.
.
The training grounds were quiet in the murky hours before sunrise, but Kiyotsugu's brother liked it this way: it cleared his head, gave him time to think and be alone with himself. Slowly he unsheathed his sword and readied his stance, body tensing before delivering the first blow.
A strike. His blade glinted in the half-light. One slice, and then another, moving through his stances effortlessly. Soon, rays of lazy sunlight drifted into the training fields, and he resheathed his katana, heading back home.
xXx
.
"Little Brother, c'mon. Let's practice," he said.
Kiyotsugu was sitting on his knees, copying a poem from a scroll. "I can't right now, I'm studying," Kiyotsugu said. His brother huffed.
"You're always studying. You need to practice," he said, and he threw the wooden katana at him.
"Hey!" Kiyotsugu said. The wooden sword clattered on top of his workbench. "Nii-san-"
"What are you gonna do if you're conscripted for the emperor?" his brother said. "Father is always disappointed in you. Don't you want to do anything about it?"
Kiyotsugu laid the sword against the wall, then picked up his brush again. "Father will be disappointed no matter what I do," Kiyotsugu said. He straightened his kimono and sat primly on his knees, dipping his brush in the inkwell.
He woke before sunrise. His sandals trod heavily onto the compact dirt and patches of wet grass as he walked to the training fields. It was unseasonably cold, and he shivered a bit at the early morning chill, the white plume of his breath rising in the cool dark air.
"Nii-san."
He stopped. Kiyotsugu was standing there, awkwardly holding a katana.
"Little Brother, what are you doing here?" he asked. Kiyotsugu blushed and glared.
"I thought I might watch you practice."
"Give me that," he said, and he took the sword away from him. "You need to use a wooden sword. The edge is sharp and you might hurt yourself."
"How would I hurt myself?" Kiyotsugu said. He tossed Kiyotsugu the wooden sword, and Kiyotsugu fumbled, catching it by the blade instead of the hilt.
"You see? If that were a real sword you would have cut yourself."
"Yes, Nii-san, even I know that." Kiyotsugu took a stance.
His brother sighed heavily. "Move your right hand about an inch from the hand guard," he said. "You're holding it too tightly, you need to relax. The tighter you hold it, the less control you have over the katana's movement. Relax your hand," he said.
Kiyotsugu shifted his hands down the hilt, curling his fingers around the grip and loosening his index finger. His brother nodded. "Good. But your hands are too close together, if they touch you'll just be swinging with a hacking motion, you won't have control of the cuts."
"Um." Kiyotsugu shifted his grip again. "This feels strange."
"That's because you never practice."
"So I swing like this?" he said, and he tried to do a basic strike, but his thumbs were touching the top of the handle, messing with his grip on the sword.
"No, dummy, like this," he said, and he took the wooden sword from him. "Hold your blade above your head so it's parallel to the ground. Keep your body pointed toward your target. And then-" he made a swift, striking motion. "Keep it smooth. One fluid motion."
"Okay..."
He handed the wooden sword back to Kiyotsugu who clumsily worked his grip and raised it over his head.
"Step forward," he called. "Aim for a 45 degree angle when you're slicing at the head."
"Uh..." Kiyotsugu swung. His wooden sword banged against the pole. "How was that?"
"Terrible," his brother said. "Back up and do it again."
xXx
.
"Your brother is so weird," his friend said. They were standing at the top of a grassy hill, looking down at the port where the fishermen were unloading their wares. It was a nice day, bright and sunny, and he could hear the seabirds calling overhead; Kiyotsugu was sitting at the docks, silhouetted by the ocean, hunching over a scroll of paper. "Why is he even outside? He's gonna get in the way of the fishermen."
"Leave him alone," his brother said. "He's just sitting there writing, he's not bothering anybody."
His friends snickered and left, while he stood watching Kiyotsugu, frowning.
"Little Brother," he said, cutting through the grass. His feet made scraping sounds as he walked onto the dock. "What are you doing?"
"I thought I would try my hand at drawing," Kiyotsugu said, and his brother peered over his shoulder and saw the irregular shapes of ships scrawled in black ink, a calligraphy painting not unlike those he had seen his father's study. Kiyotsugu glanced up and smiled shyly.
Their father was complaining about Kiyotsugu again. Always doing worthless work, too busy studying scrolls instead of talking to people. "Father, he's smart, okay, maybe someday he'll be a scholar-"
"I do not know why you indulge him. You are just like your mother," his father said.
xXx
.
"Nii-san."
"Yeah?"
Kiyotsugu lowered his eyes. "I heard you defending me to Father again."
His brother bristled. "I wasn't defending you, I was stating a simple fact," he said. "You're sick all the time and you're too weak to join the imperial army. You don't even know how to hold a sword," he said. He pointed. "You're lucky your older brother can do all those things for you. Just stay out of my way and work on your scrolls."
"Yes, Nii-san. Thank you."
xXx
.
The next morning, Kiyotsugu didn't rise from his pallet.
"The hell is he doing?" he said, and he slid open the rice paper door.
Kiyotsugu was curled up on the futon, buried beneath the comforters. His skin was damp and pale and he was breathing rapidly.
His brother started. "O-oi. Little Brother-"
"Nii-san." His eyes fluttered open. "My apologies. I am feeling a bit unwell."
"That's cuz you spent all night painting those stupid pictures by the docks, I told you it gets cold outside, you should have listened," he said. He brusquely moved to the window to open the shutters. "I spoke to the servant girl. She said you got caught in a storm."
"I did." He smiled weakly. "She helped me in and drew a bath for me. She even made me tea," he said, smiling.
"She made you tea?" his brother gaped at him. "Little Brother, the fires were already out last night. You made her open the kitchen?"
"She did it without telling me."
"Oh boy." His brother squatted on a stool. "You are such a pain in the ass. She only did it so she could curry favor with you."
"She isn't like that," Kiyotsugu said quietly. "She was kind to me."
"Okay, whatever. I'll tell Father you're sick. Don't bother that servant girl, I'll be the one to bring your meals."
xXx
.
In the days after Kiyotsugu's murder, he felt weak and ill.
"Shit," he said. He looked at the mirror, at the dark circles under his eyes from not sleeping and scraggly brown hair. "Shit, shit, shit, shit-"
"Kiyotarou," his father said, and he looked up, stricken.
"The naming ceremony is about to commence," he said. He stepped forward and clapped his hand on his shoulder.
"You will do well, my son. It was a mistake not to give you the family business. I favored you best of the two of you, and I know you will come through this grief and do great things.
"Do not feel guilty, my son. Your brother would be happy for you. And you will always make me proud."
xXx
.
He lay back on his bed, looking up at the ceiling of his apartment. It was nighttime now, and the moon made hazy shadows in his bedroom.
Up until now, he had lived an unremarkable, ordinary life. The oldest son to three sisters. A mangaka and artist. Someone good-natured and carefree who dropped out of university.
He knew it was all in the past, that in this life he never had a brother, but his memories now were fresh, as if they had recently just happened. Above him, lights from a mobile slowly turned and dangled, and he turned on his side, restless and unable to sleep, feeling guilty for murdering his little brother.