Glossary:
Senbei: Japanese rice crackers often offered to guests.
Haori: A coat-like outer garment, like a kimono worn over a kimono, but shorter.
Hanten: Padded haori-like garment for winter months.
Bokutō: How people call wooden swords in Japan.
Masamune of Yotsuya: Minamoto Kiyomaro, one of the most popular swordsmiths during the period. Love that story.
Amaterasu: The goddess of the sun in Shinto religion.
-san: Honorific to refer politely to anyone who is not a close friend nor someone above your station.
THE SWORDSMITH
He woke up before the sun had even risen, when the sky and the snow-draped landscape emitted a faint, eerie glow that dispelled the night. It was the time when the freezing air blurred the edges of the world at the corner of his eyes, the time when just the earliest of trills disturbed the drowsy stillness. Well, that and the terse sound of sake being poured before dawn; but this simply heightened its perfection. Hiko sipped once, twice... He closed his eyes, taking the deepest of breaths: It had been a long while since he could enjoy the serenity of that mountain without the poignant clack-clack of wood against wood from a boy's frenzied race to become stronger. And, having made his mind the night before, it might well be the last time he'd enjoy it.
He waited until the first rays of sunlight hurt his eyes before standing up, the now empty jug left aside on the ground like a marker: 'This is Hiko Seijūrō the Thirteenth's spot, beware,' or something like that. He shook the thought with a smirk and leaned in at the entrance of the hut. In the dark, he could hear the quiet, mouse-like rattle from Kenshin, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
"Come on, boy, we'll be leaving for a while" The mountain of a man announced. It wasn't that rare an occurrence: in the past three years they'd come and gone a few times asides from the periodic (and mandatory) rice-and-sake run. It all boiled down to the mountain's moods: If a winter was too harsh for the hut's hearth, or a summer too stifling for comfort, they'd pack up and leave for greener pastures. This showed in the redhead's lazy response, in the way he reached for his three most precious belongings without skipping a beat: His bokutō, a crude spinning top that he whittled for him on his first winter (not out of the goodness of his heart, but because the boy would drive him nuts otherwise), and that weird, old, dirty, and honestly a bit smelly kimono he found the redhead in. The rest, it seemed, could burn for all he cared. Speaking of which…
"You're still wearing that thing?" he scoffed as Kenshin put the kimono on: It was now too short to wear as intended, but still too long on him to be a haori or hanten. Moreover, the moths had done a number on it, eating away at the intricate patterns along the hems. Moreover, "It's one step from rotten" he observed, pointing with his at the black dots eating away part of the elbow.
Hiko learned then that the youth, too, could wield a magnificent stink eye.
About an hour of 'spirited disagreement' later, they finally left, heading towards the valley with both their prides still sore. It wasn't until they were halfway there, as they emerged from the forest to a stone-stepped bend that seemed to dive into the valley, that Kenshin (finally) forgot all about his pride: He darted off like a flurry of red hair amid the stark black-and-white grove, the rapid crunch of snow startling other travelers as he wove his way towards the road's end. There, the boy gaped in awe. Before him, Lake Biwa sprawled further than the eye could see, peppered with sailboats and flanked by rows of tiny roofs and ghostly hills.
Ah, true: Hiko hadn't favored the scenic route while traveling with the redhead. He preferred skipping any checkpoints with the boy under his care, opting for the women's roads or cutting through the forest with the excuse of training. It was good way avoid any paperwork or the eventual unwelcome situation with a 'fellow traveler'. Hence the puppy-like reaction, the man reasoned. He couldn't help smirking at the gaggle of perturbed merchants the boy left behind, picking up their goods among picturesque curses in hopes to continue trudging along the path in peace. Well, we have some time in our hands, Hiko conceded, and soon joined the boy with a steamy baked sweet potato, splitting it in two.
