Thanks to Gengkotsuya and Spren for encouragement and inspiration. Thanks to Liz and thdemonprist for beta-reading.
Glossary:
tsuka - sword handgrip
saya - scabbard
kata - training exercises
iaido - art of sword defence, practised alone
kendo - art of Japanese fencing, practised with an opponent
dojo - training hall
It was mid-afternoon when Hisoka entered the dojo change room. Sliding the door shut, he carried his traditional training clothes with him: split skirt hakama, heavyweight gi jacket, and obi belt.
He stripped off his jeans, hooded sweatshirt and tank top. He looked down at himself, regarding his slender build with a critical eye. He knew his body would never develop further, but he still expected to see some change in his musculature after two weeks of practice. A slight thickening of the biceps, greater definition of the shoulder muscles - some outward sign of his physical training.
Unfortunately, there was nothing. Nothing he could see, anyway.
The curse marks were absent as well, but Hisoka knew this was temporary. When the nightmares returned, they would glow red again.
With the familiarity of experience, he dressed for training. He folded the jacket across his chest, then tucked it into the hakama. The obi was tied as dictated by tradition, circling his narrow waist twice then tied at the front.
From childhood, Hisoka received instruction in several martial arts: kendo, aikido, iai, archery, and naginata. He had not been given a choice by his father - his own wishes were irrelevant in the matter. It was his duty as the seventeenth head of the Kurosaki clan to practise the ancient samurai arts, as befitting one who traced his lineage to samurai who served the Kamakura Shogunate.
Fortunately, he had been a reasonably adept pupil. What he lacked in stature, he made up with agility and dedication. He achieved sufficient competency to be an instructor - after all, he even taught Tsuzuki archery before the traditional New Year tournament.
But he did not enjoy the traditional arts. He focused on mastering the techniques, but the arts never touched his spirit. He practised them because it was his duty as a Kurosaki. They were a reminder of the millstone of familial obligations, nothing more.
What use did it serve? His years of training meant nothing the night he encountered Muraki.
Hisoka grimaced as the prickling sensation crept over his chest and arms. Impatiently he rubbed them away, willing his pounding heart to slow down. But it was impossible to clear his mind of the anger and hatred. Over the years, it still smouldered within him, ready to alight at the mere mention of Muraki's name.
He braced himself against the locker and took slow deep breaths to calm his mind. With each exhalation, he imagined himself expelling the negative energy. Such turbulent thoughts were inappropriate in the dojo.
Valour. Benevolence. Rectitude. Etiquette. Truth. Loyalty. Honour. The tenets of bushido. Without these virtues, he would never succeed in his quest.
When his mind was more settled a few minutes later, he opened his locker and packed away his clothes.
He saw no reason to practise the arts when he first became a shinigami. His healing powers were swift; his body could appear and disappear at will - what need did he have for the violent physicality of martial arts? So he focused on learning magical arts such as fuda and spell-casting. He strived to be as good as his partner who was, for all his goofiness, widely respected as EnmaCho's most powerful shinigami.
But the bloody encounter beneath the sakura of Kokakurou changed everything. For the first time, he was shown his true weakness by a master - a humbling but invaluable lesson.
He lacked focus and concentration. His mind was clouded, his body uncoordinated, and spiritually he was as weak as a child. He would never achieve victory when he was not at peace with himself.
Focusing his mind to find this inner peace was essential to master any skill, be it spiritual or physical. Out of all the arts, swordsmanship was widely regarded as the one that honed one's concentration to the fullest. The katana was more than a weapon - it embodied the ideal soul of a warrior: pure, straight and sharp.
Hisoka went inside the equipment room. He made his way past the rolled-up tatami mats, archery targets, and bows lining the wall. He didn't even glance at the bamboo swords he once used in training.
He stopped at a wooden chest of drawers by the far wall. Inside the top drawer was a silk swordbag bearing the pattern of gold filigree on a pearl grey background. He undid the wrapping cord and carefully removed the sheathed katana, measuring slightly less than one metre in length. Reverently he held it by the saya/scabbard in his right hand, blade hanging down, and tsuka/handgrip pointing up.
His katana. His soul.
If only a soul could be cleansed as easily.
The battle for his katana required much courage and tactical skill. Two weeks ago, he had braved a visit to the secretary's office.
