Ficathon Entry #4
Title: The Courage of Life.
Characters/Ships: Kunzite. Hinted M/K.
Theme: Every. Redemption.
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Angst, minor character death.
Summary: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” For Nagaishi Isamu the difficulty is not learning when to take the first step, but in learning to walk the path.
A/N: Okay so RISHI GETS ALL THE BLAME FOR THIS FIC! He fed me Rurouni Kenshin, and then there was a documentary about swordmaking.
1) Title name comes from the Kenshin quote, "You can die at any time, but living takes true courage."
2) This has spawned a verse so expect the other shitennou to be showing up eventually.
The early summer rains had given way to hot, humid weather. Steam rose from the wet asphalt, the air thick and heavy, pressing down and coating skin.
Nagaishi Isamu sat on the front porch of his father's shop, fanning himself with an ancient paper fan that had once been his mother's. Inside he could hear the wailing notes of a shamisen piping through the old record player, accompanied by the warbling drone of his father as he tried to relive the 'good old' kabuki days he never had.
“Father!” Isamu called. “You'll scare away customers with that noise.”
“There's no one to scare away!”
“Exactly,” Isamu muttered, looking up and down the empty street. The music stopped, and he was aware of his father's heavy footfalls, growing fainter as he entered the kitchen; Isamu could hear the faint sounds of rummaging and clinking glass.
After a moment the screen door burst open, rattling against the frame. A bottle of his father's precious orange Cheerio was thrust in front of his face, and he took it with a grateful nod.
“Breaking out the good stuff, hm?”
“Enjoy it while you can, these are the last of the bottles.”
Isamu sighed at his father, rolling his eyes. “Are the cans really so bad?”
“Yes!” his father laughed, unscrewing the cap with a carbonated hiss. He took a long swig, Adam's Apple bobbing. Using his thumb, he wiped the corner of his mouth. “I let the fires die for the day,” he said lightly.
Isamu snorted but didn't say anything, instead taking a sip of his drink, the orange flavor bursting on his tongue, bubbles tickling his nose.
“Not going to say anything?” his father prompted, like he was fishing for a fight.
“There is nothing to say that hasn't already been said.” Indeed there was not, he could yell at his father until he was hoarse; it wouldn't change anything. It never did.
“Did you finish the books?” his father asked after a moment.
“Yes, the numbers are still down.” Isamu sank a little lower in his chair and resumed fanning himself. It did little to cool him. He quirked an eyebrow, looking at the older man from the corner of his eye. “Did you expect different?”
His father sighed, “Isamu--”
“Don't,” he cut in. “It's the same thing every time and has been since I returned from University. I'm tired of it.”
“I just want you to understand this,” his father waved an arm wildly. “This is our heritage. Making swords is in our blood!” He pounded his chest.
“I know that, and I respect the tradition... our ancestors.” He sat down his drink and fan, turning to face his father. “But this is a new age, no one is looking for handcrafted katana anymore. If they want them they get them imported cheaply from other places. There are no more samurai, father; no ronin.”
“You don't understand.”
“I understand perfectly well, it's you who doesn't understand. Look around!” Isamu leaned forward. “Higashiyama-ku is dying; there are not commodities, no new residents, only elders, and they're dying too. The other wards are thriving, they rely on technology and automotives and agriculture, not ancient practices. I respect that you want to keep the art alive, but it can't be our livelihood. It can't be mine.”
“So you would leave? Go back to Kita-ku for work? Or would you leave Kyoto all together, maybe go to Tokyo?”
“I don't know what I would do! Or what I should do. But this is not the life for me, this is not what I'm supposed to be doing.... where I'm supposed to be!” Isamu shot to his feet, his head banging against the low awning. “See! I don't even fit here.”
Isamu stooped forward, rubbing the top of his head, and stepped into the street. He wasn't sure where he was intending to go, just anywhere that wasn't near his father.
“It's not my fault you're a giant.”
“Your genes, old man.”
“You get it from your mother's side.” Isamu snorted at his father's words and turned left, heading south down the street.
He walked for a long time, looking at store fronts and houses, the backdrop of tree covered slopes edging into the mountains. He loved his home, he truly did, but he had long since stopped feeling as if he belonged there. Even when he was away at University he could never settle.
