Glossary:
Wakashū: Mostly young males in their teens, who have not undergone the coming of age ceremony*.
Rōnin: Masterless samurai. Not quite as honorable but still a samurai.
-san: Honorific to refer politely to anyone who is not a close friend nor someone above your station.
-san: Honorific to refer politely to anyone who is not a close friend nor someone above your station.
-sensei: Honorific to refer to a master or expert in a field. Also used for teachers.
THE SWORDSMAN (III)
Let it be known, though he would never say it out loud, that when Hiko Seijūrō the Thirteenth saw the boy hit the ground by a hand that was not his, it was the first time he was left breathless in his entire life. Of all the battles and brawls, blows and punches, only then did he feel he couldn't breathe. To his credit, the man hadn't had a good night's sleep in more than a week, trying as he did to get back before the next full moon rose. Also to his credit, his breath came back just as quickly as he lost it, when he saw the bastard twist in pain as the boy, still very much alive, cut through him as if he were butter.
But still.
He had arrived from the east, having rekindled the fear of Ishikawa Goemon in the hearts of oh-so-many coin hoarders past Edo. It had been nostalgic. Epic. Exhausting. It demanded him to flex a kind of muscle the man hadn't needed since the early days of mentoring the future Hiko Seijūrō the Fourteenth. And by the time he had reached the river Seta, he had been ready to make a bee line to the fist bed he could find at the smith's house, and give in to the sweet sleep he so desperately needed for three, maybe four days straight,—that is, waking up only to have a much deserved drink, maybe a toast of sorts, for a premature coming-of-age ceremony for his pupil.—So, imagine his delight when he found Shakkū's wife gaiting her way through the market district, her humble but impeccable kimono now patched in dirt and mud, all by herself and carrying more bundles that he could care to count. His stupid pupil was up for a such a good thrashing…
It was only when he reached her that he knew something was very wrong.
He listened to her frantic recount of how a food thief, nothing but a hungry kid, had been picked out by two very frustrated samurai. How she pleaded to a third, younger one for help, hoping that in reaching him, she would at least have tried to leave a better world for her own kid. How, she didn't need to point out, Hiko had failed to teach his stupid pupil the first rule of any martial art: Don't bring a stick to a sword fight.
With an unreadable expression plastered over his face, the man insisted on taking the wife and her baby back to Shakkū before anything else. "He will be fine, I've taught him well" he kept repeating, ignoring the cry of muscles that were too worse for wear as he ran uphill, carrying them on his back along with the bundles of groceries. The woman's feet had barely touched the ground again when he whirled back, his cape raging in the wind. And still, it didn't matter how the world turned into a blur under his feet bolting down the village, nor how easy it was to follow the trail of people who had seen a boy with blood-red hair: When he arrived, for a second, a long, terrible second, it had already been too late. He swore he'd never let that second happen again: The moment the man by the name of Serizawa countered with the butt-end of his hilt, the mountain of a man lunged forward.
He seized the samurai's hand still around the hilt, and twisted it outwards to disarm him. As the sword rattled on the ground, Hiko stepped forward, thrusting his own sword towards the man's neck. Suddenly, something snapped. The pain shot up from his calf, blinding. He clenched his jaw, inching forwards to let the edge of his sword nip the flesh. Even that slight movement made the pain cut through his body once more. Fuck. He'd have to bluff his way out of it then…
"Master…"
A smirk tugged at the corner of the man's lips in spite of the pain. He's fine, I've taught him well, he thought to himself as a wave of relief washed over him. Fear and pain gave way to stillness, lining his words with smug confidence: "You better thank my stupid pupil for that thick skull of his; otherwise it would have been yours rolling on the floor."
It was that last stroke that ended up disarming Serizawa: The carefully raised samurai could parry any attack, feeding off of anger, weakness, anguish; but as he stood there with arms and eyes wide open, confidence was surely something he was not used to see in a foe. His gaze stumbled down, taking the mountain of a man in. Then shock turned to spite as he lifted his chin, almost defying Hiko to mirror the depth of the boy's cut with his own blade.
