In the Forests of the Night
Part 10c: Hikaru's Go
The violence came easily to him. That was what chilled him the most.
The moment the blade slid free, there was no time. No time to think about the strangeness. No time for questions. Something hot and heavy surged through him, flushing his skin and singing his senses electric. Armor, which had seemed so awkward before, moved as fluidly with him as if he had been wearing nothing at all. The sword glided quicksilver swift in his hand.
Before him waited his troops. He could feel them in the offhand way that he could feel his fingers or toes; with a thought, they would move. With a thought, they would kill. But he gave them as much thought as he normally gave the process that translated into the movement of his body. They would move where he directed him. That was enough.
Instincts and reactions he never knew he had crashed to the fore. Places within himself he never acknowledged, places where something fought, clawed, and hunted without mercy. Perhaps it was also why he could journey so easily in the mind of a kitsune -- he already knew the feeling of shifting forms, even if his outside skin remained the same. Those that truly seen Shindo Hikaru from the midst of an intense game would have recognized the look in his eyes.
And his eyes now saw the world through two distinct, diverging levels. That in itself wasn't strange. Even a normal game required him to split his attention between individual territory battles on the goban and the game as a whole. But in the Heart of the Game, the experience had deepened and expanded. It was rather like peering a stained glass window and seeing each individual piece of glowing color, as well as the fractal tableau those pieces formed --- and something beyond that, something which was almost holy and breathtaking in its presence. The pieces, the picture, and the meaning shining behind it -- he saw it all at the same time. It would have been overwhelming once. It should have been overwhelming.
It was not now. Without question, without confusion, he led the charge into each pocket of personalized violence while observing and directing the overall carnage as a whole. He simply knew without thinking, knew how to control the troops, knew where to strike, knew where to kill, knew it as he had instinctively known how to pick up a stone and place it with starfire, when he had first faced Touya Kouyo.
It didn't mean, however, that he enjoyed it.
He had seen wars in movies and on television before. When he had bothered to study, he had read about them in books. He gone to battle in video games.
But nothing he had ever watched, read, or played had ever mentioned to overwhelming noise. The pure, spine wrenching shock of hearing human-like voices screaming past the point of inhumanity. The resonant, meaty thump of flesh meeting ground, never to rise again. The stamping, arrhythmic drumbeat of hundreds of feet upon feet, the metallic, shrilling of weapon against weapon, the croaking roar of voice after voice, indistinctly loud like the wash of the sea.
Not only sound, but sight, hearing, touch, taste -- it all merged in a cacophony of sensory information. The harsh light flashing off millions of blades rising and falling, the coppery warm splatter of blood and offal, and the fecal, stinking stench of it all -- it was like plunging headfirst through chaos. He didn't think of these things, however. There was only the strategies, only planning the next move ... and the next ...and those countless others after.
Perhaps later, he would have the time to think. To mourn. But not in the midst of battle. Not in the game.
"5-6."
His sword flashed outwards, carving a bright streak of light through something black and thick. The figure exploded, drenching him in a warm spray. Another came at him, and he blocked, defending.
"8-5."
A quick swipe, a misting of scarlet drops, and it was over. He pulled back, satisfied. Territory secured, for now.
"8-18."
He thought he might have been covered in blood. Some of it may have even been his own. The acidic taste of ash clogged his mouth, gritty and smooth at the same time. His muscles sang with the hot throb of his heart and the rocking beat of his sweeping blade. His hearing faded and sharpened between each harsh breath. He could see for miles and miles, hone in on a single point, or spread his attention outward like the unfurling of a sail.
In the midst of death, his senses had never been more alive. It was useful. The northwest territories needed troops.
"7-19"
Inside of him, there was no heat. There was no motion.
"2-13."
None of the trembling intensity of a clean fight with Sai. None of the warm camaraderie when he played with the Go club. None of the breathless thrill of a well played game between insei.
There was no joy.
"10-7."
Move after move.
"8-6."
Nothing.
"2-12."
Armies surged apart and swelled together to the singing rhythm of his sweeping blade. He lost a few soldiers, here and there, necessary casualties. A blade came too close, drawing a line of agony down his side. He ignored it. Necessary casualty.