Now he was twenty-five, lost, and doing his best to keep his family's business afloat. Sighing, shoulders slouching forward, hands in his pockets, Isamu headed back to the shop, and the tiny living space adjacent to it.
As Isamu walked up the street, approaching the shop, he saw his father's figure still sitting outside. As he drew closer, it looked as if his father had fallen asleep, his head lulled on his chest. Another few steps and Isamu realized his precious bottle of Cheerio had slipped from his fingers, the rest of the fizzy drink spilling on the wooden boards of the porch.
Isamu rushed forward, crouching at his father's side, shaking his shoulder. “Father? Father, wake up!”
* * *
After his father's death Isamu was left alone, even more lost than before. Several days later the weather was still unbearably hot, and he was again sitting out front of the shop, his mother's old fan in one hand and a can of orange Cheerio in the other.
His father had been right, the bottled soda was better.
“Excuse me?” A voice broke his thoughts and he looked up at the newcomer. He figured the stranger for an American, the blue eyes and blond hair out of place. “Are you Nagaishi Isamu?”
“I am,” he nodded. The stranger spoke fluent Japanese, no trace of a foreign accent. He was dressed in cargo shorts and a t-shirt, a pair of sunglasses on top of his curly hair. Isamu frowned. “If you're here about the auction, it's tomorrow in town.”
“I'm aware. May I?” He nodded toward the other chair. Isamu shifted a little in his seat, but nodded. The stranger pulled out the chair from against the wall and straddled it, his forearms balanced on the back. “I came to speak with you about a possible commission.”
“I'm not taking commissions.”
“That is a shame, I had heard that your family was the best.”
“My father was the best, I am not. If you truly want a Nagaishi made sword, you will have to bid in the auction.” Isamu snapped the fan shut and laid it across his lap, taking a swig of soda. Suddenly he wished it was sake. “It is a fine piece, my father's crowning achievement, I would say.”
“Yet you start the bids so low?” The stranger quirked a brow, tilting his head slightly.
“I only wish for enough to pay for the funeral arrangements. It was all I had,” he confessed quietly.
“I see. Well, I have a better idea. Why don't you keep the sword and take my commission.” The stranger grinned. “I can even offer you an advance.”
Isamu sighed, something about the stranger making him want to roll his eyes. “Is the Nagaishi name truly that important to you? There are many other fine swordsmiths throughout Japan, many of them from families just as old as mine.”
“I am well aware. In fact, my colleague and I have spoken to several of them, but we felt none of them were right for the job. You, on the other hand, I think were meant for this.”
“Look, I'm sorry--” Isamu frowned. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Oh, no need to apologize; I never properly introduced myself,” the stranger said, but made no attempt to correct anything. Somehow that struck Isamu as normal for the man.
The stranger continued to sit, blinking at him pleasantly, and Isamu gave a long sigh.
“I think I have the perfect plan, hm?” The stranger stood up and pulled a substantial wad of banknotes from one of his cargo pockets. “This is your advance, should be more than enough to cover burial costs and everything else for your father. And you get to keep the last sword he made. It's a win-win.” He grinned again, nodded, and turned around, his footsteps light as he descended the steps.
“I didn't agree to this!” Isamu called after him.
“You would've eventually, I'm just saving time.” Still walking away, the stranger waved one hand over his shoulder.
Isamu stood up, the money clutched tightly in his hand. “What's the commission?”
The stranger turned around slowly, walking backwards. His grin was irrepressible now. “One year, one katana. See you later!” He waved again, disappearing around the bend.
“I still don't know your name,” Isamu muttered to thin air. He looked down at the money in his hand, sucking his teeth while he thought. He supposed he had no choice, at least not now. Though he knew the stranger was right, he would have agreed eventually.
Stepping into the shop he reached for the phone, he had to call off the auction.
* * *
With a frustrated growl Isamu sent the blob of molten steel flying into the fires, coals and ash sparking up, flames surging before dying down again. He knelt on the mat by the forge and buried his face in his hands.
It wasn't right.
Nothing was right.