"We're going there" Hiko commented as if on passing, pointing at a tight pack of snow-dusted roofs down on the closest bank. He was glad the boy couldn't tear his eyes away: he almost laughed at how the redhead leaned in on his tippy toes, fingers gripping the edge of the guardrail—which was, truth be said, little more than a polite request not to jump off the mountain. The man bit his lip and hid behind his piece of the sweet potato, gazing into the distance as if absorbed by a definitely-serious thought. In truth, he was wondering what the boy's reaction would be were the man to take him to a Kabuki play, with all the colors and voices and whatnot… But then again, Hiko wouldn't have the chance for a while, would he? His smile faded.
"An old friend lives there, a good one," the man started, leaning onto the guardrail next to Kenshin, "He's a swordsmith, the best I know." He preferred to omit the part where it was the only one he personally knew, but even if he wasn't the only one, Hiko had to admit the bastard knew enough about Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu to craft the best swords possible for its specific techniques.
The boy's eyes gleamed for a moment, but soon enough, that cynical side of him popped up like it usually did—to annoy the crap out of Hiko, that is. "Why?"
"… You need a sword—ugh, a real one" the man added when the redheaded smart-pants pointed at his battered bokutō.
"Can't we just take one from a bandit or something?"
"Not if you like your shoulders where they are now" the mountain of a man growled. It was times like those, when that brat came up with all the buts and know-all retorts, that Hiko asked himself why he took him in on the first place. "Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu is extremely taxing; the speed and force you need would break you if you use anything but a sword tailored for you."
Kenshin's eyes narrowed—as did his,— skepticism brewing below. But just as he braced for a heated debate, the redhead looked away. He subtly rolled his small shoulder, brow frown in discomfort. Finally: at least Hiko had won that battle.
There was a slight detail though…
"You'll be staying with him for a while."
The man hadn't even finished when the boy jumped at him, blurting something between a 'Why' and a 'No'. Kenshin frowned at the plead in his own voice, and the guardrail shook under his small fists as he reeled himself in: "Master! Why—?!"
"You can't make it, boy," Hiko underscored with a severe edge on his words. He could see his pupil's eyes they had cut deep into his frail pride; the one he'd been building for three whole years with the sweat of his brow and the calluses in his small hands. Pushing down a knot in his throat, the man continued: "You can't make it. The trip alone you could barely keep up with, even now. Not to speak of facing any actual threat on the road: A bokutō is barely passable even to train with, let alone fight against a rōnin."
"Then why are you teaching me at all? If I'm so weak—"
"True, you can't make it with your strength alone. We tried that, you're simply not built for it. So you'll have to do with speed, with wits," the boy raised his gaze, lips parted by hope. "—And yes, I know you can weasel out from just about anything while we spar… I meant the speed in there," the mountain of a man poked the boy's forehead.
"I can train your body, but not that small head of yours," he continued, "That's something you'll have to do on your own. And I know it will be harder: pushing yourself to be faster than anyone else, read any and every move and attack in the blink of an eye. But that's the only way you can do it."
His pupil's shaky breathing betrayed his struggle to control the hurt, the anger, the hope. Hiko grimaced.
God damned.
"Look, it's only if he agrees to take you in. If not…" the boy lifted his gaze, expectant but not yet convinced. "I haven't seen him in a long while, so…"
"Ok," Kenshin interrupted, red-nosed and with determination flaming in his eyes, "If not, I'm going with you."
• • •
Down in the valley, a pair of coins clinked their way into an offering box, their sharpness contrasting with the heavy, dull sound of the bell. Two bows, two claps, and the promise to offer the best sword he'd ever forge to the gods… Someday, at least. Arai Shakkū wasn't the "fear the gods" type of guy, but one thing he learned not to test was Luck. Plus, anything to keep his very pregnant wife as content as possible. He bowed once more and set out to return home before noon, but not without first stopping by to get his fortune. Resolute, he approached the wooden drawers, again making the mandatory offering, and shook the capricious wooden box of fate. With the inconspicuous numbered stick in his hand, he reached for the corresponding drawer and closed his eyes. He needed a good fortune—please be a good one—perhaps luck in business? Oh, or a smooth delivery, that'd be good too…
"Blessing!" He chimed, eagerly skipping the tedious poem to get to the essential part: "A person being waited for?" That was odd. He shrugged off the thought, his lips curving upwards: Oh well, better buy some sanbei on the way home.
