A/N: I apologize for the inconsistency in updating (like adding new content in the previous chapters), it's lame I know. This will be the last time I promise. Thank you for the follows and the faves! They play a signifcant role in driving me to write the next chapters!
PS. Watch out for a crossover oneshot that will tie in this particular story to another anime. (Hint: it involves a certain Dimensional Witch)
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Insignia of Rarities
A C T – I
「 Steorra Portentum 」
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In the south wing of the Himura Palace, in the long corridor leading to the royal library, was the last family portrait of our clan.
It was more like a mural, for it spanned the entire width of the corridor wall. Back then, paintings were only done in black ink—photographs were not yet invented—but this mural was done by the legendary Yoritomo who used pigments mixed with oil. Yoritomo had a way of revealing hidden things about his subjects and he did the same to the Himura portrait, he has rendered each and every member of our clan with such exquisiteness that even now when I recall their painted countenances I always find something new.
Seventy-five years later only a portion of that wall remains. The rest of it lies in rubble.
Now imagine that we are back in time. You are viewing the world through my eyes. This is the only way I could tell you about my family because by the time you are reading this journal, all records about the Himura clan would have been wiped out from history.
At eight years old, I am there on that corridor again, looking, discovering. Here I am, feeling small, looking up at the large, looming faces of my family. The mural depicts the tenth, eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth generations of the House of Himura. The very last of our clan to survive.
More than two centuries ago, there used to be more of the Himura. Once upon a time, our clan had been one of the largest and most powerful samurai, so much that we were called "The Army of Samurai". We thrived in an era of superstition, back when ninshū[1] and chakra had been deemed heresy, taboo—its practitioners forced into hiding. The Himura was greatly feared then. The world saw how our warriors wielded the sword and commanded the power of demons and elements. Our kin conquered large territories in the Lands of Wind, Fire, and Water. We were a rule unto ourselves, we bowed to no one. Every land, every empire my ancestors burned to the ground, the people believed to be decreed by the gods.
For a long, long time, the Himura were rulers of the greatlands. It truly seemed like our dynasty would last forever.
Then the Genpei War came.
And then the Hogen War.
The Sengoku War was the last straw. It hailed the beginning of the Warring States Period... and the end of our dynasty.
Warriors with great strength and speed surfaced from the shadows. They wielded the tremendous power of chakra, learned how to weaponize it to breathe fire and summon lightning. They bent nature to their will, stole for themselves the divinity that the gods can only grant. These warriors were called 'shinobi'.
For a time, the Himura held their ground with these insurgents. Our Lǐwù was superior to their chakra techniques, if only for a small margin. But the emergence of shinobi was unprecedented. With each day that passed, newer, stronger groups of shinobi rose. Like an advancing forest fire, they took and reshaped the land. Chaos broke out, tearing the old system apart.
Slowly, or perhaps all at once, we lost our lands, our influence.
The relentless wars nearly drove the Himura clan into extinction. In an effort to preserve our lineage, the clan set aside their embittered pride and retreated to the Himura's last territorial land, the Isle of Oregano.
Fate has a way whittling away things and in this stone canvas, we are but a dwindling remnant of our rich samurai heritage.
The painting is a timetable of sorts, for it shows the passage of time and loss. In some of the older members' faces, you can see bitter wisdom, the weight of hard years despite the lift of their mouths. In the folds of their skin, the scars, you can almost see the battles they've fought. Some of their empty hands count the years after the death of a loved one. In the younger ones, you can sense the peace, the promise of a bright future. Born in the warmth of safety, there is an openness to their faces that you will only find in the untainted. Their eyes are livelier, glittering—mirrors that have no shadows of war and death. They hold each other without the fear of losing their loved ones in battle.
But there are also those whose young eyes seem too old, too knowing of ache...
For example: the great Mori, oldest of the Himura, sister of the deceased Tenth Patriarch, bears history on her bones like skin. Despite the family's opulence, the hardship of the Hogen War has left her right arm stricken with polio, her left arm ridden with scars but strong from wielding the tachi blade[2]. She stands erect and wary as if ready for battle in any given moment. Even if Time has brought its milky-white veil upon her eyes, they stare with the intensity of a woman who carved her own place in the patriarchy. Her cheek bears the ugly scar of sacrifice, but her smile speaks of a husband's tender love, persisting beyond the grave. She is living proof that softness can be strength. On her neck is the star necklace that she will give me for my tenth birthday, the very one Uchiha Madara will take more than a decade later.
In contrast, the messenger Li, reader of minds. Despite his low stature, he stands proud and haughty. In the softness of his limbs, there is a litheness with the dāo, or single-edged blade that could have been useful in battle. Now it only serves as entertainment during festivals and family gatherings. His mouth is curled in a way that brims with the boast that he has seen things, has seen chaos, but cannot be bothered enough to care. His effeminate form is clad in embroidered peonies, his auburn hair immaculate. In his insouciance you can almost taste the vanity and narcissism of a true-born nobleman. For Himura Li, the world exists for his entertainment and everything is but a farce.