In the month following the stranger's visit, Isamu had been working long hours to start the blade. First he had attempted to finish one of the swords his father had been working on before he died, but those had resulted in failure. Now he was trying to heat the pieces of tamahagane, pounding them out to form the blade.
He glanced toward his father's last finished sword, mounted on the wall above the forge. He was trying to recreate it, copy it. He could practically hear his father telling him that wasn't how you made a sword; each one must be unique, each one must have a little piece of the swordsmith.
Lurching to his feet, Isamu made his way to the pile of tamahagane, the rough pieces of steel. He examined them all carefully, picking out only the best pieces. He vaguely remembered when he was a young boy and his father took him to the Shimane prefecture, to see the last tatara master in action.
It was a memory he hadn't pondered in years, but thinking back now, he remembered watching as the group of smelters lit the fires in the clay furnace, the tatara. For three days the master would watch the fires, carefully adding the satetsu for the perfect blend of iron ore and carbon, using nothing but his eyes and ears and years of practice.
Unbidden, he could hear his father's voice as they watched the master pick up a shovel full of the iron sand the region was known for.
”The satetsu is a rare gift from the earth; it is pure and strong. That is why they use it to make the katana; it is like the warrior's spirit.”
Isamu had always thought his father romanticized the samurai and the katana, but something about those words - ones he hadn't thought of in many years - seemed to have new meaning now. Standing, the small clutch of tamahagane in hand, he moved back to the forge.
He set about wrapping the pieces in cloth then covering it in a paste of clay and ash, to keep them from oxidizing in the fire. He stopped before he had finished wrapping the pieces. It didn't look right. He glanced toward his father's sword and heard his voice again.
”It's like a blessing, you write the haiku on the cloth and it will infuse the blade with the ideals of Bushido.”
Snorting, Isamu remembered the endless hours his father would have him practice his calligraphy. He stood again and went inside the house, a piece of cloth in hand. He went to his father's desk, pulling out ink and pen. He glanced at the sketches, the designs his father made for scabbards and blades. While the artistic part had never been Isamu's favorite, his skill resting more in the hard labor of forging given his strength and size, his father always said he'd had a natural gift.
He would worry about those things later.
Isamu sat down and thought about the haiku, what would infuse the ideals of Bushido? What did he want this blade to represent?
He thought and thought, but no words were forthcoming. Finally, he decided that the haiku was his father's way, and this had to be his way. Instead of putting down the simple lines he decided on the code of the Bushido;
Rectitude or Justice. Courage. Benevolence or Mercy. Politeness. Honesty and Sincerity. Honor. Loyalty. Character and Self-Control.
Isamu wrote slowly, making each character with precision and care. Finally, when the ink was dry, he rose from the desk and went back to the forge, kneeling down. He gently wrapped the pieces, wrapping them first in the cloth, then coating it with the clay, and finally dipping it in the ashes.
The tamahagane glowed red in the fires and he pulled it out, placing it on the anvil and hammering it out before it drew too cool to work with, welding the pieces all together. The lump slowly became a rectangular shape, then he took a small ax, making a groove in the middle and folding the piece over. He repeated the process all that day and into the next; heating, hammering, folding. Sixteen times, ensuring the carbon was spread out, the blade even and strong.
Sweat poured down his face, his shirt soaked through by the time he finished layering, but it was worth it in his mind. This was a good start. When he went to clean himself up he stared as his reflection for a long time, taking notice of the faint white streaks at his temples.
He snorted. Not even thirty years old and already going grey.
* * *
The days following Isamu's revelation were spent melding iron and steel together; the strong, hard steel to make the cutting edge, wrapping around the iron at the blade. Blending the two together, strength and hardness, made the katana what it was. Made it a warrior's tool.
As he carefully hammered it out, forming the tang, his father's words came back again. ”Like the warrior's spirit.” He was starting to understand what his father meant. The warrior trained and practiced for years, building layer upon layer, like the base of the blade. A true samurai was a blend of strength and fairness; his will unwavering, his honor never fading.
As the days continued on, carefully shaping the blade, he only then started to understand his father's fascination. He wish he had realized sooner.