"See, Kamiya?" The man snarled at the wakashū, still some steps away. It was the samurai suckling that had been babbling for Serizawa to stop kicking his pupil to a pulp. "The scoundrel has a master! How is that a good kid, huh?! A whole school of lowlives, bandits waiting to take lives as soon as we're not around!"
"Shut up!" the Kamiya kid cried, but still threw glances at Hiko for good measure. The coward… Only when he saw the boy on the ground a second time did he attempt to unsheathe his sword. But what else could be expected from kids raised to obey? In contrast, the samurai at the sharp end of Hiko's sword doubled the wakashū in more than his age; he was an experienced, prideful man. The throbbing vein in his neck and the red tinge of his flesh spoke of strength, yes; but dulled by impulsiveness, and perhaps—he squinted at the smell of his breath—a hint of sake. A man that wouldn't accept anything less than blood for blood.
"If having a sword makes you a bandit, I guess having two makes you a law-abiding murderer then?" Hiko retorted, keeping up his nonchalant tone as he took note of the short sword and iron fan in the man's belt, "I'll be sure to get another one then."
Serizawa snarled. One of his hands bolted to his belt as he turned to dodge the blade. Hiko's mind raced as he anticipated the next move, but when he heard the blade unsheathe to his right, instinct kicked in: He let go of the sword with his right hand and caught it with the left in a reverse grip. Dropping to a knee, the mountain of a man turned just in time to block the fall of… an iron fan? With his right arm shielding the boy behind him, processing that move took an instant too long. Enough for Serizawa to catch his hand between the hilt and the metal fan, and using it as a lever, crushed Hiko's fingers with it.
Muffling a curse through gritted teeth, his whole body braced for the second assailant to his right. But lucky for him, the samurai suckling had grown a pair.
"'Said 'tis enough!" the Kamiya kid cried as he brought down his sword between them. It was clumsy, easy for Serizawa to dodge just leaning backwards an inch; but it was enough for a master to take the short sword from a samurai's belt. Biting down on the pain in his calf, Hiko jumped forward with a sword in each hand, making the Serizawa lose his balance and fall. Both swords closed in on his neck like the jaws of a dragon. Then, a shrill cry cut through the three of them, sharper than any sword Hiko had ever known.
The old woman cradled rag doll of a boy dressed in a bloodied checkered kimono. A very still, very waxy dark-haired boy with glassy eyes fixed at nothing.
A soft "No" escaped the young man's lips next to him.
Hiko didn't know the checkered boy. He would never know him. And to be honest with himself, he didn't care all that much; whether he was good, bad or mediocre, it made no difference to him even if he was alive. But it no longer mattered. What did matter was the silent void the man felt at his back, where his very small, very pale pupil stared with limp, defeated arms.
"Heh, better dead than crippled."
The mountain of a man turned slowly. On the ground before him, he saw a smile that made his guts turn. It was as if the man was waiting for a response, a knowing gaze shared between two sensible men. Instead, Hiko's eyes darkened, the corners of his mouth tugged downwards by disgust.
"You are like worms," his voice rumbled, deep and powerful, like thunder, "feeding off the hollow guts of the weak for the coin of a few, all under the pretense of honor. Justice. Protection." Hiko leaned in, burying the rattle of the handguards in the ground at the sides of the man's neck, so as not to betray his poorly-restrained rage. "What honor is there in maiming the weak for a meal, huh? What justice in killing a kid?! Who were you protecting from a starving family?!"
"We're protecting people! Honest people!" skin clammy and brow still furrowed in pain, Serizawa retorted with complete conviction. "People who plow the fields and care for their family, who use their hands for something other than jerking off others or themselves!" His fingers could barely stitch together the widening gash in his stomach, but the bile that soaked every word made them almost caustic to hear. "We protect people who deserve to be protected!"
"Then you better pray those honest people are never outnumbered by those who don't deserve to be protected," the mountain of a man growled in response, his dark hair falling around the samurai's head like night itself, "lest you find yourself answering for all you've done to protect those who 'deserved' it."
Black eyes darted around under a furrowed brow, then almost came out of their sockets as those words took form in Serizawa's mind. Hiko's lips curved in a terrible smile: He knew the man could hear the whispers, feel the prying eyes close in around them. Peddlers, beggars, drunkards, whores… Serizawa realized that he was currently the only honest man in a sea of outcasts, scum that closed in from all sides. He swallowed, and the thick spit visibly dragged down his throat. "A revolt…" he muttered.