"Excuse me, Tatsumi-san."
"Kurosaki-kun? Come in. Take a seat." Tatsumi didn't look up from a letter he was reading. "Can you believe these accountants? They've refused to increase our funding for the second year in a row! They know we're still paying off the library renovations and the recent damages to the main building and yet-"
"I request leave to improve my skills in kendo and iaido, Tatsumi-san."
Tatsumi put down the letter, its contents forgotten. "Why?"
Hisoka swallowed. There was something unnerving about those blue eyes - the way they could pin a person to the spot. "I-I want to improve my spiritual power by focusing my mental concentration. I think mastering the sword will help me to do this."
"There are many ways to improve spiritual power and concentration. If you wish to achieve this by practising a martial art, you could practise archery. We have excellent facilities and Terazuma-san can instruct you on the finer points-"
"I know archery already!" Hisoka winced at how rude he sounded. Rude...and desperate. "Forgive me, Tatsumi-san, but I don't need further training in archery. I practise regularly as it is on my own."
"I see." Tatsumi leaned back in his chair, his cool gaze never leaving Hisoka's face. "I assume that there is more to your request than a desire for mental and spiritual improvement."
"You saw the way I conducted myself during the fight with Oriya Mibu. I was outclassed, humiliated. I even used the katana as a crutch to lift myself up: the ultimate disgrace one can perform to a blade." He clenched his hands into fists in his lap and lowered his head. "I am trained in bushido, but my performance with the sword was atrocious. If my father had been watching, he would have disowned me. But worst of all, my weakness almost resulted in Tsuzuki's death."
"Kurosaki-kun." Quietly spoken, but firm and compelling. "Do not take on more blame than is rightfully yours. You are the one who reminded Tsuzuki for his reason to live. You are the one who brought him back from oblivion."
He sounded so stern, and yet the words were kind. Hisoka blinked, trying to reconcile the anomaly. "But it was your kagetsu powers that protected Tsuzuki from Touda's flames. If anything, your role in saving Tsuzuki is greater than mine."
Tatsumi's gaze softened a fraction. "Have you forgotten your own life was also in danger?"
"I... no, of course not." Hisoka's cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Forgive me, Tatsumi-san. I never properly thanked you for saving my life as well."
"Enough, enough! Expressions of gratitude aren't necessary." Tatsumi straightened his shoulders, looking extremely uncomfortable. "I'm sure this isn't the reason for your visit here."
Hisoka shook his head.
"As far as I know, there is no one in EnmaCho with the skills to teach you. How would you train without a teacher?"
"I remember the kata exercises from my previous training. I can read up on them and practise alone to refine my technique."
"You will train without an opponent? How will you improve without competition?"
Oriya immediately came to mind: Fight, boy! Retrieve your place!
If circumstances had been different, Hisoka would have eagerly sought Oriya as a teacher. It was samurai tradition for the vanquished to become student to the victor. But he could hardly visit the land of the living for regular lessons, and his hatred of Muraki ran too deep. To be indebted to a friend of Muraki's was more than his pride could bear.
Pride. A violation of the bushido ethic. A weakness in a warrior.
"It is said...that the greatest enemy a swordsman face is himself. The aim of learning the art of the sword should be to cut the enemy within oneself." He looked up to meet Tatsumi's gaze. "I believe I already have a formidable rival to practise with."
Tatsumi lifted a quizzical brow, but let the comment pass. "Very well. How much leave will you need?"
"I'd only need a couple of hours each day. Kyushu has been quiet recently, so I don't think it will interfere with my shinigami duties. If the workload increases, I will reduce my training."
"Have you discussed this with Tsuzuki-san?"
Hisoka knew this was going to come up sooner or later. Tatsumi's universe revolved around two things: the accounts and Tsuzuki. It was a highly eccentric orbit at the best of times.
"He's been very supportive. He tells me I shouldn't work so hard all the time-"
"Did you tell him about Kokakurou?"
"No! That idiot beats himself with enough guilt as it is. He even feels guilt over what he did to Muraki! Guilt...for that bastard..." Hisoka looked away, battling with his anger. In a way, Tsuzuki's remorse was a personal betrayal that hurt more than any of the cuts from Oriya's sword. He had never revealed his feelings by word or deed, but Hisoka could feel the muted emanations, like a low bass note rumbling through the bubbling bright melody of his thoughts.