It was several months after he had started, Isamu sat outside in the now overgrown gardens behind the shop, needing the daylight. The blade sat on a small display before him, at his side sat a jar of clay and charcoal powder. With a delicate hand he pasted the mixture onto the blade, following the line of the hamon, where the iron and steel met.
The work was intricate, precise; bringing out the natural artwork of the blade. The result when the finished blade was polished would show the skill of the swordsmith. No two hamon were the same, because no two swords were the same. Each blade was unique with its own soul.
When this was complete, the blade encased in the clay and ash - the line of the hamon darker than the rest - Isamu took it into the darkened forge. Judging by eye alone he reheated the blade to the correct temperature. He stoked the fires, the coals burning blue, watching the color of the blade until it turned red like the rising sun.
With a swift movement he pulled it from the fires and thrust it into the waiting troth of water, steam rising with a loud hiss. The quick cooling bent the blade where the clay was thinner, curving it into the familiar shape.
Lifting it out of the water, Isamu smiled for the first time since his father had died. This blade would be a fine blade; one meant for a true warrior. Then he frowned. He thought on the stranger, he wasn't sure this blade would fit him.
Of course the man had mentioned a colleague. Isamu wondered what type of person would associate with the careless blond stranger.
* * *
The rough polishing with a whet stone was easy for Isamu, clearing off the clay and following the ridges of the sword, the clear design that had been set in motion since he first started forging it. Along the tang he etched a design, the horimono, and did so without thinking; without careful planning.
His father would have stacks and stacks of drawings before finally deciding which one represented the blade best. But Isamu let his hands do the work, an inner voice guiding him. When he looked down at the finished etching he was surprised to find the beautiful, delicate curves of Morning Glory winding up the tang.
“So you will fulfill promises?” he whispered. “But what promises?”
Next came the detailed polishing that would take months to complete. Most swordsmiths outsourced this to masters of the art, but Isamu's father - and his entire family for generations - did this himself.
Each blade forged required a different set of polishing stones, a different method to reveal its heart. When it was finished one would see the swirling patterns of the awagane, the skin of the blade.
First Isamu sharpened it, with large, rough stones. He took his time, working his way down the line of polishing stones. On the last day he used the hazuya stone, the finest grade; the pieces little more than the size of a grain of rice.
Using just his thumb he polished along the line of the hamon, bringing it out, making it more noticeable. Even though his hands were steady and sure while he worked, his concentration unbreakable, he still cut his fingers and hands with the sharp steel. Still he continued on, uncaring of the pain.
It was when the blade was in the final stages of polishing, getting closer and closer to a finished state, that the dreams came. He was a warrior, proud and strong. Like the samurai, he was revered by the people. Rules and codes were his life, and he followed a man to whom he was honor bound. He loved a woman who walked the path of the warrior, just as honorable and fair. Then it was all taken, cast away by his own hand. He betrayed them all.
Isamu did not understand the dreams, and never pondered them over much for his own sanity.
Nine months after he had started the commission, the blade was completed. The finest he had ever made, finer than even his father's. He tested the strength of the blade, the sharpness. He did it for days, some strange desire overtaking him, he wished to learn every aspect of the blade.
Then it was time for the mountings, the final stage. Constructing the hand guard and all the fastenings to keep it tight, to keep the katana from slipping from the scabbard, and all the ornamentation that entailed.
Finally it was time to make the saya, the traditional wooden scabbard. Again it was usually something swordsmiths contracted out to carpenters, but not Isamu's family. Diligently he traced the outline of the blade onto the wood, ensuring it would be the perfect fit. It took him days to cut, shape, and sand the wood.
Then it was lacquered, the final color a rich ebony. On the saya he painted more Morning Glory, with bamboo stalks curving gracefully behind, the leaves intertwining with the flowers.
Strength of character and the will to fulfill promises. The sword was an interesting one indeed, and he found that he was starting to understand it.
* * *
On the one year anniversary of his father's death, Isamu went to his grave to pay his respects. He cleaned the gravestone, placed fresh flowers in the holders, lit the ceremonial incense and candles. He knelt there for a long while, letting the incense burn out before he spoke.