"Your words…" the tower of a man pointed out, eyes and blade pinning the disarmed bastard as he slowly stood upright. "Not mine."
The ringing sound of swords being unsheathed made Hiko snap back. More samurai? No, more sucklings playing god with sharp sticks, he thought, noticing their pimpled profile out of the corner of his eyes. Was the shogunate struggling so hard that it was now relying on those still nursing on their silver spoons? Still, it was enough to make any escape hard if not almost impossible in their current state.
Two of the wakashū broke formation, rushing towards Serizawa to help him stand—even if their help seemed to be less than welcomed by the prideful bastard,— while a third one gave a tentative step forward. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," the mountain of a man growled in return, but it was the bearded samurai next to the kid that stopped him from committing the last bad choice of his life.
"Mae—Maekawa-san…" Kamiya mumbled, almost a shadow of the brawny youth who had just grown a pair a second ago. The kid turned to the bearded samurai, hesitant… And this time, it was Hiko the one who stopped him before he did something stupid like lift his sword.
"Detain him," ordered Serizawa, finally perched on the two poor souls that dared to assist him. His voice sounded coarse, sunken; as if coming from the dark pit that now formed below his belt. Predictably, the bearded samurai obliged without skipping a beat, commanding his underlings left and right with barely more than a chin's jab. But the bastard wasn't done: "Detain all of them."
At least that made the men pause. Sharing confused glances, they suddenly looked all the more young, almost at a loss: Detaining the big bad guy who could break your arm without breaking a sweat was simple, obvious almost. But who else? The kid who many of them could have shared a toy with? Or the boy with an unfinished sword, looking as if a strong breeze could take him down?
"Serizawa-sensei…"
"Are you—?"
"Yes I am sure!" the wretch of a man jumped, knocking the two kids propping him up out of balance. "That backstabbing piece of shit attacked me too," he spat, throwing daggers at Kamiya, "and that half-bred brat… I want their necks on display for everyone to see."
Were it not for Maekawa's response, Hiko would have punched that bastard so hard he never even dared to look his stupid pupil's way ever again.
The bearded samurai studied Serizawa: the now deathly pallor of his flesh, the haunted look in his eyes, and specially the way too many ears were all too eager to follow what was really happening. The man took it all in before uttering a finely engineered response, delivering it with the most unintelligible expression. "You look tired, Serizawa-san. Tanaka-kun, Sato-kun, please take the Sensei back to his quarters."
However, to his displeasure, the stubborn man shook off the helping hands, the dignified exit that was laid for him, with no regard of what it would do to any of them: "… I'm not going anywhere. None of us are going anywhere until this is dealt with."
"Serizawa."
"A revolt!" the delirious man announced, "That man is organizing a revolt with whores and drunkards! With bandits and beggars! Look! He's already turned the spineless fuck!" he cried, desperately pointing at the Kamiya kid as if it were reason enough to comply.
"That's enough!" Maekawa roared, shutting him and everyone else up with shock. "Where is your head, huh?! Where is your dignity?! Did you leave that in the bar where you left your sword, your fealty to your lord and his people?!" the bearded man's hand instinctively went to his own short sword, the very symbol he was invoking, now missing from Serizawa's belt. He didn't wait for an answer before continuing: "Look at you, blabbering about rioting among simpletons who can't hold a sword without cutting their own arm! You drunk bastard, you're a disgrace to all of us. Take him!"
"And you two…" Maekawa added, his calculated inscrutable expression again masking his next words, "Ronin are not welcome in Otsu."
However much he hated the subtleties of social exchanges, Hiko Seijūrō the Thirteenth was not one to dismiss what was obviously an opening for them to make their escape. Nonetheless, he scoffed at the gesture and turned around—if anything, to shut up any complaints on the part of the Kamiya kid. "Come on, boy" he called to his pupil and started walking towards the old woman with the sun now hitting his eyes.