"2-11."
Move after move.
Swing, parry, block. Attack, counterattack. Spin, duck, tuck, roll. Slash, rip, tear, stab.
Kill.
"7-7."
And searching, always searching. It was there, he knew, the path out.
"3-14."
The path away from the bloodshed
"8-3."
The path to freedom.
He would fight to get there. He would slash, tear, and kill. For somewhere, in the desperate melee of sweat and tears and endless violence, there had to be beauty.
"17-10."
Somewhere, there had to be peace. Someone told him that once. He couldn't remember just who, but names weren't important. He just had to read deeper. Just a little deeper.
"17-11."
And always, always, no matter where he played, no matter where he fought, in the center of his thoughts was the center of the board. Tengen. I have to regain the tengen. Had he said that? Or was it a thought?
Is there even a difference anymore?
No.
Tengen.
Nothing else mattered. The path existed. He would find it.
"5-13."
On the fringe, scything through his troops, he caught sight of a figure with a dark cloud for an aura. His enemy, across a sea of ash and dust, bodies and blood. Closer and closer they came, churning crimson froth in their wake. Bodies piled higher, a bleeding wall of flesh.
"15-12."
Closer. And closer. They attacked and withdrew, circled and defended. But as endgame neared, fewer and fewer soldiers appeared before him.
And he knew then that his final moments would not be spent amidst the anonymous bodies in a last breathless gasp for freedom.
Endgame would be met face to face with that heavy dark sword, trading blow for blow.
And in the back of his mind, something stirred, awakening.
"16-13."
He felt the air pass across his face as a blade nearly struck him. The blow shook his armor, and he had to twist to avoid falling. Too close. I can't last much longer.
Please. He would have kneeled, if he could. But the game was still in play, and he dared not. Moves had consequences, ones he could feel in the draining of blood and the ache of his muscles. It had to end soon.
If his games and mine are one and the same, then let me see the way. Please.
"9-13"
Another swordstroke whistled past him, a hairsbreadth from his heart. The figure in black move ever closer.
'Cause I can't lose. I can't. I have to win. But winning ... winning ...
"Winning requires sacrifice, in blood or in sin ... "
"14-19."
"Don't be like your sensei, boy. No. Don't be like him."
But his games are mine!
Sai was the start of his games, the one who had taken him this far. If he wasn't to be like his sensei, who else could he be? His games and mine are one. I know that. I believe. But there has to be something more. Something that makes the difference ... Cause ...
"14-13."
For a brief, halting moment, he thought he saw a fan, pointing. But it must have only been his imagination.
Must have been. The path couldn't be through ...
"You'll know, Hikaru ... Your ability to read deeply, it'll never play you false."
"4-13."
A true path? Or one more lie in a night full of deceptions?
"15-14."
"Read deeply. Trust yourself."
But what he read ... It's impossible. That won't work.
I can't force yose in there. He'll attack and I'll lose the game.
I'll die.
With the tengen rent apart and the connections broken, the game was done and dead.
"2-15."
Another flash of quickening instinct drew his attention across the field. Another path, perhaps, and one which spurred his heartbeat to faster rhythm than its already thundering beat, like the taunting of a toreador to the bull. A fighter's path. He had always been a fighter ...
"Play or die! Play AND die!"
"14-12."
Which path? Which route? His mind tugged one way, his strategies tore him towards another. And his heart ... his heart remained uncertain.
"6-11."
But there was no time left --- he needed a decision, now. Once the game headed into yose, the diverging possibilities would become one. The course would be fixed.
"5-5."
Ahead of him, the dark figure paused. The dark blade glittered wetly as it raised, pointing straight at him. The battlefield grew transparent, settling back into the endless ash blown plain again.
Yose.
His own sword point dropped until its tip rested in the dirt. Eyes tracking the motion, he noticed that the bandage around his hand had soaked through. It must be his blood, he thought, because beads of it were still gathering at the edge of the cloth and spilling towards the hilt before running down the blade and falling into a dark stain against the dry, thirsty earth.