“I'm so sorry father, I thought I understood, but I didn't. I should have listened to you, the katana... the samurai. The way of the warrior and the swordsmith, I understand now.” He sighed and rose slowly. “I do not know when I will be back again, but I will return. I promise you that.”
He turned back home, the walk slow and painful as he let himself finally give into the grief he had been burying for so long. He did not weep until he had stepped over the threshold of the shop, memories assaulting him.
The next couple days he spent closing up the shop, putting out the fires, locking away valuables, and settling debts. He packed only the things he was sure he would need and nothing more. The finished katana in its gleaming saya was put inside a protective box, padded with wood shavings.
Then, exactly one year after the stranger had arrived and his journey had begun, Isamu set out for Tokyo. His hair was more white than black, and his shoulders heavy with a burden older than he could rightfully remember.
The journey of the body was nothing like the journey of the spirit, and he arrived in Azabu-Juban district with little trouble. He wasn't sure what lead him to the shrine, he had never been told how to contact the stranger, he just knew that was where he would find him.
Something told him he would find others as well.
The early morning was already overly warm as he climbed up the seemingly endless steps. He stopped several times, telling himself it was to cool down in the heat, but it was more to calm his nerves than anything. Finally he crested the top of the steps, looking at a sprawling courtyard. Trees lined either side, the shrine an impressive monument in the center.
Sitting on the steps that led to the main portion of the shrine, Isamu saw the stranger looking out of place in traditional blue hakama and white haori. His skin seemed even darker, tanned to a deep bronze, his hair lemon yellow in the morning sun.
He jumped up, still light on his feet. All of his movements, even rolling his neck, spoke of a fluid, graceful power. Looking at the stranger's grin, so wide and carefree, Isamu realized how restrained he had been when they first met, on edge.
“Well, you made it. Right on time.” He bowed, still grinning. “Why don't you come inside? We've been waiting.”
“We?” Isamu arched an eyebrow, his grip on the katana box tightening.
“My colleague and I... he's very excited to meet you.” He nodded toward the shrine and turned, walking up the steps. Sighing at the back of the stranger's head - how was it still didn't know his name? - Isamu followed slowly, entering a long a hall.
“So the hair is a nice touch,” the stranger said over his shoulder. “Very commanding.”
“It's... stress?”
“Sure, stress.” By now they had made it to the end of the hall. The stranger grinned again and yanked open the screen, walking inside. “May I present Nagaishi Isamu,” he said, spreading his hands. The stranger moved to the left side of the room, falling in line with a beautiful young miko.
“See,” he whispered to her. “I did good.”
Her only response was to roll her eyes.
Isamu turned his attention away from the couple, looking at the man standing across from him. He was tall, lanky, and good looking with familiar blue eyes.
“Hello, Nagaishi-san. Thank you for coming. I'm Chiba Mamoru.” He bowed respectfully and in that moment a hundred feelings assaulted Isamu. Fervent dreams he had been ignoring became memories, crashing upon him like waves breaking against the shore.
He crashed to his knees, kneeling before this man - his prince. Frantically he opened the box and held up the katana, head bowed.
“This blade is the finest of the Nagaishi family. It is fit for the bravest samurai.” He finally looked up. “Fit for the mightiest warrior.”
“Do you realize it is not for me?” Mamoru asked.
“I do, but it wasn't until this moment. I realize now it was meant for me. But I am no samurai, I am not a warrior. I am not worthy of this blade because I have dishonored you, and my vows,” Isamu said, words tumbling from his mouth. “I shamed all that I stood for, all that I loved. This blade, as a true samurai blade, should carry out the Bushido code. It sh-should deliver my death - by Seppuku.”
Mamoru took a deep breath and stepped forward. “No,” he said as he gently took the blade from Isamu's hands. He unsheathed the katana, the dull wooden sound seemed unnaturally loud to Isamu's ears.
“This is truly a fine blade.” His eyes looked over the Morning Glory and bamboo winding across the saya, and the flowers along the tang. “This katana was not made to kill; it was made to protect. You have died already for your sins, that is not why I sought you out.”
Returning the blade to its sheath, Mamoru presented Isamu with the katana. “Please stand?”
Isamu did as he was asked, slowly, his legs weak under the crush of memories and guilt. He took the katana, gripping it tightly with both hands and looked at Mamoru.