"He has always been like this," Tatsumi said quietly. "Whether demon or human, he mourns each death as if it were one of his own blood. Do not resent him for it. His capacity for understanding the pain of others is what makes him special to us all."
Hisoka nodded. Tatsumi spoke truth, but it was not one he was ready to accept yet. "I don't want him to feel more guilt, Tatsumi-san. He hasn't asked, and I haven't told him. He doesn't need to know the reasons behind my decision."
Tatsumi was silent for several seconds. "If your partner has no objection, then I have none either. Your request is granted, Kurosaki-kun." He looked down at his papers as if preparing to return to work.
"Thank you, Tatsumi-san." Hisoka took a deep breath in, then out. Now came the hard part. He took another deep breath in, ready to strike. "I will also need a proper katana to work with. I request permission to increase the limit on my expense account to cover the cost of purchasing a suitable weapon-"
Tatsumi almost fell out of his chair. "You want what? You want what?"
"I need funds to buy a ka-"
"I heard you the first time! Do you have any idea how much they cost?"
"Yes, Tatsumi-san." Hisoka whipped out the notepad from the backpocket of his jeans. "The price of a new katana depends on the grade of the swordsmith. A top grade craftsman may charge as much as three million yen for a shinken blade. The fittings are usually extra-"
"Three. Million. Yen," Tatsumi repeated, his eyes glazing over. The words made sense on their own, but together they were beyond his comprehension. "Three. Million. Yen."
"I probably won't need such a high quality blade for my first katana. A blade from a lower grade swordsmith for six hundred thousand yen should be sufficient-"
"Are you insane? Six hundred thousand, three million...you may as well ask for the sun and the moon while you're at it!" Tatsumi snatched up the letter and held it before Hisoka's face. "They barely give me enough funding to cover the cost of running the Shoukanka. We are already two months behind on servicing our loans. How do you expect me to come up with that much money?"
Hisoka took the letter and placed it back on the desk. He had never borne the full brunt of Tatsumi's anger before, but he had seen him explode enough times to know the best way to deal with it. "I must have a katana to work with, Tatsumi-san. It's the only way-"
"Can't you use a bamboo sword? Or a sharpened wooden sword?"
"No. Practice with a bamboo sword is no substitute for handling a steel blade." He kept his voice even and his gaze unwavering. This was one battle he had to win. "If I am to improve as a swordsman, I must work with steel."
Tatsumi placed his elbows on the desk, rested his forehead in his hands, and began pulling at his hair. "I can't take this any longer. This job, these people. And now this." He glared at Hisoka, eyes spitting blue fire. "I thought you were the one person in the Shoukanka who understood the importance of prudence in financial matters. Tsuzuki-san's spending habits have been less extravagant since you joined us, and I attributed it to your restraining influence. But now I see the truth!" A maniacal gleam lit his eyes as he pointed a trembling finger at Hisoka. "You've been planning this all along! All this time, you were planning to ambush me and drive the Shoukanka to the wall with this outrageous request!"
Hisoka lifted his chin. "I am willing to take out a low interest loan. I have done a budget of my current financial status, and I think I can contribute half of my wages as repayment until the katana is paid off. I believe it will take me three to four years to pay off the principal."
Tatsumi sat back in his chair, stunned. He eyed Hisoka for several seconds, eyes narrowed, a hand over his mouth. Finally, as if coming to a decision, he sat up and steepled his fingers in front of him. "Does this katana mean so much to you?"
Hisoka took another deep breath in, and out. This was the critical stroke - everything hinged on this answer. "I am a Shinigami of Second Block, and Tsuzuki's partner. If I cannot protect my partner when he needs my help, then I am not worthy of my place here." He leaned forward, desperation getting the better of him. "Tsuzuki can't always be there to support me. At times he is so weak and helpless, so hopelessly vulnerable. It is my responsibility to help him! If he cannot bear to have his hands stained with more blood...then I will offer my katana in his stead!"
Tatsumi pushed his glasses up his nose. His hand was outstretched over his face, fingers touching the corners of the wire-rimmed frames. When he removed his hand, Hisoka saw the chill in his eyes.
