**Gawd, does the formatting on this thing seem evil to anyone else? O.o
A/N: Here it is, my first potentially full-length (*crosses fingers!*) Blade of the Immortal fan fiction. I'm fully aware that a lot of you are going to shy away from the obvious lack of your favorites... Manji, Rin, Anotsu... but when planning this thing out (my first idea actually revolved around Makie, but she seems to already be a pretty popular and well-written-for character in the fan-fiction world) I had thought about a storyline that revolved around Kawakami Renzo, the son of the Itto-Ryu mask maker. After all, what happened to the poor guy? If there is one character deserving and just dripping with opportunity, it's Renzo. Didn't you all just adore On Silent Wings? Awk. Gorgeous. Hence, the spotlight shifted to Renzo and his adventures in the Blade of the Immortal world.
Do not fear, however -- I hope to entwine all of your favorites into the story (Manji and Rin will show up by the next chapter, I hope), especially if it does end up being the long piece that I'd like it to be. And, because I'm planning on a longer piece... I apologize if it seems slow! I almost hate cramming rushed information more than I do drawing it out... hopefully someday I'll find a balance. ^_^ This introductory chapter seems somewhat sluggish and angsty (I tried to keep it short!), but I guarantee quite a bit of action and good-old-fashion moral-testing...Samura-style, of course... in the long run.
Yeah. So... Manji and Rin, quite a bit of Anotsu (of course!) and Makie and Magatsu are both going to play a huge part in this story. ^_^ So have no fear, fan-boys-and-girls.
And, as always, please do review if you're willing. ^_^ I love critique, it helps me become a better writer.
Spoilers: Right now, the only spoiler and recommended reading is On Silent Wings. (Two graphic novels, Issues 19-28) There will most certainly be more, especially come the next chapter. Like mentioned, it would be useful to the reader to be familiar with that part of the story, but I don't think that it's completely necessary. The fan-fiction could probably still stand without it. =P Anywhoo, I'm taking up lots of space here. Enjoy!
"Another hero, another mindless crime
Behind the curtain, in the pantomime
On and on, does anybody know what we are living for?
--from Moulin Rouge
"When Dreaming Ends"
Part One -- The Mask-maker's Son
The sun lumbered up lazily over Edo. Light snaked down the streets and alleyways and splashed onto the shutters of storefronts with a dew-glittered residue. Beds stirred, young girls swept out the fronts of teashops, and the rich smells of food began wafting lazily into the air. Soon, those vacant streets began to trickle with life, like bountiful plants springing up from a barren surface.
The Kawakami household remained closed and dark. It carried the dust of a night untouched, and the aging rice-paper panels of the shoji reflected the sorry state that the apartment was falling into. Inside, it was worse. The bedding had not been cleaned in weeks, and they remained sprawled on the floor in a mess that the sleeper would have to interpret before using.
All of the masks were gone.
Kawakami Renzo had never forgotten, however. And, most shamefully, it would have been a lie to say that he hadn't tried. He did. He quickly sold every mask that his father had made before his untimely death. The bloodstained wall-panel had been peeled away in order to expose the dreary and monotone space beneath it. There was a thick hole where the daggers had pierced the wall, and a smaller bloodstain that Renzo had spent six tear-burning and hyperventilating hours scrubbing at.
It never went away. Yes, it came closer, but there was still an ugly brown stain that Renzo could easily see if he looked for it. And he always did.
The boy bought himself food when he was hungry. He rarely was, and the rest of his money disappeared by other means -- he simply lost interest and forgot where it had been. Renzo, frankly, didn't care.
That beautiful morning opened on him where he had been for a good portion of the night -- his father's grave. The enormous mask had been sitting in that upstairs bedroom where his father had been murdered, and out of desperation for some marker--as he could not afford a real one--Renzo had brought it down and placed it upright into the ground over his father's final resting place.
It looked like a bright spirit peeking up from behind a wall, the way the face was half-buried in the ground. The original mask had seemed much more innocent, a sleeping and dainty ghost, perhaps... but now, with everything else but the eyes and the sloping lines upon its forehead hidden...
It looked so sad. So very, very sad.
"Good morning, Father." Renzo said. He knew that his father was not listening. He was not certain how, but that empty feeling that had been inside him ever since the murder had never once filled. Sitting by Araya's grave never changed this. Making offerings and lighting joss sticks never changed this. Prayers never changed this.
Looking down into that bastard's unmarked grave never changed this.
Kawakami Araya was dead. He had fallen into the category that a stone would, a handful of dirt. Renzo knew that everything had a spirit, but a rock never did much to tell him that. Neither did his dead father.
