Chapter summary: The ronin, who has wandered far and wide in search of peace, finally returns home.
beneath the sakura
There were few left in the world who could claim to have seen the ronin's true face, as he wandered the world with his features hidden by a mask of worn steel and the perpetual grin cut into the metal. Although his earth-tone cloak and the scarf wrapped comfortably around his neck were simple, patched and faded from use and time, and though the wide-brimmed conical hat of woven straw might have suggested humble origins, it would have taken a miracle for a man of such means to come across the blade which adorned his back by chance. Unlike his mask, the ronin's strange and deadly possession was perpetually polished, the leather of its hilt cared for and regularly repaired.
When asked about the katana, the ronin would merely dip his head, and with a smile in his voice, claim that it was a family heirloom, one which he was not quite ready to part with.
It was after many years of travel that the ronin found himself once more in the country of his birth. None recognized his visage, and he offered his name to none, insisting that he was merely a wanderer, and thus would be gone as swiftly as he had come.
The villagers accepted this, for they knew better than to question the presence of strangers in their midst, as fate had a tendency to smile upon hospitality. It was while the ronin was watching the village children play in the muddy dirt road after a rain shower that one of the women told of how there had been a time, not so long ago, when the villagers had been too frightened of the bandits roaming the countryside to let their children stray from their homes.
Humming softly, the ronin nodded without comment, remembering the lawless chaos that had descended upon the land and its people, the burning and the pillaging.
The fear.
Whispers reached his ears of a guardian spirit, an Oni that chased away the bandits, and brought good fortune to the villagers. Some believed that the creature had been a lost samurai once, others a man blessed by the gods. It was said that the came when he committed an act so terrible that the gods twisted their blessing into a curse, thus forever denying him peace. Whatever its origins, it was generally agreed upon that the youkai meant them no harm, and so its was left to its own devices, though the villagers would leave it offerings of rice and sake from time to time.
"And do you believe these stories?" The ronin often asked, to which most would reply that they did not know. Yet for a decade their crops had flourished, their weather remained perpetually fair, raiders and thieves shunned their land. It was clear that they had fallen into the favor of some manner of spirit, in which case, it would be folly to ignore its gift.
He was pointed in the direction of a field of cherry blossoms, each of them healthy and blooming with a beautifully rich hue, despite being out of season. He settled down with a bottle of plum wine at the base of one such tree, where he carefully placed a pair of shallow cups upon the ground, then watched as the petals at his sides lifted and swirled in a gentle gust.
"Are you sure you should be out here alone?" The ronin raised his head to see a man looking down at him, the side of his mouth quirked in an amused half-smile. He was dressed in traditional garments, a dark kyudo gi patterned with clouds and lightning, and a golden ribbon that tied back his raven black hair. "There are rumors," the man continued, his gaze rising to settle on the preternatural abundance of flowers falling steadily from the branches stretching over them, "that an Oni wanders these parts. It is said that they will consume anything in their path," dark eyes glittering, he raised a brow at the tokkuri brimming with good sake, "especially those unwary enough to drink in solitude."
Huffing a quiet laugh, the ronin held up a cup and replied, "Is that so? In that case, why don't you join me?"
Several emotions flitted across the man's face, each of them shut down and stomped out before they could be fully formed, leaving an eerie blankness in their wake, before he at last settled beside the ronin with a sigh, and accepted the cup that was extended to him. A single petal floated lazily down to land in the center of the clear liquid. The man considered it for a moment before sampling a taste of the alcohol. It was wonderfully fresh.
His own beverage untouched, the ronin observed, "Your new appearance suits you."
The man stiffened, his back and muscles going rigid, the grip around his cup nearly crushing before he forced himself to relax, and even then, the ronin could still make out the crimson streaks beneath his eyes, the shifting and shuddering of his pupils, the pale snakes curling around his bicep.
"You know well that it is an illusion."
The Oni rose to his feet, refusing to even look at the ronin or the metal mask he wore, but hesitated when a hand shot out to grip his sleeve, and a plaintive voice asked, "Then will you show me your true face?" In his mind's eye, the youkai could perfectly imagine the ronin's expression in that moment, knew that it was a mixture of desperation, pleading, and hope, a combination towards which he was exceptionally weak. Gradually, the natural stain of flesh melted from his limbs, revealing the blue of a starless night, the sheen of a raven's wing. The azure dragon on his bicep shivered before erupting into a crimson Oni, its large and imposing figure wreathed in the serpents glimpsed before, and the ribbon fell, fluttering to the ground as his long hair broke free of its binding to cascade down his back.
When the transformation was complete, the ronin was surprised to find himself feeling glad for the mask he wore, as he doubted he would have been able to conceal his shock otherwise, yet even with pupiless eyes lit by moonlight, it was the tentatively open and vaguely apologetic expression the youkai wore, which was so unmistakably human, that truly took the ronin's breath away.
As time passed and the ronin remained silent, the Oni's features gradually hardened, becoming rueful and shuttered. He moved to pull away, his form already growing vaporous and indistinct at the edges. When the ronin attempted once more to hold onto him, his hands passed fruitlessly through the youkai's limbs, as they broke into incorporeal clouds at his touch.
Choking on a mournful cry, he plunged his palms into the cool mist, "You are my brother still, anija." The youkai's milky white gaze bore into him, searching his soul for the truth of his words, but the ronin did not shirk from it. Instead, he ripped the metal mask from his face, making visble not only the scars that he bore, but the determined set to his jaw, the steely resolution in his eyes. "And I am still yours. This does nothing to change that."
And the youkai's gaze gentled, at once familiar and foreign with a remembered fondness and an ancient sorrow, "I thought you might say that." The wind blew once more, stronger and fiercer than before. It plucked the petals off the ground and from the boughs, filling the ronin's vision with spots of pink and white as he struggled to keep his eyes open, but when the gale ended, the ronin discovered that he was once more sitting alone at the base of the cherry tree, his lap covered in a layer of blossoms, as though he had merely dreamt of the encounter.
When he bent to retrieve his cups, however, he noticed that one of them had been emptied recently, as a petal clung to its sake-slicked bottom, while the other, his own, remained untouched. It was not until he moved to stand that he felt the shift of fabric brushing his shoulder, and reached up to touch the smooth texture of the golden ribbon tied in his hair.
A/N: So, Halloween is coming, huh? I was hoping to get one more ghost story posted, but it seems like I'm not going to have time before the end of the month, so I hope you all have a wonderful Halloween. Dress up, eat candy, and get scared :) Have a great time!