Blood had also pooled and filled the shallow outline of the tiger.
What's the use of knowing what I am when I don't know the way out?
A memory flickered, something someone had once said, about tigers.
Which one? The path to which the fan points? Or the one where I fight my way out, through more pain, more death? Or the path through ...
"Amatsu Mikaboshi," he rasped. The blood seeped further from his hand.
I tried. I tried reading through to the true game, but this is an empty form of Go ... it's like playing a void without depth, where I put my soul out and nothing returns.
It would be so easy to release his grip and let the sword fall forever. He was tired.
And alone. So alone
He let his hands loosen on the grip of his sword, let it slip centimeter by centimeter toward the stained earth. His shoulders slumped. Vaguely, he heard a chilling laughter, and something began to swirl around him, snaking thick, dark bands around his body and squeezing. Lord Amatsu Mikaboshi's face loomed above him, in all its terrible splendor.
Sai, you taught me how to play, but what can I do when the Heart's cut out, when the connection are so scattered? What would you do? Should I take the path you left for me?
"Dare you frame that fearful symmetry? Because if his games are yours ...
"Into the river, drowning deep and dark."
He shut his eyes against the vision of a fan, pointing.
"It is over, the voice cut into him as the black blade hovered above his throat. "There is only one end in yose. You have reached your limit."
"I still know, little boy. I know your limits. I know what you are."
The dark katana arced back. Bright droplets red blood followed its wake. Hikaru watched as the blade drew high above him. This time, he knew there would be no intercepting blade. This time, he would be the one to sustain the blow.
"Who I am. What I am," he said, as the multiple paths diverged in his mind's eye. "I am Shindo Hikaru, Fujiwara no Sai no deishi."
He raised his sword, and opened his eyes. "I am Shindo Hikaru. And I can play the Devil's game."
He brought his own blade up, above his head ... please let this be the correct path ...
... only to let it fall heavily into the dust, leaving him unprotected.
The demon blade dropped down.
And was met, with a sharp clack, as Hikaru brought his last weapon forward in with a lightening quick flip, capturing the blade between the slats and twisting it away.
"I can play the Devil's game. But I won't."
Wood and paper snapped as the Demon Lord bore down. Splinter by splinter, the fan cracked; holding the edges was like grasping a piece of broken glass. Hikaru was amazed it had held so long.
Even if I'm going lose. Even if I'm going to die. Even if I've lost all our souls, I accept this route. I know this can't hold, that what we were doing couldn't hold.
Sai ... I can play the Devil's game, thanks to your teaching. But ... I won't. Because that's where we went wrong. That's what binds you to the goban. And ...
Shard by shard, the wood bit into his palms.
I know now. I know why the tears and blood trapped you. About the price of a thousand years and the search which has caused you so much pain.
We were wrong, Sai.
For it's not the game itself. That's not the best part. I know that now, I really know. And it's because of you that I have this most precious thing. For it's not the game, it's not about playing or not playing, gaining positions or losing them. It's not about winning or losing.
"Shindo-kun!"
"HIKARU!"
I think I know my answer. Because if I'm a tiger, then ...
Yes, I know my part of the blessing.
With a last, splintering crack, the fan sheared apart, and Hikaru gasped as agony seared through him. Was he literally being cut in half? Or was it just the game? Or ... both?
And my part of the curse.
"HIKARU!"
I am Shindo Hikaru, Fujiwara no Sai no deishi. And this is my game.
Onegaishimasu.
At least this time, the pain was brief, and he fell ...
Into darkness. Utter and complete darkness surrounds him, yet it scares him not. It is a good kind of darkness, a cleansing one, the kind of darkness that comes with healing rest, or the darkness that precedes the moment of birth and the moment after life. It is hard to think here, but it is not hard to feel. And he feels relief.
And he waits. He knows that something will be coming soon, and that something will be following. He waits. He hopes.
"You should be dead," a voice growls. He bows low in acknowledgment.
Thinking is hard here, but with a little effort, he finds he can think pretty well ... in fact, whole new levels of his mind are open to him here. Such a discovery should be disturbing, but it is not. The fact that he cannot remember his full name should bother him as well. But it does not.