The mountain of a man knelt before the mourning woman. Alongside the valleys shaped by time, her face was now crossed by new ones carved by sorrow. "The pain of losing a child is only second to the one of losing a grandchild," he murmured as he tried to meet her eyes, and failed miserably. The pallor of the checkered boy's skin, the way his limbs,—what was left of them,—fell awkwardly over the woman's lap… He was going to be sick. Forcing the bile down, he made himself continue: "Let us take him to a place where he can rest."
Almost imperceptibly, the woman leaned forward in response; a silent agreement if he ever saw one. Taking his cape off in a flurry of white, red and gold, Hiko covered the small body before carrying it in his arms, cradling it as if it were his own son while the fine brocade turned red and black with blood.
They left without turning back, following the old woman in her procession to a quiet place; somewhere where the only sound would be the somber sobbing of the children clinging to her clothes.
• • •
"He's not—was not my grandson."
Surprised to hear the first words in about four hours, the mountain of a man turned to meet the old woman's eyes as she finished tending to the redhead's wounds. He wiped the sweat and dirt from his brow, and sat down next to the fresh mound of dirt. The afternoon breeze that rushed downhill through the woods felt like a balm on his skin. It was a nice place for a grave.
"I had no children of mine, you see, so…" the woman trailed off as her tired eyes seemed to go back to a time when the only marks in her skin were those from the harsh kiss of the sun. One of the children tugged at her clothes to smother their nose, bringing her back: "They just come to me when things at home are dire. And I can't turn them down," she admitted with a bittersweet smile, "Being a midwife, I brought some life to this world, but I've taken back almost as many… I guess I'm just trying not to go so deep into hell," she finished with a somber chuckle.
"That's a heavy burden you have," the man observed. "No wonder you're hunching so much," he joked; after all, both of them were at that point in life where they could make light of just about anything.
They bid the old woman and her brood farewell. She'd be staying low for a while, maybe find another place that plague or famine vacated some time before. And what of the children? She smiled. She couldn't turn them down, he remembered. And considering the young redhead he took in, Hiko was in no position to say anything about it either.
Night fell around them as they found a time-forgotten temple. Dust-laddered and almost falling apart—'just like their hut', the man was hoping to hear, but the snappy pupil he remembered was nowhere to be found. It was the child all over again: silently following him around, staring motionless at nothing whenever left at his own devices. The only difference was the quiet, suppressed whimpers and sighs he made now from the three broken ribs he had. Hiko passed him a soft-enough bundle of cloth he used to carry something to eat in his travels, dropped his cape unceremoniously and, with the help of his sword to sit down, burrowed in the furthest, darkest corner he could find. At least that way the boy wouldn't hear him move around and grit his teeth all night at the pain in his calf.
"'m sorry."
Second time caught flatfooted. He hoped it wouldn't become a habit.
The man lifted his gaze to the boy, still standing with the bundle of cloth in his hands with his head hanging low. He couldn't see the redhead's face, but the moon was bright enough outside to make out his outline. A sorrowful outline he had once seen cast in blood-red light. He shook his head, "Don't start," he cut him, matter-of-factly; "You start wondering what you could've done differently and you'll lose your mind."
"But what if—"
"You jumped in to save the kid. And from what that old hag said, he would've died anyway." A hungry kid in the midst of "His fate was such without your help, boy: Don't think yourself that grand that you being somewhere can make things that just 'are' change. You're just one boy…" He finished, and the weight of the words was made all that more heavier from experience.
That night, neither of them found comfort in sleep. In the silence of the shrine, thoughts were simply deafening. At first, Hiko was relieved when his pupil gave up on trying to sleep and started playing with the spinning top the man had whittled for him that first winter; but soon enough, the sound melted away in his mind and thoughts took over once again. He had been too soft on the boy; after all, life was ruthless. Unpredictable. Unjust. It was understandable to feel the weight of failure whenever lives slipped away between one's fingers, but to be so utterly crushed by it… The boy wouldn't survive the life that was ahead of him, wielding the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu as a single man in a world of pain. The man saw his small silhouette wipe its nose with its sleeve, its shoulders quivering in waves. A hollow feeling in his stomach made the man wince in response. Yes, he thought… he'd been too soft on them both.
