you agree that it is possible," asked the monk.
Rowen took a breath. "Yes," he said.
The monk smiled. "Then you have come a long way in a short time, my son."
The monk shifted slightly, so that the rings on his staff tinkled slightly.
"Our time here grows short. Reflect on what I have spoken to you of. I will return in one day's time."
The rings began to move again, chiming abundantly, and the sweet sound made Rowen close his eyes, sleepy somehow in his own dream…
He opened his eyes to sunlight, in his own bed. Blinking sleepily, he twisted to look at the clock. It read 10:07 A.M. He twisted back over to stare at his ceiling, covered in plastic stars which he had arranged to show the constellations currently in the night sky. He stared up at them for a long time.
When Rowen pulled the sheets over himself that evening, he finally could not deny his curiosity and eagerness to sleep. He had denied the fact that he was looking forward to determining whether his dream the night before was real… in the sense of the possible, he noted— or not.
Of course, eagerness was not the best emotion to put one to sleep, and he sighed at himself. He began one of his exercises which he had practiced and perfected over the years to help him sleep at night.
"Afghanistan. Capital: Kabul. Albania. Capital: Tirana. Algeria. Capital: Algiers. Andorra. Capital…"
On he went, saying the name of every country and capital to himself, for a long time before sleep claimed him.
He opened his eyes to the mist-place. The monk stood before him, just as the night before, and he breathed a sigh of relief- one that he had not anticipated. He didn't realize how much the reality of this meeting meant to him. How much he wanted it to be real, and perhaps even needed it on some level.
The monk smiled at him, as if he knew the boy's thoughts— and Rowen realized, he probably did— and gestured.
"You may wish to sit, for what I have to tell you next is a long tale which resides in the realm of the possible that has opened before you," he said to him.
Rowen paused, looking at the monk's face. Though he could not see the mysterious man's eyes, he felt a sense of trust towards the monk that he could not explain— it must also fall in that realm, he thought wryly.
Still gazing at the monk, evaluating and probing, he slowly sat, crossing his legs, in front of the monk.
"Very good, my son," he heard the monk say quietly. "And now… it begins…"
The rings shifted again, though the monk did not move, as images began to appear in the air in front of Rowen.
"Nearly one thousand years ago…"
The tale he told Rowen was fantastic in its un-believability; it was a myth, if an uncommon one, one he remembered having read in some old and musty tome. Yet… the monk told it as if it was real. The images he showed related to it. And, Rowen realized, he had to take it into consideration as possible…if improbable.
But the way the monk had spoken of it, told of the swordsman slaying the demon… and the swordsman's sword had had rings on it…
"You… were him, weren't you?" asked Rowen within the realm of possibility.
The monk nodded once.
"Then… you were the one who split the…armor of the demon into nine separate armors," Rowen repeated.
The monk again nodded his sagely head.
Rowen paused, then said, "This stretches the realm of possibility a great deal. I think it belongs more in the land of myths."
"But yet, don't all myths have roots in some fact or reality?" stated the monk. Rowen blinked; that had been his exact thought at the moment.
The monk went on. "Tell me, my son, have you thought about what I spoke to you of the past night?"
"Yes," Rowen replied quickly. "But why is it so important to you that I accept the fact that all of this," Rowen gestured broadly, "is possible? It won't leave the realm of possibility into fact. It can't without tangible proof—" Rowen stopped, realizing.
"Ah. It comes to this. And what proof would you need, my son, in order to believe this myth is truth? What fact would bring this out of the realm of possibility, as you say, into that of fact and reality?"
Rowen was silent, not knowing what to say.
"The story was not finished, my son," said the monk. "It is still incomplete; the final verse is unwritten. Some of it lies in the future, while others of it I have yet to tell you."
The monk paused, then continued. "The nine armors I placed around the land for nine chosen wearers to find. Some I hid within the nature itself, while others I placed in the care of noble clans who hid the armors and passed on knowledge of its whereabouts to its descendents. One I placed in the care of Toyokimi Hideyoshi, the first to take the name you bear, Hashiba, and the founder of the clan of which you are descendent from."
Rowen's breath caught in his throat- how did this monk know of his name? And how did he know of his ancestry from his father's side? He explained this by attributing it to the monk's wisdom, and attended to his next thought. "So this is why you are talking to me… but wait, are you saying that I am supposed to wear this armor?"
"Then have you accepted the fact that this armor and this legend exists?" queried the ancient man.
"No," retorted Rowen quickly, but after a moment of hesitation. How easy it was for him to believe, Rowen thought with shock and disdain at himself. He had prided himself on his scientific and logical approach. It appeared it wasn't as assured as he had thought. But then again… when had he ever been faced with such an un-scientific and illogical situation before?
The monk appeared to smile very slightly, then became serious. He tapped his staff on the mystical ground once; the sound resonated throughout this meeting place and into Rowen's own body. He felt the reverberations in his chest.
"Seek out the armor within your past to find your truth and your future," the figure commanded.
The chiming began again, to send Rowen back once again.
"Wait, I have a question! Not about that, but about something you said last night!" he said quickly, desperately wanting an answer to a question which had plagued him all day.
The monk paused, and Rowen took it as a sign to go on.
"You said that this was not our first meeting, but… I don't remember meeting you before like this, so how can that be? And how is it that you know my name, and so much about me?" he asked earnestly, needing to know.
The monk smiled very slightly, inclining his head. "I was there for you in your moments of need, when you felt the most alone."
Rowen blinked, and began to frown, confused, wondering…and memory flooded back to him… the day his parents had officially divorced, that night… a stranger had appeared in his dreams to his eight year old self, comforting him… and then, four years later, when he had left the few friends he had had to live with his father in Japan… the first night in his new lodging, because he had and still did refuse to call it home…
Rowen gasped sharply, and realized that there were tears in his eyes. He touched them, amazed by not only their presence but their realness. Their moisture and coolness… he felt it on his fingertips as if it was real… as real as the comfort those dreams had given to him, so many years ago.
"You remember now," said the monk gently, and Rowen looked up at him, now recognizing him as the figure which had comforted him so long ago, when he had needed someone to talk and cry to.
Swallowing, trying to overcome the emotions in him, he asked in response, "Who are you?"
The monk pulled his hat back down slightly. "I am simply called… the Ancient One," he said, and the rings began to chime, sweeping Rowen off to sleep.
Author's Note: I researched once how the Ronin got their armors, and after reading a ton of opinions and 'fact', I compiled everything and formed my own version.This is what I came up with. It fits and fills in some holes. I hope you enjoyed it! I've got some ideas to continue it, but it might be a while.