"I think I am ... or at least on my way there, because this is where I went the last time you attacked me," he admits. "The first time I was on my way ... somewhere. Yes. I think I am dying."
This doesn't bother him either.
He does, however, try to hold onto what little he has left of his name, for it is important this time. A small part of him, still connected to the Hikaru-of-before wonders just who he is now. It isn't wholly himinstead, it's something beyond his current time, something old and young paradoxically. For the gates, once open, can swing more than one way at one time. But it doesn't matter.
It's not the point.
"You are foolish to take me to the one place I could not go. I can destroy you completely now."
"Maybe. But ... there is one thing."
"And what's that?"
"It's my move."
A glimmering starts, a pinpoint of light barely the size of a baby's fist.
And for the first time that night, Amatsu Mikaboshi, August star of the Heavens, Lord of Evil and Hell, looks truly disturbed. The ball of light expands outward, arching to form the familiar lines and crosslines of a goban. One by one, his stones appear, flaring as bright as newborn suns in the whirling eternity below them. By comparison, the Demon Lord's pieces lie dull and lifeless.
"You see, I tried so very hard to read the original game to its depth, like Fujiwara no Sai taught me. I tried to see the patterns, as Kuwahara Torajiro showed me. And I saw beauty, in the moves Sai left for me, in the patterns Torajiro delighted in. But ... not in the game itself. It was as if it was endless, without a depth that could be reached. But that's also its secret, isn't it? I was once told that gods are like the truest of mirrors, reflecting back to us our first face."
He closes his eyes briefly, and he is not surprised when a comforting warmth wavers into existence within the palm of his hand. It pulses softly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat. Gently, his fingers open one by one, letting the warmth loose. The starfall lights up the board, sending its thrumming strength through to the other stones, which respond by gleaming brighter. Even the tengen, where his previous dead pieces rest, begins to shine faintly.
"That's the secret. Reflections have no depth. That's why I couldn't see a route, why I couldn't read any farther. There's nothing there to read. For if this is but a reflection, what beauty I find I've placed there myself. As with whatever ugliness. And I can't win by trying to defeat myself, can I? It's a loss both ways."
Without warning, Lord Amatsu Mikaboshi draws his sword, running at him with a deadly force. He barely has the chance to twist away. Again and again, the Demon Lord's katana flashes, and the hum of metal through air echoes loudly in the infinite space. Months of sparring with Sai on this particular battlefield has leant strength to his moves and a surety in his own power. Perhaps he does not have a sword, no ... but there are other ways to attack, other ways to defend, and for this he gives thanks to the one who has taught him both.
The starlight under him flares and fades as pieces switch in and out of play. The lines and crosslines blaze brilliantly as connections form and strengthen, but he has no time to look down, no time to think. Again, there is only instinct and intuition, move and countermove, in this space where physical and mental meet simultaneously, where moves on the board are as real as the swinging sword and the flash of answering starlight as he feints and blocks, attacks and defends. His only weapons are the stones he holds. But somehow it works. It doesn't matter how ... it's not the point.
Something within him chuckles, with real, warming Hikaru-of-before laughter, that he has never made much sense to many people anyway ... he does not have to make sense to himself. And at least there is joy here. At least there is passion. At least there is something , worth all the things in the world.
Perhaps to an outside observer, their game can be described as a violent dance and clash between two heaving bodies, with each fluid movement honed to a heartbeat sharp balance, or perhaps like the swirling of binary stars, with one armed, sharp and fierce, the other just far enough away to escape the pull towards destruction. But to him, it is neither - neither physical or metaphysical in its shifting nature nor anything that a metaphor can encompass. It is beyond that. It is the eternal battle, the eternal war, that which has marked him and his kind since the beginning, the kind of fight which his soul recognizes the purpose for which it is born. A seki takes shape, with neither side gaining or giving.
Amatsu Mikaboshi brings his blade to bear again. The dark blade catches the last of the starlight deep within the board as it falls, the answering starlit stroke of his own move coming up to meet it and reflect it back, as if he now held a shield. The demon lord presses down, pushing, and inch by inch, he slowly loses ground until he is kneeling, with Demon Lord's blade merely a breath from descending. "Reflection am I? I think not! I can hold forever. You cannot. And when you fall, you will die!"