With the fortuitous snacks crackling carefree in their package, he strode further and further into the outskirts of the town. He didn't mind the walk, you could even say he enjoyed it as long as he was as far away as possible from the bustling streets; more so with the ever present threat of being branded a traitor hanging over the heads of any poor bastard that happened to look sideways at the wrong guy. And then, there was cholera. The fires. The floods. The earth itself trying to shake anyone and everyone off its back. Was it enough to live "far"? How "far" was far enough? There were even rumors of more to come just a day's walk away and… Despair stopped him in his feet just as a heavy block of snow smashed the hell out of the ground before him. He blinked.
And cackled.
He was being silly, no doubt about that: He would already have been dead ten times over if the gods weren't smiling upon him that day. And he got a blessing fortune on top of that! There was absolutely nothing to worry about… He would soon learn that was a perfect example of speaking too soon.
"What the—Seijūrō, 's that you?" He hollered at the absolute beast-of-a-man next to his wife. The man smirked back, and at that moment Shakkū would be damned if he had any more doubts about who that was: "You fucking bastard! C'mere!"
When was the last time they had seen each other? They must have been what, ten, twelve years old? And yet time was but a joke: Hiko was still the smug, rowdy rascal with a pennant for justice that got Shakkū into more troubles than that guy was worth. But boy, the tales he got in turn… He'd be lying if he didn't admit he wanted a son just to tell him all about the legend of how they both fought against the son of a bitch that bled their village dry. It was him who inspired Shakkū to work his ass off as an apprentice-swordsmith instead of giving up and turning tail when shit hit the fan. It was during that time that he became friends with his master's daughter. And then more than friends. And there he was. More than gods, he owed his fortune to that man. And that bastard had finally come to collect.
"You what?!"
"I need you to take the boy in for a while."
Still dumbfounded, Shakkū took a second look at the red-headed kid that had been glaring at him from behind the man's back. Shakkū's wife, blessed be her heart, had charmed him enough to put some air between them and the kid; so much so, that the brat was invested in showing his wife how to beat the crap out of an imaginary-someone's butt with the crudely crafted bokutō he carried around in his belt.
"Hell no."
Whatever debt he owed Seijūrō, he wasn't about to adopt a kid for who-the-hell-knows how long. He was about to be a father, for gods' sake! And no matter how skilled Shakkū was at sword-making, he'd need an outright war to break even after freaking Masamune of Yotsuya and his copycats took the market by storm. Then there was the boy himself: from the very tip of his impossibly red hair, to his garbs and the calluses in his hands, that kid just spelled 'trouble'. And that wasn't any time to be looking for more of that.
"Look, he'll work for you for free," Seijūrō insisted at his wits' end, "I just need a couple of months."
And months at that! "Yeeeah: 'Bet it's for some noble cause that has nothing to do with 3 years of blue balls."
For the first time in his entire life, it took Seijūrō a second to react. His eyebrow shot up as he wielded his best winner face: "Don't underestimate the power of single-handedly mentoring a cute kid."
"… Wha—?"
"They got me sweets," the kid interrupted, evidently having followed the conversation much closer than he let out. Munching down the last senbei—had Seijūrō even taught him manners? Of course he didn't,—he flushed as all the grown up's eyes fixed on him. But just about then, a gentle "Is that so?" of his wife was enough for the kid shake it off, and he continued: "We'd go to a place, chat with some women, show me around and everyone would go 'cuuute'," he mimicked, and Shakkū didn't know whether he was laughing out at the story or at a freaking kid mocking a bunch of smitten women.