The secretary was unmoved. Hisoka's heart fell, but he forced himself to remain focused. Breathe in and out, expel the negative thoughts. Think of something else to say...
"Meet me in my office at twelve p.m. tomorrow." Tatsumi picked up his pen and looked down at his ledger, effectively ending their meeting. "We will visit some swordsmiths during lunchtime to compare prices."
Tatsumi was true to his word. The next day they saw many swordsmiths, and Tatsumi haggled over prices like a buyer at a fish market. Hisoka watched on in tense silence, amazed at the secretary's tenacity. It seemed foolish to argue with someone who made such weapons of lethal beauty, but Tatsumi was fearless and persistent. There were moments when Hisoka feared for Tatsumi's welfare, so incensed were some of the tradesmen with his discounted offers.
Finally - after making fulsome promises of rewards in the afterlife - he reached a price that was to his grudging satisfaction. Before Hisoka knew it, he was being measured for a suitable blade. It was shorter than the one he'd used in Kyoto - apparently such a blade was far too long for someone of his height.
By some miracle, there was a blade available in the correct size. The next day, he began practising his kata in the dojo.
Two weeks on, he knew his technique had improved a little, but there was still a long way to go. It would take more than two weeks to mould his spirit.
Transferring the katana to his right hand, he pointed it downward in his saya as dictated by custom, and bowed at the entrance to the dojo. In bare feet, he padded to the centre of the training floor.
He carefully placed the katana on the floor in front of him, then stood up. With a quick movement, he snapped the left leg of his hakama between his legs, knelt on the left knee, followed by the right. Then he placed his hands on the floor, thumbs and index fingers outstretched to form a diamond, and bowed face down. A sign of respect, and joining of his soul to that of the sword.
Hisoka went through the warm-up. Neck rotations in all directions, then flexion and extension of the wrists and hands - common sites of injury. There was a trivial ache around his right elbow, a sign of his new training regimen. Next came shoulder rolls, side stretches and waist rotations to free up his torso. He did knee bends and ankle rotations, followed by jumping and stretches to his calf, thigh and groin muscles.
His body was flexible and supple, easily adapting to his demands. His joints would never be plagued by arthritis. His back would never know the nagging ache of lumbago or sciatica. One of the small mercies of being a young shinigami.
The silk cord of the saya needed to be tied to his obi, an elaborate knot of multiple loops. He positioned the katana so the tsuka rested over his navel and the katana slanted to the left, blade facing up.
Next came the sword exercises. He practised moving from the hips, then began with various cutting motions: down the centre, along the diagonal, horizontal cuts from standing and kneeling positions, and the big rolling cut. He went through the ritual of blood removal - swinging the sword forward and right, stabbing the rear then lifting the blade up to salute. Then with a twist of his wrist, the sword was snapped down, the edge moving up and over, the tip pointing beyond the imaginary opponent.
He was ready to begin kata - exercises practised to develop correct movement and maintain technical purity.
He sat on his knees in seiza position. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in.
"Ipponme, mae!"
He rose onto his knees, spine straight, hips thrust out. His arms flew in a blur of motion: right drawing the katana free, left pulling the saya back. The cut had to begin even before the blade was free - a horizontal line across the temple of the enemy, his right foot stepping forward to increase his reach. The tip of the blade ended a little past his shoulder, an error he would work on later.
Now furkirabutte - swinging the sword above the head. Still on one knee, Hisoka swung the katana back to the left and lifted it high, the blade tip never lower than the tsuka, left hand joining the right in a two-handed grip. He slid his left knee forward so it was level with the right knee, moving closer to the fallen enemy.
He paused for a brief moment, making sure his grip was correct. The mark of a beginner - but grip was everything in iaido. The difference in grip was enough to distinguish students from masters.
Then kirioroshi - the final cut to end suffering. He slid the right foot forward to make his hips square, the sword swinging down in a powerful vertical slash. His left knee moved forward a little, his entire body thrumming with the force of the strike. He took care to keep his back straight, resisting the temptation to lean forward and ruin his posture.
There.
He swung the sword in the ritual for blood removal - right forward, stab right behind, then lifted the blade to salute. As the blade snapped down, he came to his feet, back straight, weight shifting from right to left foot. He kept his eyes focused on his imaginary opponent.
