Chapter Text

People can't be saved so easily.

All his life, he knew it was a lost cause. To work day and night without hoping to ever redeem himself. To spend everything and to gain nothing for helping people. To watch your help become just another evil for them. Wasn’t it better to help the dead? At least they can’t be harmed more than they’ve already been. A dead man helping dead men… His was a mockery of existence.

“You still want to get out?”
“I want.”
“Why?”

Thud, thud of the wooden stave against the mass of rock and soil. Stubborn, persistent. Trying to fight his way out of the blocked cave. “Why...?”

He stands before another blockage now, the flames creeping up his clothes, and thinks of the boy whom he has barely managed to help to escape. But the fire is spreading around them, fast and unstoppable, about to touch yet another body—that of a boy even younger than Hyakkimaru. The boy is still alive. A tear is making its way out of his closed eye, diluting the blood on his cheek. Its clear trail is glistening like a thread of silver.

Jukai flinches. The stinging pain in his right shoulder bursts out suddenly, reminding him that he is a living human, too. His sense of pain is there to induce him to fight for his life. His eyes are there to look for the way out. His limbs are there to act on it.

He slaps the fire off his sleeve, shuddering from the severe pain.

“Because it's mine.”

Hyakkimaru gave him the simplest of answers that day, but the amount of feelings he could not express was there, palpable in the very tone of his voice. I want to live because it's my life. It was given to me. I want to be alive.

The boy lying on the floor, his bleeding face buried in his mother's lap, wants to be alive, too. He isn't serene. He isn't complete. If anything, he looks terrified. He isn't willing to just meet his end here, smiling at the face of death. But now, he can't help it any better than the little child in the boat could.

People can't be saved so easily.

No one says it will be easy. “My lady, is there another passage leading out of this castle?”

“Huh?” the woman looks up at him, her dreamy face confused as if she was suddenly awakened.

…If the limbless, faceless, helpless child the river brought to him that day was the answer he had been seeking, that answer was as simple as live till your last breath. The child was never going to give him another one. He had been teaching him the same lesson every day, over and over, his whole life. Stubbornly and persistently. Now, Jukai understands.

You can't become someone's salvation. But you can, at least, clear a path for them to continue to walk and seek it. Seek it within themselves. Jukai believes that Hyakkimaru will find it. After all, his adopted son has been proven right: there is someone who will stay by his side whatever happens.

This young boy, his brother, whose features are so like and so unlike his, should get his chance, too.

As well as his mother.

He grabs the kid from her lap and lifts him onto his shoulders. The woman is clinging to her son, her face terrified as if Jukai were trying to snatch him from her. I will, if this is what I must do to make you fight. She feels horrible remorse, too, for something Jukai can't really grasp right now, but he can sense this much.

“Death won't simply make everything right,” he says. “We have to live on and work hard for it. Let’s find another passage. If there is none, I’ll just fight our way through this burning pile with these very hands.”

~The story of flowing water~

There was another passage: down below, on the lower level of the burning castle where they had hardly managed to descend. But it was easier to breathe there, as all the smoke was lifting up and gathering above. Sometimes, they had to climb over the obstacles, sometimes to work their way through the piled-up debris. The lady had to remove the scorched, still glowing beams with her small white hands. Her face was strained with pain, but her movements were getting sharper and stronger with determination. Her features turned so much like those of her son on the day when he had refused to give up. Thud, thud of the wood against the stone. Why? Because it’s mine. I will kill every last demon and get it all back!

He did.

They did it, too, barely a moment before the castle collapsed.

~

The water was there each time he gave up. If he no longer had a direction to walk, the flow would take over and show him one. Be it roaring waves of the sea, or a steady current of the river, or even a single drop of tear—it was always the water. Jukai wonders if he somehow earned the goodwill of the water gods in one of his past lives as he stands on the riverbank, looking at the boat among the reeds. The burning mountain behind them radiates the heat so intense he can feel it with his skin even from here. They would have never made it from the castle, should it not have been for that long tunnel leading away underground.

The lady slumps to her knees, seized with a violent fit of coughing. Jukai’s insides burn, too, although he managed to mostly restrain from inhaling in the smoke-filled spaces. The lady obviously didn’t care about that. He can only hope she will survive, for there is nothing he can do anymore.

