A Bare Katana
When do we become blind to what we have become?
The sword was new. Absolutely new, and barely touched—only the sword maker, and his own master, had so much as laid a hand on it. The texture of the wrappings was unworn, the lines of the menuki were sharp, the lacquer of the saya was smooth and shiny. More than that, however, when he held it—and even a novice like himself could feel it—put his hand on the hilt and hefted it, it had no voice. No spirit.
The first lesson had been how to hold a sword, before he had his own, even before he'd learned that first exercise. When the big hands had molded the small ones around the hilt of Winter Moon, he'd felt a wave of what he could only think of as "presence". A kind of sound filled his ears, and his vision had dimmed, clouded with ghostly images. it seemed he remembered things: pain and terror, strength and gratitude, power and responsibility. Blood. Death. And life. Something big swelled inside him, and he felt almost like he was being lifted up. "…little finger at the end of the hilt…grip not too tight…extension of your arm…" There was more, but he'd barely heard it. When he'd finally released his grip on the sword, he'd staggered under the sudden silence in his ears and the sharp brilliance of the sun, but the sights and sounds that he'd experienced did not fade. Often, after that, as he lay on his bed in the dark, he would go to that place in his mind where these things lived and let them wash over him, submerge him in the dark, strange, fascinating memories. He did this so often that, little by little, part of him became these memories. He began to understand his name: Kenshin. Heart of Sword.
By the time he reached Otsu—although he, of all people, could not have noticed it—his sword was no longer new. It, too, had a voice. A spirit. Unique, and unmistakable.