He knows this as truth... he knows his strength will soon fade, the blade will soon fall, and it will be over. He is only mortal, after all. As it was in the place he has just left, he knows he cannot win, not here, not ... alone. Sympathy fills the part of him that is the Hikaru-of-before; is this how Torajiro felt? Reciprocating move after move, til his soul finally faltered?
Darkness, bone deep and breaking, twists through him, ensnaring him in its grasp. Yes, Torajiro must have felt like this. And Sai ... the moonlit waters must have been much like this, akin to drowning in darkness ...
Yet ... yet ...
He is not like Torajiro. He is not like Fujiwara no Sai ... and that is what makes the difference.
"You are nothing without your mentor. You are nothing without those who have helped you. You are NOTHING, Shindo Hikaru."
His grip slips, and the Demon Lord's howl of victory rings loud across the darkness. His head bends down, as if in prayer. "Yes, you are right."
And quietly, like a puddle smoothing out after a storm, the part of him, the Hikaru-of-before, finally understands.
"But I accept that. I accept that my games are not totally my own."
The dark miasma tightens, and a part of him cannot help but whimper, just a little, in pain. But he waits. And hopes. And ...
I ...I believe ... And I accept ...
He lets his hands fall.
The dark sword sweeps back once again. But beyond it, just beyond, he can see the light glinting off of --
...that I am not alone, that I cannot play alone, that I will never play alone ...
-- a second sword. It flashes out, whipping the demon's blade away. Someone now stands by his side, someone infinitely familiar, someone who fills both him and Hikaru-of-before with faith. And relief. But most of all with--
... that my path and his are one ...
-- belief. It is about creating stars. About creating bonds that last through even the darkest of nights.
"FUJIWA--" Amatsu Mikaboshi draws away as the figure fully coalesces before him. It is not Fujiwara no Sai. It isn't even Torajiro. "Who are you? How DARE you interfere!"
... and the same.
Below them, connections blaze to life, exploding halo-like around the tengen.
For it's not the game.
The demon blade plunges forth again. "WHO ARE YOU?
It's who you are. And who comes with you. And what you all will become.
My part of the blessing. My part of the curse.
And the shadowy figure steps in front of him, intercepting, shielding. Deep, azure eyes flicker towards him, and in that moment, he finds the strength to rise to his feet once more.
My framing symmetry.
I believe. I accept.
"Touya ..." his voice is barely a breath, as if the name is the final key unlocking the answer within him. The figure says nothing, does not acknowledge him, but nonetheless, he knows.
"He is Touya Akira. Or ... his games, at least, the ones we've played together. The real Touya hasn't really accepted me, not yet ... but it doesn't matter. I know. I accept. For if I am a tiger, then there must exist dragons for me to play. And with him, I have something which Sugawara no Akitada cheated himself of, which Sai was denied and Torajiro never took the chance to grasp. That which creates the opposing symmetry to my games. A connection. A reason. My eternal rival."
The simple raw power inherent in those three words rings through him, and he can feel his nerves vibrating in response. "You are right. I can't win, at least, not on my own. And I can't play alone. No one can play alone -- Go is a game of souls, of connections, of past and future coming together. That's its strength, that's the ultimate paradox, that's the price. It's the only true seki in life. The only true symmetry. You are trying to win on your own, in fact you must play on your own, but your moves cannot exist without your rival's moves ... and your strategies cannot be formed without the ones who have played you before. The ones who teach you, the ones who lose to you, the ones you lose to -- all of them are equally important. In the end, Go is a battle of soul against soul ... but it is also the joining of soul with soul to create something more."
Fujisaki, Tsutsui, Kaga, Mitani, Kaneko ... name after name reverberates through Hikaru-of-before's thoughts, familiar ones as well as those he does not know yet, but with whom he carries or will carry a connection nonetheless.
"Step by step, we are all linked."
Waya, Isumi, Ochi, Nase, Honda ...