Could Araya be at peace, when Renzo felt so disarrayed? Knowing that he had killed his father's murderer should have calmed him. Araya had been avenged. Why else would the ghost be so restful...?
...So unresponsive?
Renzo lit a joss stick and placed it reverently upright into the ground before the grave. Sweet-smelling smoke wafted up and tore into his open eyes like fishbone-thin claws, but he never once flinched or closed them against the irritation.
Asano Rin had left a lily before the grave when she had last visited it. That had felt so very long ago. And, by looking at the rotting mass of vegetation that hung over the lip of its holder, it must have been quite some time. Renzo felt somewhat dirty and strange when he finally scooped it out and cleaned out the holder... he always felt strange, when thinking about the girl who had helped him so very long ago.
Renzo, do you love your father?
Her words rang in his head, and the chord was off-key and sharp. Although his face remained placid, Renzo's innards twitched, right by his left ear. The image of his father's corpse was clear in his mind, and the mocking face of his murderer... but everything else but that seemed blurred, especially Rin's face. Even when he tried, he could not conjure up any specific feature when he played that tragic scene back in his head... and he did that quite often.
Do you love your father?
And Renzo, embarrassed by the question and the fact that Araya was right there in the room with them, hadn't given a straight answer. How was he to know that this had been his last chance?
It made him so angry.
The terrible thing was that Renzo was unable to say it even now. He tried, and he felt it... but when he looked down at that dark and mournful mask he was unable to formulate the words. His lips got clammy, that empty space inside him clamped up and hardened his heart... and his jaw would not budge.
After all, he was just talking to a grave. He didn't give a damn about the grave.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Renzo said stiffly. His voice sounded loud and intrusive in the quiet setting. And, with a push of his fingertips he eased himself to his feet and brushed off his dirty and tattered kimono. The boy had gotten a little too gangly for it, his malnourished frame moving too quickly into manhood as his childish roundness was scraped harshly away -- the garment hung open on his bony chest. He adjusted it, felt it fall open, and gave up on it as he usually did.
And, barefoot and tired-shouldered, the shaggy-haired youth started back towards the building where he lived. He kept his pace slow. After what had happened, he often times dreaded stepping through those doors. He had trouble calling the place home, now.
- - -
"But this is my home!" Renzo cried.
They were standing in the entryway. Renzo had been shocked to see a pair of sandals lying on the stepping-stone, and a man waiting firmly just a few paces away from him. Wary, he entered the building and was immediately hit with a rude and informal demand for him to pack up and leave.
His broad-shouldered landlord crossed his arms firmly over his chest and looked down at Renzo from over his nose. The boy glared defiantly up at him. This was infuriating, and the man felt the muscles of his arms twitch under his hold. He remained stony however, letting his good-nature be eaten by the boy's insolence as opposed to his temper.
"It was your home," He replied. "Your last payment ran up."
"I told you," Renzo retorted. "My father's account--"
"--Is bone-dry." The man finished flatly.
Renzo mentally calculated the time that had passed since Araya's death, and felt his heart snare with painful realization. With that came a flaring surge of panic. "No! No, no! You can't throw me out! This is my home; this is my father's home... I'll find some money; I'll find a way! You can't do this to me!"
"That's another problem," The landlord said. "I'm sorry about what happened, but you're just a kid--"
"I'm not!" Renzo cried.
"--And you can't handle affording a place like this." The landlord continued. "I suggest you find some family to stay with -- certainly you've an uncle or something that will be willing to house you for a while."
"But I--Listen, I... Give me a week, I'll find enough to pay for at least this term. I promise, I can do it! I have a little bit of money hidden somewhere, it'll be enough to--"
"That's not the problem, kid. I'm not talking about a new payment." The man tiredly scratched at the inside corner of one eye, just below his brow. The pause was uncomfortably long, and he could feel the boy's eyes flaring intensely at him without even having to look. Nonchalant, almost pointedly so, he lowered his hand and continued. "This is a long-term arrangement, and there's no way that a boy your age can pull it off. It's absurd. I've stayed quiet so far, in respect for your father, but... Business is business."
"Just one, one week--" Renzo started.
"I'll give you a week to find another place to stay. That is the limit to my leniency."
The boy fell quiet at this. His jaw was firm, his glare sharp enough to be a slicing blow. His father's landlord seemed oblivious to this response, however, and simply nodded his head in one-sided agreement. Renzo didn't even glimmer an acknowledgement when the man casually stepped back into his sandals and retreated from the shady sanctuary of his father's house.
Renzo, a shaky pillar, clenched his fists at his sides.
He blamed his tears on the incense that he had burned earlier.
After all, many things take a long time to surface.
Glossary/Cultural Notes:
Shoji- sliding panel doors
Joss sticks - incense, essentially