He'd make sure it wouldn't be so any more.
Oh boy. Proud momma part 2.
his one is the final chapter of The Swordsman's tale. When I started working on it, I never thought it would be so... big. And heavy. And with so many characters and personalities and goals. I owe a lot of how this came up to my captive proofreader 3 And so many monologue-ish parts. Things that were a nice (and sometimes agonizing) challenge. I really hope you enjoy this and thank you so much for reading this far! And as always, let me know the good, the bad, and the "come on, you can do better".
PS: I'll also be reviewing the story so far to clean up some thingies based on your feedback.
Historical context
*pats the seat next to her* This will be a long onebr /
• Ishikawa Goemon miiiight have been real person...? most likely a fictional character: an outlaw that robbed from the rich to give to the poor. His story is a wild one, like everything else Japan was to offer, but we're talking ninja!RobinHood here. So Hiko went on a 4 month long, wild ninja-outlaw-hero bender with the excuse of getting the money to pay for Kenshin's sword. I'd insert a pause for dramatic effect but yeah, no wonder Shakkū gave a noble salute to our beloved /
• Not historical but geographical, the river Seta divided Otsu in two...? maybe? I couldn't make out the text in the edo period models of Otsu from google maps' pictures, so I ended up piecing together a mental map from different woodprints. Then I noticed I had been giving it waaay too much thought for a fanfic, and settled on "yes, that's the river that splits the town in two". I guess I'll go back and fix it if I ever go /
• As for the price of swords, yes. Long process of getting the metal ore (which wasn't actually a good quality metal, hence why they had to work around it and ended up creating an awesome sword), separating the soft from the hard metal, folding it over and over and over, shaping the sword and then betting all that work on the single moment you dunked the sword in water to cool it. Then everything could go to hell and you'd have to start from scratch, OR you actually get your sword, which then would go to a polisher to THEN have the pretty ray leather and metal carvings and all the finishing touches. I think I tried working the numbers at some point. But yeah, not cheap, and Hiko had to get money for that, staying alive and then giving to the /
• The coming-of-age ceremony or genpukku is mostly self-explanatory, but it marked the point where a Wakashū (10 to 19-year-old) was to be considered an adult. It moved around a lot based on whether there was a need for the kids to fight in a war or not, but then there were 80-year-old Wakashū, so... yeahp. Let's say it was like a quinceañera for the context of Hiko's intentions, shall we?br /
• Samurai! Finally, unlike Kenshin, Hiko actually knows what a samurai is. And they were very frustrated indeed: By the mid-1800's, peace time had lasted over 200 years. That's as if from the time of the industrial revolution onwards there were no significant wars or conflicts in the world. Imagine THAT. For the military though, it meant they had no reason to be. Most became part of the government structure, but others were adrift. If I'm not mistaken, they started to think about codes of conduct and stuff during peacetime only, but their privileges were born from wartime. I won't bore you any longer though, just think "very frustrated men looking for a reason to keep wielding swords and being awesome"br /
• Samurai (again) could be raised as such from the day they were born, they could be adopted, or they could be 'made' if they were very good at fighting. Serizawa is the first kind, Kenshin would be the second kind after he's taken in by Katsura. More on that /
• Metal fans. Were. A thing. An awesome thing, actually. I recommend Seki Sensei's video on them (I actually recommend the whole thing for anyone who's researching a martial art from the Sengoku period). If katanas were a backup and the wakizashi or short katanas were a backup of a backup, then these were the backup of the backup of the backup. But Serizawa seemed to be brilliant with them, so I HAD TO add them, ok? Great! Moving /
• Fighting was something samurai didn't really want to do, specially against commoners. They could kill someone who insulted them, but they had to prove they were terribly insulted. Otherwise, they were executed as murderers like anybody else. But once you started a fight, you couldn't let the commoner win and leave, that would be shameful. That's what Maekawa is dealing with: He doesn't want to lose face in front of the crowd, even if they were of a class lower than commoners. Rumors spread fast after all. So, his choice? Mark Hiko as a masterless samurai and swipe Serizawa under the carpet while they still could. More on that on ch. 10!br /
I may revisit this, but I'll let you go for now. Stay tuned and thank you!