With a not-so-innocent snicker, his wife reprimanded: "My, what have you done to this kid, Hiko-san?"
"See? He needs a mother" the man smirked, preemptively shutting the boy up, now positively glaring at him, with a heavy pat in the head. Although that only served to work him up even more.
Catching a heated but incredibly well-directed hit of the bokutō with one hand, Seijūrō stood up: "I wouldn't be asking you if I had a choice, Shakkū. The kid needs a sword, and they don't come for free."
Sobering up, the smith crossed his arms trying to get a hold of the anger that started to well up in his guts: A kid just wasn't supposed to genuinely need a sword in the first place. But if his friend's words had any weight to them, it was obvious that the world had had something entirely different in mind for that boy.
Now it was his turn to stand up as his tongue clicked with bitter reality: "Four months" the kid's eyes shot up—that bastard must have said he'd take him with if the smith said 'no,'—and it was now his wife's turn to hush the boy with gentle hands on his shoulders. "Do what you have to do and get your ass back here in one piece." He tapped his friend's chest with a white-knuckled fist: "I'll have that sword ready for you."
"Then I'll better be ready to pay-up."
As if he were the hero of his own epic, Seijūrō turned, his ridiculously flamboyant travel cape billowing around him. He started to walk away towards the setting sun—the freaking. Setting. Sun.—He embodied gallantry like that, so much so that even Amaterasu had orchestrated the sky as his stage that evening… As over-the-top as it was, Shakkū couldn't tear his eyes away: Years of lived adventures assured him of the man's strength, and yet this was not longer the same people, the same country they had known. Something was brewing. Something that would shake it like nothing else since times past.
"–ear… Dear!" His wife's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, a polite smile that was just a tad bit too stiff. "Why don't you two go get some wood for the hearth?"
Shakkū blinked, unsure if he was still too out of it. He leaned to the side to check the pile of logs and branches and twigs neatly arranged against the wall of the house, just barely brushed by last night's snow. "But we still got—"
"Then go get some more, will ya dear?" she cut, and a furtive elbow hit him right between the ribs. She pushed the boy an inch closer to him, whose eyes were still fixed on Seijūrō's back. Oooh…
"You'll be a hell of a father, Shakkū!" he heard the man holler over his shoulder before turning back to the road, for good this time. The bastard, he'd teach him. Some day.
Ok, proud momma here: I defend the 5-chapter rule, so if this one was not to your liking, I won't waste any more of your time with my rambling; I sincerely doubt I can come up with something better than this one. I'm truly sorry if I let you down in /*insert a deep bow here*/.
For any that did like this, first of: i love you so much and you make my day~ Second: I had so much fun writing uncle and aunt Arai. And don't worry, she does have a name; it's just it weirded me out whenever I tried to use it from Shakkū's POV, them being a couple and whatnot. You're in deep trouble if your loved one calls you out by name. IMHO.
Third! Let me know you'd like to hear the tale of Young Hiko. I plan to write it at some point (because Ainuverse), but I feel I still have a lot to learn to make it any justice.
Thank you very much for reading!
[Dec 14] Made some small adjustments and will be adding glossaries and historical notes to the chapters. I try to limit foreign words, but sometimes there's just no good alternative.
Historical notes:
• Apparently, winters in the Kansai region are milder. It doesn't snow as much as Kanto or other regions to the north.
• When praying in Shinto shrines, you're not supposed to make a wish, but a 'thank you' promise if I understood correctly. Hence Shakkū basically promising he'll be a very good swordsmith, enough for his sword to serve as an offering.
• There is a very beautiful illustration of what the pre-war and war years were, with prices of stuff and everything. Apparently, 1858 was an awful year to be alive: Cholera epidemic, Earthquakes in Edo and their subsequent fires... Not god at all.
Masamune of Yotsuya became so popular that many others copied his work and tried to sell under his name.