Finally, the resheathing of the blade. He circled the katana before him with his right hand and let the back of the blade rest against the mouth of the saya. Slowly he drew the blade along the mouth until the point dropped inside. He kept his eyes on a distant point across the room - to even glance at the saya was bad form. Then he raised and rotated the tsuka so the edge faced up. With his left hand holding the saya, fingers less than an inch from the cutting edge, he slid the blade inside.
Done.
Hisoka frowned. The movements felt uncoordinated and jerky to him, lacking grace and coordination. The drawing cut had been awkward and clumsy, lacking control. Furikabutte and kirioroshi did not flow smoothly from one to the other.
The katana was an entity he had yet to manipulate into obedience. The unity of mind, sword, and body was not yet in his reach.
All the more reason for him to practise again. And again. The blade left the saya, swung through the air, and returned home. Perspiration dewed his chest and forehead as he repeated the kata, his eyes never leaving his imaginary opponent. He shouted the name of the kata at the start of each exercise, doing his best to imbue it with determination and spirit.
Gradually the movements became easier, more confident and sure. His muscles fell into a rhythm of flowing motion, each action leading smoothly to the next. The blade gleamed as it sliced the air: pure, straight and sharp.
This is my sword. This is my spirit.
He sheathed the katana with his final exhalation. His body hummed pleasantly with adrenalin, and his ears rang with his last cry. The last few exercises had felt fluid yet focused and powerful. For a few brief seconds, the katana had become more than a piece of folded steel in his hands.
Unity of mind, sword and spirit. He could have sworn he'd glimpsed it.
A tendril of heat curled within him. It wasn't painful like tearing a muscle or spraining a ligament. On the contrary, it felt pleasant - an extension of the lassitude he normally felt after physical exertion. But where was it coming from?
He whirled around, his hands positioned for a drawing stroke.
"Tatsumi-san!"
"Kurosaki-kun." Tatsumi performed a stiff standing bow from the dojo entrance, dressed in his tan business suit. "Forgive me for wearing the inappropriate attire, but I wondered if I may enter."
"Of course." Hisoka stood up and bowed. He shifted the saya to his right, making it impossible to draw - a sign of trust and respect. "Do you require me to return to the Shoukanka? I thought Tsuzuki and I were up-to-date with our accounts-"
"You are. There is no need for you to return to the office." Tatsumi stepped inside with bare feet and looked around, his gaze openly curious as he studied his surroundings.
"Is Tsuzuki in any trouble? Has he done something wrong?"
"No, no." Annoyance flitted over Tatsumi's features. "He's acting as guinea-pig for Watari-san's latest version of the sex-change formula."
Tsuzuki's visits to Watari's lab were more frequent after Kyoto - something that didn't surprise Hisoka. They were both easy-going in temperament - perhaps a little too easy-going. But maybe this was what Tsuzuki needed to cheer him up.
"Is that wise, Tatsumi-san? Considering what happened the last time"
"They are both adults. If they want to experiment on themselves, I have no authority to stop them...unless it interferes with the finances." Tatsumi stepped across the smooth floor of the dojo, movements swift yet surprisingly quiet for a man of his height. "As long as the damage is limited to themselves, it is none of my business." He walked past Hisoka to stare at the paper screen walls as if examining them for workmanship flaws.
Hisoka's brow puckered in a frown. Was Tatsumi the source of that strange feeling? He couldn't feel anything now.
"Are the training facilities here to your satisfaction?"
Hisoka blinked. "I have no complaints with them, Tatsumi-san. However, it may be best to ask Terazuma-san when he returns, as he often uses the facilities as well."
Tatsumi thrust his hands in his pockets and resumed walking in a slow circle around Hisoka. "No doubt he will have a long list of items requiring repair. Building maintenance costs have risen, but without a matching increase in funding it is impossible to give the facilities the care they deserve."
Hisoka watched, openly curious. Had Tatsumi come here merely to discuss the upkeep of the dojo?
Brilliant blue eyes fell on Hisoka, then skittered away. "Forgive me for interrupting your training. I wanted to make sure that the dojo and the equipment were being utilised appropriately. Any damage to Shoukanka assets must be recorded for account-keeping purposes."
