the samurai is a storyteller
A/N: Originally written back in June of 2020. I recently came back to my old, unpublished drafts.
"A story, just to pass the time."
The samurai is a storyteller. The Akatsuki are the audience.
The first time they met was in the middle of a thunderstorm.
There's four of them in this room, in this large, mostly-empty storeroom on the second floor. They're in a warehouse. They're in a partly-decrepit factory. They're in a toy shop. Kisame doesn't exactly know what it is, but it's a safehouse for them, the Akatsuki. His partner is lying on a cot, sleeping soundly, healing from his self-inflicted injury.
Itachi Uchiha sleeps like the dead when he's exhausted.
They've been fighting and running for three days straight. He doesn't want to think of it as escaping or fleeing, but that's what it is. They've been assigned to chase after a rogue shinobi from Iwa all the way to Kiri, but they somehow found themselves in the middle of a civil war between two smaller nations near Suna.
The two other people in the room, however, he isn't really sure. One of them's younger, the Asayake runt who turned to a life of crime when she ran away from home. She was a member of the Beniko Bandits, who've now been disbanded a few years since the eponymous leader's death. Now she's a member of them, an underling, caretaker of this house, the Toy Maker.
Tenkou Asayake is fifteen and she makes bombs, among other things.
The other person left is the one sitting in the darkness, probably asleep, probably healing. She hasn't said a word the moment she entered when the thunderstorm was just rain. She wasn't bloody or injured, but it looked like she had her fair share of battle. She merely stared at him then; wet hair and clinging to her face, mud staining the ends of her clothes, eyes as clouded and as gray as the sky. She's a physical fighter, just like him maybe, judging by the paired swords she carried. Only a samurai would have a pair and wear it like that, but he's never really seen of dealt with her kind before. But he's heard they're like the top dog in this food chain or mercenaries and as expensive as they can get.
So it's a wonder how and why one got involved with them.
Thunderclaps echo in the distance and the storm continues to rumble. It's going to be like this for a while, and the cold is rarely ever useful to help heal fresh wounds. He looks at the gash on his shoulder, smells through the gauze the pungent scent of the balm the Asayake girl had rubbed into it. Having injuries taken care of like this is rare, they're all used to tending to their own wounds, but he's appreciative of it, thankful even.
The woman's first words to him are, "She does quick work, the girl."
That's when he notices she shares the same injury, sleeve removed and arm exposed.
"She done the same for you?"
She hums in agreement. "After a while, you become careless and forget certain steps."
It's his turn to agree. "Stopping the blood's what's important."
"Fight long enough and cleaning becomes secondary." She nods, sniffing, "A luxury when it shouldn't have to be one."
He thinks she's bitter about that, thinks she's not really the type to get involved with people like them, but because of whatever circumstances… He shouldn't really pry, but he's curious. She must have some kind of story as to why she's lumped in with the likes of them, and the rain isn't going to stop anytime soon. And even if it did, he doubts the Asayake girl would allow them to step foot outside without having a bite to eat or glass to drink. She's a caring one, indiscriminately so.
"Small luxuries." He says, not unfamiliar to what she means, "Sometimes we deserve them."
And she knows that too. She knows, and that's why she nods and tells him her name, "Shikaku no Shikai. I used to be an Amakuni."
He supposes that name means something, but he hasn't heard even a whisper of that name until now. He does the same.
"Hoshigaki Kisame. Used to be one of the Seven Swordsmen."
She blinks. That means she hasn't heard of that either. But she eyes the weapon leaning against the wall beside him. She eyes it warily, like a jeweler presented with a large, supposedly rare gem. Like it's unreal. Like it's impossible. Has she heard of Samehada before? Has she witnessed it before? He doubts she has. There's only a select few who've witnessed the Samehada and survived.
"The Samehada."
Huh.
So she might be one of them.
"Heard of it?"
She nods minutely, eyes still trained on the ridges of the sword. Analyzing. Taking it apart. Piece by piece. Scale by scale. She's never seen anything like it, maybe.