Point of interest: blacksmith Qiang, master of weapons, stands humbly on the left of Himura Daisuke, just outside the royal family. Unlike the rest of the Himura, who are dressed in the rich colors of red and yellow, he wears his estrangement as vivid as his robes of white and blue. The way he carries himself denotes his extreme discipline with every form of martial art, the mastery of every weapon known in warfare. His shoulders are straight, his stance rigid; every sinew anticipates for the battle as if he knows that peace does not truly last. His skin is dark and chafed smooth and humble from years of working at the forge. In the lines of his hands, you can read wisdom, an unexpected world-weariness that is found in shinobi. In his handsome face, there is a glimpse of a violent past, an old, untold story (of love and pain) and countless regrets. His age is twenty-eight but in his eyes he is a hundred.
In the very middle of the painting, the royal family.
Out of all the Himura, they are the ones most recognizable, the most familiar with power (and anguish).
Eleventh Patriarch Himura Daisuke, usurper of his brother's throne, second son of the Tenth, stands towering over the other four members. His face is stern and majestic, a white lion dressed in white. If you look closely, or smoothen the creases of his skin, you will see the ambition from his youth, the cunning with which he used to uproot traitors in his midst. Under heavy brows, his eyes are hardened with battle but with certain… volatility. He has the look of someone who has grown acquainted with peace but does not know yet what to do with it. Once, he had been an irascible warrior, preferring to solve disputes with the fist. It shows in his hands as they peek from beneath his long robes, knuckles crumbling with the heavy ghost of the Southern Dragon Kung fu[3]. His hands had been good at fighting and now they are mastering the foreign art of idleness and age. The empty space on his right dictates that he chose not another after the loss of his cousin-wife twenty years ago.
On his left the princess royal Ayako, first Oracle in history, sits in profile, her face slightly turned towards the viewer. Out of all of us, it is her likeness which had taken the longest time to paint, for Ayako had a face that is seen only once in an eon and Yoritomo—being enamored with her—wanted to do her beauty justice. Here, she is resplendent in a deep yellow kimono and jeweled buyao[4], showing a partiality and ease to opulence. She holds herself in the languid manner of one who has been cosseted their entire life, but the curve of her shoulders hint at a proficiency in the wielding of the tanto[5]. Her features are delicate but her gray eyes hold the capacity for strength, startling viciousness. Even with the cruel overall effect, there is a lonely loveliness about her, as if the light on her face and the tilt of her mouth conspire to make it just so. She is only twenty-five but it is as if her heart is already singing its swansong.
Her younger sister, our mother, Himura Kaito is not present in the painting.
In her stead beside Ayako, her daughters Shin and Aki stand. In this mural my sister and I are both five-years old. Even in this painting our parentage is apparent, the ink-black hair and the pale skin speak of the foreign blood running in our veins, anomalies among the sea of auburn hair and ruddy skin. We are strangers in this family and it shows.
Aki, the taller of us, looks uncomfortable in the bright furisode[6], as if she is uncertain of herself and her place. Even then one can tell us apart easily. There is a certain energy about her, a flightiness that tells she is not used in staying still. Her skin is light but glows the way sunned things do. Despite being a half-breed, she has the sharp look of determination and arrogance that comes naturally to a Himura. The small scar peeking from her hairline indicates brashness and irascibility while the scratches on her hand speak of the training in fighting and weaponry she has just begun.
Beside her, I look like paper. My waxy skin is a sign that even then, I have been confined inside the palace. The rigidity of my posture is the beginnings of Grandfather's tutelage in the martial arts. Unlike Aki, I have no scars but the curl of my hands shows the knowledge of forms in weapon-wielding.
In this mural, our arms are linked, our faces mirages of each other. The same dainty nose, dark gray eyes, small mouth and the confusion and grief of one who have just lost their mother.
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I N T E R I M
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It takes Senju Butsuma nine years and a son's death to collect the debt owed to him by Himura Daisuke. And when he comes to the Isle of Oregano with a handful of shinobi, armed with a strange request and an equally strange proposition, everyone is befuddled and a little offended.
While the other Senju bow their heads in respect, Butsuma dares to look at the steel gray eyes of the clan head. Even at rest, everything about Daisuke's appearance radiates exaggerated power; from his hulking frame to his long, white beard (which, Butsuma admits, is quite impressive) to the near-ridiculous yin-yang insignia on his forehead. It seems the Himura look to live up to their legend. Even so, Butsuma knows better than to laugh at the face value and histrionics of the man and his clan.