“Won't you test it?”
“No,” Mamoru shook his head. “There was never any need to test the blade, only the man who forged it. The making of the katana was the start of your journey; your path to walk.”
“We all have a path!” The stranger - Jadeite, a voice in his mind hissed - said cheerfully. “All the paths are different though, and some of us are still walking.” He grinned at the miko. “While others are just a bit lost.”
“Thank you for the interruption, Joao.” Mamoru sighed.
“Anytime, boss!”
Mamoru sighed, shaking his head. “Do you understand, Isamu? You're not supposed to die, you're supposed to live.”
“I'm not sure that I know how.”
“Then you'll learn.” Mamoru smiled widely and clapped Isamu on the back.
“He's staying then!?” A voice called from behind Mamoru, and for the first time Isamu noticed a tiny blonde woman seated on the floor. She bounced up and raced forward, stopping inches from him, brows creased. She made a face, looking him up and down. “Always so tall!” she pouted.
“Maybe it's just that you're always so short?” Joao said, coming up behind the young woman and patting her head for emphasis.
“So mean!” She swatted his hand away, but was laughing nonetheless.
Mamoru laughed as well and wrapped an arm around the woman's waist. “Isamu? This is Usagi, my wife.”
“Princess.” He bowed to her.
“I'm glad you made it.” She smiled up at him. “Mamochan has been missing you all terribly. We're still searching for the others, only Joao as turned up.”
“He was always impatient,” Isamu said with an undignified snort. A thought struck him as he looked at Joao next to the miko. “My journey is not over yet, there is more I need to do. Will she see me?” He turned to Mamoru and Usagi.
“She needs time,” the miko said. “I hope you will respect that.” She cast Joao a shrewd look, he merely grinned in return, and she rolled her eyes again.
“I will. Thank you Mar--” he caught himself.
She smiled at him, serene and polite. “Hino Rei.”
“Thank you, Hino-san.”
“Come along, you've had a long journey. Let's go get something to eat and discuss things.” Mamoru again placed a hand on Isamu's shoulder, smiling encouragingly.
“I would like that.”
The group had just stepped outside when a voice echoed up the steps.
“Minako! Slow down, Ami-chan can't keep up in the heat.”
There was no reply to the request, instead a blonde head appeared at the top of steps, followed by a beautiful face full of determination. Her steps were quick and purposeful, almost angry, her pale yellow summer dress swishing with the movements, drawing Isamu's attention to the Morning Glory pattern. She crossed the courtyard to the group, stopped and gave him a once over.
He opened his mouth to speak, whether to introduce himself or foolishly apologize he wasn't sure, he just felt the need to say something. However, she spoke before he could even form a thought.
“I know who you are Nagaishi Isamu,” she said brusquely. “Your master has tested you, I assume you passed since you're all standing here.” Her eyes flickered first to Mamoru, then to the blade at Isamu's side.
“I do not believe it was an exercise to be failed or passed. It simply was.” Isamu stood straight, trying to hide his unease.
“Hm,” she breathed. Two more joined the group at that moment, but Isamu barely spared them each a glance. The woman before him keeping his full attention.
“Well, I have a test for you as well.” It was then he noticed the box in her hands as she shoved it toward him, the contents rattling. “Reforge that blade, then we may talk.” She gave him a long look, eyes searching his, challenging, before she turned on her heel and left in a flourish of buttery blonde hair.
Isamu looked down at the contents of the box and frowned. Even though the shards were scattered, the shape of the blade - the design - was clear to him. He knew this blade, knew the bite of it. It was strong and unlike any other blade he had ever seen, in any lifetime. Which suited her, she was unlike any woman he had ever met. He was aware of Mamoru stepping next to him, head bent to examine what was inside.
“Can you repair it?”
“Repairing a blade is a dangerous things, you can compromise the steel or lose its soul.” He sighed and look up to meet Mamoru's eyes. “However, it doesn't appear I have much of a choice. May I return home?”
“Of course. Do what you must, we'll be here. But, please, keep in touch?”
“I will.” He nodded. “Once I am finished with this blade, I will return and finally complete my journey.”
~~ Owari ~~