"There is a legend. It's made from the skin of a deity." She begins, sounding like some mystified storyteller, "Isonade, kin of the dragon god, Watatsumi."
He hasn't heard a story like this since he was young, so he listens.
And she continues, "Would you like to hear the story, Hoshigaki-san?"
The rain comes down heavier now. And thunder continues to rumble, closer and farther at the same time, echoing both outside and inside the room. Perhaps it's the god agreeing for him, but he's never really believed in the gods, so he'll take this story at face value.
"Just to pass the time, eh?" He settles against the wall.
Small luxuries, indeed.
She tells him about a fisherman whose name is not important.
"Let's call him Sachi for this retelling."
She tells him about this village by the sea, a coastal village outlined by dark, ominous rocks.
"Their incomes mostly come from fisheries and shell farms, sometimes from harvested pearls or roe, depending on the season."
She tells him about the night terrors haunting the villagers, about the sea monsters just lurking beneath their boats when they go fishing at night.
"But they are used to this life, of being preyed upon and hunted. They are merely fisherfolk, after all, and have no knowledge of taming or killing beasts."
She tells him about Sachi and his first encounter with the Isonade.
"He described the beast in great detail to his fellowmen. It was great in size, he said, its eyes bulging from its head like the moon from the clouds, clear and pale and ever-bright. The eyes haunted him, two moons surfacing from the midnight depths."
He imagines the sight of it.
"It was a beast beyond his imagination, a monster he sought to be rid of. From that first instance at midnight, the memory of the beast never left him. The sight of the scales, barbed and sharp, shimmering in the pale light. The shallow movement in the water makes him wonder. What is the beast thinking? Was it surveying its prey? Was it deciding how to attack? But beasts have no minds, he thought, beasts do not think like men."
She breathes deep now, the very image of calm and stillness, the patience of an experienced storyteller.
"Okuchiwani, they called the beast. The giant-mouthed sea monster dwelling in the depths of the sea. It has taken the lives of many folk from his village, overturned boats and devoured swimmers alike. But Sachi did not understand why it chose to spare him then, to eye him like a child would a stranger. But monsters were never children, they simply are what they are, he thought, born hungry and devouring."
He vaguely remembers hearing a story like this in his childhood, but the clearer ones are about war and glory, about fighting and bloodshed and betrayal and death. So he's sure, he's very sure, that this story will end in a death. Whether it is the fisherman's or the monster's, he doesn't care.
"Still, Sachi continued fishing at night, harvesting small clams and oysters, and gathering his empty nets. He thought it was the Isonade's doing, of course it was. What creature would deprive them of their livelihood and their food? What creature would do such a thing? But the village was afraid of it, and the village could do nothing about it. So Sachi made a promise. He would hunt the Isonade and be rid of it once and for all."
Of course. That's how stories like these go, someone suddenly grew a pair and decided to be a hero. And he's going to die.
"Do you want to know how it ends?"
He only now notices the glimmer of enjoyment in her eyes, so he shrugs.
"Sure, why not."
She smiles then, and he thinks she's more of a storyteller than an actual samurai.
"He sharpens the largest blade he can find, enough to cut through reeds in one swift strike. He finds the smallest, sturdiest boat, and practices sailing in the daytime. He was never a fighting man, Sachi, but he trained and her fought a conjured image of the beast in his head for three days straight, without a lick of water or taste of food. And when the fated day came, there was a thunderstorm."
The story is punctuated by thunder.
"Still, he waited for nightfall to sail into the sea. The rain had already subsided then, and everything was deadly silent. The skies were clear, clearer than any other night he'd ever witnessed, and the sea was still. He waited for the beast to come, waited for any ripple or any sound to come from the water, but there came nothing. Eventually, he dozed off, exhaustion finally coming to him."
The image reminds him of his time as a young shinobi, how unnerving the silence was, how he hated the feeling of paranoia, that anytime he could be targeted, that anytime he could be killed.