He lays the boy onto the ground, taking off the scarf he put on his face to protect his breathing. His right eye is missing, and the wounds on his brow look terrible, one of them gaping like there is a round hole in his skull by the size of an eyehole. Jukai can only wonder what weapon left it, and whether it was held by Hyakkimaru’s hand, as he checks the boy quickly for more injuries. There are plenty of cuts on his body, but most of them not too deep. He returns to the wound on his forehead, feeling a heaviness growing in his chest. Was everything futile? If the skull is broken and the brain is damaged, only a miracle will save him.

Jukai freezes on his spot as he sees the wound slowly whitening, a new skull bone growing to close up the hole. He doesn’t even notice the whole mountain shake up behind them, nor a low rumble resonating deep within his bones. Stunned, he watches the tissues grow unnaturally fast, a process he already once witnessed. In a few seconds, there is only a thin scar left. The demons again, Jukai realizes. That wound was their doing.

“Jukai-dono,” the lady manages to exhale, “The river…the village by the river…please…”

She collapses without giving him clearer directions. So, once again, all he is left to do is to let the water guide him.

~

They both survive. The village they have arrived to must be the wrong one, but Jukai just picked the first he could see once the night and the fog dissipated. The mother and the son spend a few days between sleep and unconsciousness as he takes care of them in one of the abandoned houses on the outskirts of the village. There probably was a war here, but at least no plague has stained this land, and no drought has ravaged it. The river is full of fish, and the villagers are gathering the harvest. They are in need of hands, and his medical skills are always valuable. It is a relatively nice place to stay for a while.

Lady Nui recovers first. She is still weak, and her hands are damaged with the severe burns that heal excruciatingly slow, but she never leaves her son's side.

“Are there other wounds on him?” she asks, desperate. “Please, tell me the truth, Jukai-dono.”

“Not those human eyes could see, my lady,” he replies. “But he needs time for the demon’s venom to leave his body, as well as his soul. Don’t worry. He wants to live. So, he will live.”

The lady tells him everything. They talk late into the night and all through the day when they have time in their daily routine. Sometimes she cries, sometimes just dryly describes the things that have been, full of loathing to herself. Jukai knows the feeling all too well. She listens a lot, too. She doesn’t ask about her other son, but Jukai can see that she wants to know everything, every little detail. So, he speaks.

~

“Thank you so much,” Tahomaru says, his hands slightly shaking, as Jukai hands him a bowl of water.

These are the first words he hears from the boy. His voice is a bit younger and softer than his brother’s. His features are less fine but more defined, a bit cold with a firm chin and moody eyebrows. There is a touch of high-blood arrogance in his appearance, as well as in his refined speech, but in truth, this boy is nothing of the sort. Jukai cracks him in no time. The brothers are too much alike despite being so different.

Lady Nui is doing laundry by the river, but her son can’t be sure she is even alive. He quickly looks around, tensing, but restrains himself from questions.

“Your mother is fine and will return soon,” Jukai replies nonetheless, smiling. “We are in the village down the river, and it is safe to stay here for a while.”

He names himself and tells shortly about who he is. Tahomaru’s only eye goes wide.

The first thing he does after persuading Jukai to let him get up is dropping down to his knees and bending in a full dogeza bow. “Thank you for saving us, Jukai-sensei,” he says. Jukai can swear that there are more than two of them in this “us”.

Next, the boy gets up in firm determination to see his mother, and Jukai doesn’t even try to persuade him against it.

Lady Nui is rinsing clothes in the river when Tahomaru calls her. He immediately notices her bandaged hands and rushes to her down the slope.

“You are injured, Mother? You shouldn’t put your hands into the water! You may infect the wounds! Please, let me see.”

“Tahomaru,” she smiles, letting him undo the soaked bandages. “You have always been like this. Always caring about me.” Her voice falters.

“What are these, burns?” the boy exhales, his face twitching painfully.

“Oh, they are completely healed now. I was just reckless to clutch something in the fire…”

“Your mother was pushing the burning debris out of our way as I was carrying you and wasn’t much of a help,” Jukai says, gaining a look of reprimand from the lady. He sends her a brief smile. Let your son know how much you care about him, dammit.

Flabbergasted, Tahomaru takes her wounded hands and presses his lips to them gently.

“Mother, forgive me for doubting your love,” he whispers. “I am so sorry.”

“My son,” her eyes are glistening with tears as she cups his cheek. “Do not be. I was a horrible mother to you. I have but hazy memories of you growing up; I can’t even remember your first steps or words. I was living in a fog.”