"I understand, Tatsumi-san." He felt acutely conscious of the weight of the katana against his side - the most expensive piece of equipment within the dojo. Maybe Tatsumi was concerned with how he cared for it. "I found a suitable place to store the katana. I ensure it is locked at all times. I'm the only person who has the key."
"Good." Tatsumi folded his arms, and turned to face him. "The swordsmith recommended it be kept laid down in a dry place, didn't he?"
"Yes. I found a chest of drawers made of pawlownia wood. I inspect the wood weekly for insects or signs of moisture."
"What about the registration card?" Tatsumi's gaze flicked down at the katana. "Have you tied it to the saya?"
"I've sewn it into the swordbag." Hisoka couldn't quite keep out the defensive note in his voice. "It's also acceptable practice by law."
Tatsumi inclined his head. "I accept your judgement in this matter. I am sure you are much more familiar with the legal requirements."
That must be why Tatsumi was here - he wanted to ensure the katana received proper care. "When will the deductions from my pay start? I am still receiving the standard amount."
"There will be no deductions." Tatsumi pushed up his glasses and began walking again. "After discussion with the accounting department this morning, we have agreed to consider the katana an asset to the organisation. It will effectively be for your use alone, but in name it will be property of the Shoukanka."
What? Property of the Shoukanka...
He gripped the tsuka, but the surge of resentment receded as the words sank in. It was still his katana - for as long as he worked for the Shoukanka.
He traced his fingers over the silk-wrapped tsuka, and the simple wooden saya. This was more than a gift. This was material proof of his 'place'. In all his years as a shinigami, Hisoka never recalled the secretary granting such an expensive item to a single employee - even Konoe. Or Tsuzuki.
"I...I hope this decision doesn't displease you," Tatsumi began, an uncharacteristic hesitancy in his voice. "I thought this would be a more suitable financial arrangement."
"It is - very much so." Hisoka looked up, green eyes bright. "Thank you, Tatsumi-san. Thank you!"
"Think nothing of it." Tatsumi tilted his head, his expression grave. "Kurosaki-kun, this is the first time I've seen you smile."
"Is it?" A faint blush stained Hisoka's cheeks.
"You should do it more often."
Hisoka lowered his gaze, too embarrassed for words. "I...I'll keep that in mind."
Tatsumi straightened his shoulders and looked away. "Well, I should return to my office. Apologies again for interrupting you."
Hisoka watched his tall retreating back. Empathically, the secretary was a mirror-like lake that only whipped itself into a frenzy over past guilt or budgetary constraints. But this was different. There were ripples disturbing the surface, hinting at a powerful undertow surging beneath. Even now, Tatsumi seemed tense and uncertain, devoid of his customary no-nonsense bluntness.
"Tatsumi-san?"
Tatsumi paused, a few steps away from the entrance. "Yes?"
"Is there...anything else I can help you with?"
"Not at all." Tatsumi stepped down from the training floor. "I merely wanted to ensure that the facilities are in satisfactory condition. As secretary, it is my job to ensure that all Shoukanka assets are used appropriately and remain in good working order. I entrust the care of the katana to you, Kurosaki-kun. Please take good care of it."
Something did not seem right. Hisoka still sensed the nervous ripples, the sign of inner discord. Their conversation wasn't the only reason Tatsumi had come to the dojo.
"Would you...would you like to watch me practise iaido kata?"
Tatsumi froze in the middle of putting on one shoe. "Why?"
Hisoka inhaled sharply. The ripples in his mind's eye were gone. Tatsumi had transformed himself into a solid sheet of impenetrable ice. The barriers were well and truly up.
The truth came to him like a soft whisper. He came to watch.
"I...I wish to show you how I have improved, Tatsumi-san." Hisoka's heart thudded so hard he thought it would break out of his chest. How he kept his voice steady he would never know. "I want to prove that your investment has not been in vain."
Across the dojo, Tatsumi's eyes locked onto him. Such a brilliant penetrating blue - Hisoka had never experienced anything like it. He flushed under the challenging scrutiny.
It was Tatsumi who looked away first. "I have other things to do today. Will you practise here at the same time tomorrow?"
"Yes. Three o'clock."
"I will do my best to come on time." He bowed to Hisoka, then left the dojo.
It took Hisoka at least fifteen minutes of intense meditation to achieve the mental focus and calm required to continue the rest of his training session.