"And that was when the Isonade attacked. As quiet and as deadly, it pulled him into the sea. And in the deep darkness, that was when he awoke to the sight of the two moons, the eyes of the beast, staring at him. And for some reason, he felt no need to breathe, no need to swim back to the surface. He was paralyzed, fascinated, curious, terrified. What is this beast, he thought, what does it want? But then the beast opened its mouth, revealing sharp and jagged teeth, silvery like his blade. And that's when he remembered."
She paused as if to let the image settle, but she didn't need to.
"He pulls the blade and strikes, astonished that he's managed to catch the beast off-guard. He cuts cleanly through its skin, and the beast screams. For the first time in his life, he hears sound in the water, and the sound is of a child crying. The Isonade."
If he were any younger, he'd think it's terrifying.
"He doesn't remember what happened to him next, for he wakes up on the shore still damp from the sea. His blade is nowhere to be found, but the cut skin is on the sand beside him. And that is when he remembers the scream, the Isonade's wrath, and Watatsumi's sadness. He remembers hearing the god cry, My son, it is not your fault. Man is simply brutal in his understanding of the world. Man simply does as his instinct dictates. He remembers being pushed then, swiftly upwards by the Isonade itself, and feeling sick to his stomach."
He knows the story is about to end now.
"The Isonade's skin glitters in the sunlight, barbed scales twitching in the heat. He reaches out to touch it, and his hand bleeds immediately. His blood trickles onto the skin, where it is absorbed by it. He decides then, that this skin could only bring death. So he keeps it hidden and away, in the dark cellar of his own home, and calls it Samehada."
Of course, that's how it ends. Not really in death, but close enough.
"It is unknown how it became the blade it is today." She concludes the tale with her hands in her lap and a small smile.
Just like a real storyteller, one of those rakugo artists who sometimes came to Kiri at the request of the Mizukage or the daimyo. He remembers vaguely what it felt like to watch one of those things, to see one man enthrall an entire room full of people without genjutsu. Or maybe it was a kind of genjutsu, an ancient kind, a kind unknown to most shinobi, a kind that's passed down in secrecy from generation to generation. In that room, where everyone's eyes are glued to that one person, anything could happen in a blink of an eye.
Like now.
She is still a stranger and he is still cautious. Her presence inside the safehouse is still suspicious. If she was an underling, then he hasn't heard of her. If she was an assassin, then she might strike at him anytime now, now that he's caught in her tall tale, now that his other half is still out cold.
She cleared her throat. "The rain has stopped."
He noticed it too, but the sky is still overcast, and it's getting late and Itachi is still–
Sometimes he forgets that his partner is still young.
"You do not like the story." She shifts the conversation.
He huffs. He doesn't dislike it either.
"You seen it before?"
She keeps her eyes on the Samehada.
"In books, yes. I never thought I'd see it in person."
And survive, he adds mentally.
"Live up to your expectations?"
She smiles wryly. "I imagined it bigger."
He returns a smile, toothy and sharp, "It's hungry, thirsty, always is."
"It is alive, then." She nods, "And a living blade is far more dangerous than a dead one."
"Huh." It's his turn to eye the daisho with her, "What about yours, then? They alive too?"
"Kunishige and Kuninobu." she lays the katana on the floor and follows it with the wakizashi, "They are brothers, the first of thunder, the second of lightning."
He supposes they're as mythical as she makes it sound.
"My father forged them, and gave them to me as a birthday gift when I was five years old."
"Any story behind them?"
She shakes her head, "Not anything mythical, no. But my father did tell me he forged them during a storm, and a god had decided to grant them his power."
"A god?"
She hums in agreement and looks to the open window. The rain's come back again. He sees a flash of lightning in the distance and waits for thunder that doesn't arrive.
"Would you like to spar, Hoshigaki-san?" She asks without looking.
He stands up and lifts Samehada from the wall and grins. He was never one to sit idle anyway.