Tahomaru squeezes his eye shut, his face pained. Jukai feels a sting of hurt in his chest, too. Is it really necessary to tell him now, Lady? he wants to say, but of course keeps silent. Maybe it is. To make a wound heal, you have to clean it first, cutting off the dead flesh if needed.

“I am not blaming you. I understand everything now.”

“I am grateful to you for that, Tahomaru. But your forgiveness alone will not erase my wrongdoings. I may only hope that you will allow me to redeem myself.”

“I don’t want you to redeem, Mother,” he looks up, his gaze sharp. “I want you to be true to your heart. I need no more proof of your love than I've already gotten. So, please,” he places his hand on hers, “please, from now on, live your life like you want to.”

“Tahomaru,” the tears run down her cheeks freely now, “this is what I want. I want to be with you. To watch you every day, to cook meals for you, to talk and listen to you, now that I know that he is safe and free to live his life, too.”

“Mother...”

None of them talks about returning, and Jukai doesn’t ask why.

~

Tahomaru touches the scar on his forehead, confusion and unbelief boiling in him. He hesitates before asking, “Have you inserted a…sort of a prosthesis there, Jukai-sensei?”

“No, Tahomaru,” he says, “that eyehole disappeared on its own, perhaps along with the last demon’s power leaving this land. I did nothing.”

“You…know about that?”

“Your mother told me everything. But neither she nor I understand how it came that—” Jukai halts. He didn’t want to stir the past while the wounds are still fresh, yet that’s what he did.

“How it came that he got his eyes back without killing me?” Tahomaru completes the question calmly. “I just pulled them out. And then the demon had to appear there itself.”

The lady lets out a faint cry, covering her mouth with her sleeve. Just pulled them out. Jukai is stunned, too. He thought that the brothers had fought till the end, but it turns out that after all, they'd found a way to understand each other.

'All that time, I just silently watched him turning himself into a demon for the sake of our land,' he remembers one of Nui’s remorseful speeches. 'He locked his heart, but I didn’t even try to reach out for him until it was too late.'

“It wasn’t too late,” Jukai mutters, receiving confused looks from them. “It is never too late for as long as you breathe.”

~

They are so alike, yet so different. While Hyakkimaru has more of an action-oriented, tactical mind, Tahomaru is prone to strategizing. Where Hyakkimaru is direct and open, Tahomaru is restrained. But where Hyakkimaru is  burning resolve, Tahomaru is a whirlpool of conflicting emotions locked inside.

Jukai watches him intently. This boy is deep and sensitive, but there is a thick armor surrounding him like a shell. One has to be very perceptive to decipher what’s in his heart. And there is a deep shadow, no doubt. So, Jukai watches.

~

Tahomaru doesn’t smile much, but every time he does, his face turns soft and so very young. Usually, it happens when he watches his mother doing her mundane duties. Most of the times he is there to help her, though.

He takes upon himself taking care of the house, fixing the roof and replacing the old rotten beams, while Jukai is outside helping the villagers. Tahomaru is somewhat reluctant to face other people, and for now, Jukai just leaves him be. This boy has defeated the demon within himself, but the wounds it has left will not heal that fast.

When Jukai brings a load of fine wood and begins to carve prosthetics for the villagers who lost their limbs in war, Tahomaru’s eye sparks with interest. He wants to know how. Finally, he begins asking him a million questions. How can it move? How can you control it with a mere stump of a limb? How the wooden legs can be so skillful to not only walk but jump and run and even move in a fight? He doesn’t mention his brother, but Jukai understands what he means.

“Only a part of it was my craft, another part was the power of the demons dwelling in him,” Jukai finds it important to mention.

Still, Tahomaru strives to understand.

They work together on a prosthetic hand for a little girl from the village. Lady Nui has a hard time convincing her son to take a pause or catch some sleep. It’s not that the boy is exceptionally good with his hands, like Kaname was, but he has a bright mind to grasp the concepts fairly fast. He writes something all the time, shaping the ideas Jukai can only explain with his hands into words and schemes. In no time, he already gives remarks on how to make some detail more efficient and improve the result. 

And some of them are really brilliant.