"Your clan has fought in the Hogen War over a hundred years ago," explains Butsuma when Daisuke's silence stretched for far too long, "Back then, samurai ruled the nations. Chakra manipulation was still deemed as heresy and the blade was the law. Without even using chakra or your mythic kekkei genkai, the Himura held one of the greatest powers. Your excellence in taijutsu and weaponry has been unparalleled since."
To his surprise, Himura Daisuke laughs, "History is steeped in myth, Senju Butsuma. It seems whatever your request is it is based upon such as well."
"Not quite. I did not come here without proof or certainty of what I ask of you."
"Very well, I will hear it."
On the veranda, the princess royal is idly fanning herself with a paper fan. Stories about the Himura have been circulating the Land of Fire for a long, long time; demons, elemental wielders, tongue-speakers... none of them as legendary as the ones about the Oracle Himura Ayako. The Senju consider clairvoyance and fortune-telling heresy, and despite his wife's warnings to never look at her, or you will see your death coming, Butsuma glances at her silhouette behind the shoji, wonders what she sees (the present or the future—which is which?).
"Train my sons." To cheat death.
Daisuke looks at him for a moment, gauging everything. Butsuma's gaze never wavers. The greatest power plays are always played on silent ground, cutthroat and unforgiving. With his honor clearly on the stake, Daisuke decides.
"Ah, that I can do."
"And a friendship," Butsuma says, "between the Himura of the Southern Waters and the Senju of the Forest."
Despite its brevity, this one takes the Patriarch much quicker to decide. Like he has been expecting it. Daisuke takes a deep breath, gray eyes glittering strangely when he says, affirms, "A friendship indeed."
Outside, the paper fan stops in its motion.
...
No one knows what exactly happened that day when Himura Daisuke, Eleventh Patriarch of the Himura clan, forged an alliance with the Senju clan. The meeting was briefly brief, held in the Patriarch's private chambers.
Later when everything is said and done, an adviser claims he heard crashing beyond the door—no doubt the righteous anger of the Patriarch unleashing itself upon the Senju for affronting his honor. The royal secretary say that he saw Senju Butsuma turn into a wooden creature and pull the Patriarch's impressive beard until he gave in to his request. A servant, watering the gardens at the time, says that shortly after the advisers have all left, she saw Ayako step inside the hall and undress in front of the Senju shinobi. Another servant who served them tea supports the latter's story, claims that Butsuma gasped at the sight of the princess royal's beauty and promptly asked for her hand in marriage.
There were witnesses, eavesdroppers and rumors but only three people are truly privy to the strange affair: Himura Daisuke himself, the clairvoyant princess royal Himura Ayako, and the Senju clan leader Senju Butsuma. Even if each of them refuses to speak more on the matter, one thing remains certain. The brevity of this alliance is momentous: by agreeing to train the sons of Butsuma, the Eleventh Patriarch has opened the gates of his clan's well-guarded art of fighting and weapon-wielding to strangers. Eleven generations of secrecy, now broken.
This is eclipsed by one fact.
The age-old gap between the samurai and the shinobi has been closed. No other alliance looked so promising (and dangerous).
For the Senju, they now have the means of surviving even without the funding of a daimyou. For the Himura, they now have a powerful ally with very powerful enemies. It is apparent who gets the shorter end of the stick.
On that day, when Senju Butsuma left the Patriarch's court, no one could deny the expression painted on the Patriarch's face.
A look that said, you think you have won.
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That summer the nine-year old Senju Hashirama and his remaining brother, the eight-year old Tobirama, arrive in the Isle of Oregano. For three consecutive summers, they are to train under the tutelage of the quiet blacksmith, Himura Qiang. That is, in itself, strange: what can a blacksmith teach a couple of shinobi children? If anyone has noticed the blatant insult to Butsuma's sons—which is to say everyone—they keep their silence well.
It is that summer that Hashirama first meets Himura Shin and strikes a bond that will last throughout their long lives. Theirs is an akai ito—thread of destiny—that knows no distance, no time, no universe.
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[1] Ninshū: meaning "Shinobi Sect", is the religion and the peaceful precursor of modern ninjutsu created by Hagoromo Ōtsutsuki.
[2] Tachi: a blade having a deeper curvature than a katana. Used for tachi sword mount style, which slings the sword by a cord from the waist. The cutting edge of sword is downward.
[3] Southern Dragon kung fu: a martial imitative-style that was developed based on the imagined characteristics of the mythical Chinese dragon. Heavily uses tiger-like punches and clawing techniques, snake-like stance shifts, and leopard-like hit and run strikes to weaken a physically superior adversary.
[4] Buyao: a hair ornament denoting noble status. It is a hairpin with dangling pendants made of beads or gems that "dance" as the wearer moves.
[5] Tanto: a straight bladed knife or dagger that was worn by the samurai class of feudal Japan. Usually 5.9–11.8 inches, can be single or double-edged
[6] Furisode: a type of kimono named after its long swinging sleeves. It is the most formal style of kimono worn by unmarried women.