"Step by step, we will move beyond you."
Touya, Ogata, Kurata, Kuwabara, Moreshita...
"It's not who plays. It's not who wins, who loses, who's more powerful, who's weak --not even the game itself ... it's the progress we all make. As long as we all play, as long as we live our lives ... as long as we continue to create heavens as well as hell. As long as we make stars."
Yashiro, Ko, Hon, An ...
Those who have gone before, those who have come after, those who will come. All those who have ever touched or will touch his life, whether in Go or not. He can almost see the lines stringing from them to him, gold threads banishing the strangling net of darkness and weaving a mesh not unlike the grid of a goban, with the strongest, anchoring lines belonging to two helping hold him to this place, the ones to whom he is a bridge. The past and the future. Fujiwara no Sai and Touya Akira.
The Demon Lord's smile, however, still holds most of its strength. "No matter how many there are of you, all of you still are mortal. You live, you die. You come to Hell. That is the way your world works: the weak fall first. Little boys do not win over all powerful gods."
"But you challenged me to Go ... and Go is a mortal's game. It is a mortal's game because while each game must end, the next one will build on it, and the next, and the next --- endlessly."
At his side, Touya waits, ever steady, as does the faint mental echo of his mentor, tugging and calling him back to the place he might call home. He ignores that pull, unable to answer it just yet. "Someone once told me that we mortals possess a unique fragility -- yet, it is a weakness that somehow endures, even given the presence of gods, wanderers, and others more powerful than us. We humans are still here, and we are the ones who change the word. For only those who can die, who can sacrifice, who can fall away ... only those who lose can know what it truly means to win. Thus, I am not the one who has no right to play."
Unique fragility, yes ... but as a whole, the seasons will always come again, always renew, the gift and burden of mortality in the promise of tomorrow.
"It is you who should not play me. For when I play, I am not alone. I will always carry Sai's shadow and his passion and his strategies in my Go. I will always carry Touya's rivalry to help get me through my toughest times. The both of them, Sai and Touya, as well as all of those who I play ... that's the Heart of the Game for me, that's what makes my Go," he smiles, feeling the rightness of his words tight against his skin as the power gains momentum within him, engulfing him in its star bright intensity. The gold net behind him sings with it surging power, and he holds firm to the sensation. "I cannot beat you, for I cannot beat myself. That would be an empty game. But Touya ... Sai ... they are more than enough to beat me. To beat you. For with Sai behind me, and Touya before... with all of us together ..."
"The Hand of God can be ...." the Lord of Hell backs away. Fear flashes through his face, rising to encompass his expression.
Memory stirs from Hikaru-of-before, a memory of the first time everything came together, a memory of stars.
And on this board, I can become...
"It's your move."
For the longest time, the Lord of the Autumn Star stares at both him and his eternal rival, as the stars burn their paths across the galaxy below. "Very well ..."
When the attack comes, he does not know whether he is surprised or resigned as the Demon Lord rushes not at him, but at the figure of Touya, at their connection, at the power which binds them all. And in this place, where physical met mental, to cut that bond means that he, as Hikaru-of-before, would never again be able to ...
But pieces, sometimes, have to be sacrificed. It is the endgame that counts. The power builds, the seki breaks ...and he weeps, for that which could have been, which was, and the perfect unity that he knows he will never see again.
And he makes his move.
The last series of events comes like a collapsing kaleidoscope of disjointed images. A flash of molten silver as Amatsu Mikaboshi switches direction suddenly, slicing his blade through him instead of Touya. The answering sweep of surging sapphire light as Touya's sword arcs through Demon Lord in retaliation. The perfection in that move. Perhaps even the Hand of God. Perhaps not.
What really matters, what really stops his breath, is the look on his eternal rival's face, the sadness there, and the recognition. God, it is enough, the recognition, if only for that one moment ....
And that one, final glimpse of that cold beauty, as the Lord of the Autumn Star realizes Hell could come to Gods of Evil as well as it does to mortals ...
as it comes for he, himself ...
Aw shit, this hurts ... this really REALLY hurts ...
And then a totally new kind of darkness consumes him whole.
To be concluded ..