The more time they spend together, the more differences Jukai can see. Hyakkimaru has never been attached to places and surroundings. Not that he had the chance to express it, yet Jukai could see that much. But Tahomaru is a very domestic boy. He has his favorite places to spend the short minutes of rest, he gets attached to the small rough table Jukai has made for him, he loves to take care of the cherry tree they have planted in the backyard. He even grows fond of the particular tea bowl for a reason no one understands. This is all his shell, Jukai realizes. This boy needs his shell, he needs a home, especially now that his old one has turned into ashes along with all his memories.

Tahomaru never really talks about his previous life, but Jukai knows from the lady that he had people who were really close to him. The ones more like siblings than mere attendants. Hyakkimaru had none, and this is also the difference between them; at least, it had been until he met that child, Dororo. Tahomaru has lost them. Hyakkimaru has found. Just like the eyes that they had to exchange, literally and figuratively. It’s like fate was playing some cruel mirror game with the brothers. Tahomaru wasn’t the one who must have paid, but he did, nonetheless. Jukai knows this cruel law: karma rarely hits you directly; it strikes those close to you, those the most vulnerable and innocent. Their father, the Lord, has suffered retribution to the fullest, having lost everything and believing that his family must be dead, too. Jukai can’t even despise him, he is in no position to do so. He just pities the man. Sometimes, he prays for him to find his way to salvation, too.

It is when they finish their work and get to teach the girl how to use the prosthesis that Jukai figures some more. Tahomaru’s face is soft with a little smile illuminating his eye as he helps the child, and this is the closest to tears Jukai has ever seen him get since that day, when this boy’s single tear awakened his will to fight.

“Here, you just need a little practice, and then you can play and do things like you used to,” Tahomaru says to the girl.

“Can I play war, too?” this girl is a tomboy sort; even now she has a wooden sword attached to her back, and there are bruises and scratches all over her legs and right hand.

“Of course, you can, Aki-chan.”

“Good. I want to hold a naginata so I could defend my mama when another samurai appears. They won’t even reach us with their swords anymore!”

“That’s right. But you also can learn to shoot arrows. A bow is easier to afford than a proper naginata, besides, it is more effective—” Tahomaru falters, but then gives the girl a reassuring smile, “well, to keep your enemies at the distance.”

“I can shoot with this hand, too?” Aki’s eyes are sparkling.

“Sure, you can. You will have to get used to holding a bow with the prosthesis, but luckily you have your right hand to handle the string and the arrows.”

Jukai notices the corner of his smile twitch shortly.

The boy is gloomy for the rest of the day, a deep furrow darkening his brow as he sketches something at the table.

“Ways to improve the village defenses,” Tahomaru explains when Jukai asks him about it, kneeling down beside. “We can’t afford proper fortification, but there is a way to use the existing landscape with minimal adjustments to direct the attackers into this small corridor between the river and the wall, where they can be easily annihilated. If they have some brain, they will understand that much and think twice before even attempting an attack.”

“And deterring enemy against the attack is the best defense. Wise,” Jukai nods. He is amazed that Tahomaru even thinks about it in the first place, but probably he shouldn’t be. This boy grows attached fast, and once he is attached, he will do all he can to protect his home. Besides, he is used to thinking in large scales.

“To teach little girls how to fight is not the way to go,” Tahomaru proves his assumptions right, his voice frustrated. “In this chaos, we have to think of better ways to ensure people’s safety.”

“True. To teach children to kill may seem practical, but it will only push them down the road of hell,” Jukai mutters.

He can see a short wave of shiver shaking up the boy’s shoulders at these words.

“I would’ve never wanted her to hold a bow again, not even with the prosthesis,” Tahomaru mutters and bites his lip. Jukai realizes that the one he speaks about is not Aki. For the rest of the evening, the boy says no more.

~

There will be nights when Tahomaru will sleep uneasily. He will shift and flinch, muttering something indiscernible and moaning in pain. Sometimes, Jukai will catch the names. Mutsu and Hyogo, it is always these two. 

One of the nights, the boy jolts and sits up, panting heavily, his hands clutching his neck. He touches it for a while as if to prove that there is still a head attached to it, his breathing slowing down. Then he just lies there, unmoving, facing the ceiling, until sleep takes over him again.

Jukai wants him to cry, just once.

Tahomaru doesn’t.

~

The winter is drawing near, and there are heavy clouds shrouding the snow-clad mountains on the east, but here, the days are still mild. The village is quiet and peaceful like the slow river that curves around it, but it may be the quiet before the storm. For how long this domain will last, Jukai wonders, when the neighboring clans gather another army to seize it while it's weak? The peasants can fight back the brigands and ronin squads, but no village will stand against a full-blown samurai army.

Jukai is deep in reverie on his way back from the village, carrying a bagful of goods that he bought. He doesn't always work for free anymore. Now, he has the ones to care about. Not that they really needed to be cared about, though; Nui earns some money with sewing, now that her hands have healed, and Tahomaru— Jukai pauses on his way as he notices Tahomaru by the river, busy with the fishing net. The boy is dressed in ordinary greyish clothes, his trousers rolled-up, a headband tied around his forehead to keep the loose strands from falling on his face, and yet, all of this fails to make him look like a peasant. Perhaps it is good he still avoids crowded places, Jukai thinks, for he stands out too much. He watches Tahomaru's firm yet fluid movements that alone give out years and years of sword practice, his now humble yet naturally dignified face, and thinks how much he wishes for this boy to just be happy. To forgive himself for the mistakes; to open his heart to the simple joys of youth; to fall in love someday and build a nice, cozy home full of laughter and warmth.

But at the same time, he can't help thinking that it would be such a waste.

“Sensei!" Tahomaru waves from the bank, greeting him habitually, and shortly returns to his work.

Jukai hesitates a little before walking down to the river, his mind in disarray. The cold silver water ripples around Tahomaru's ankles as he attaches the net, his moves precise but his face distant as if he was deep in thoughts. He doesn't notice at once Jukai who has stopped a few steps away.

“You were right the other day. As the land immerses in chaos, we must think of better ways to defend people.”

Tahomaru turns around, looking somewhat lost. He gets out of the water and walks up to him. “What is it, Sensei?”

“The life will never be full if you're not where your heart is. This is the lesson I've learned from your mother,” he says. “And your heart isn't here, Tahomaru.”

“I like it here,” he gulps, nervously. “I want to be with my mother. And I am not against you being...well... Don’t you want me to stay with you?”

There is a touch of hurt in his voice, perhaps the echo of the little boy devoid of his mother’s affection he had once been. Jukai can’t bear it. He shakes his head.

“It’s not like I want you to leave. If anything, I don't. But this is not about our feelings. This is about…some detail being out of its place. You are sitting here, punishing yourself for what never was your fault, while you could be doing so much more. You helped me improve that mechanism. You can see when something isn’t operating as efficiently as it could, so you should understand that much.”

Tahomaru clenches his fists, but this is the only visible expression of his inner turmoil. His voice remains fairly collected as he says, “Efficiently… I couldn’t do anything. I made a mistake, and it led to the devastation of my— of this land. It led my—” he inhales sharply, his composure shattering at once, “my friends…to death. As well as many other people whom I had sworn to protect. All that time I could have been doing something…instead of chasing after my brother, convincing myself that he was a demon. This was what I thought to be efficient,” he almost spits out the word. “Killing one to save thousands.”

Desire to save that becomes just another evil. Wasn’t it better to help the dead?

Jukai says nothing, just takes the boy’s fist and unclenches his fingers. There are deep red marks on his skin left by the nails.

Tahomaru looks up at him, wide-eyed, just a boy who’s been around for barely sixteen years, a boy who had to turn into a man abruptly. Who had to turn into a demon, when that wasn’t enough. A boy whose bright, lonely soul locked inside those frightening forms had been craving for mother’s love. He had been lacking not his body but something crucial deep inside.

Jukai grabs his shoulders and pulls him to himself. So different yet so alike. Tahomaru’s back is tensed at first, but then slowly loosens. He buries his face in Jukai’s shoulder.

No, this boy won’t cry so easily. He isn’t. He just stays like this for a while, his heavy breathing being the only sign of so many grieves boiling within. But perhaps Jukai isn’t the one to make him unclench his heart.  

“Go find your brother,” he says, patting his head. I’m sure you need each other.

Tahomaru flinches and untangles himself from his arms. He purses his lips, his face hardening as he slightly shakes his head.

“I was literally a demon who stole his eyes and tried to kill him,” he chuckles bitterly. “You can’t possibly expect me to just walk up to him and say ‘hello, Brother, let’s get along.’”

“You will find the right words once you see him,” Jukai smiles. “I’m probably the one who knows him the best. And I have grown to love you as my son, too. I can tell that you will get along.”

Tahomaru chokes on his breath, watching him with the intensity of so many suppressed emotions.

“Don’t rush to decide anything now. But don’t forbid yourself to think about it either,” Jukai adds. “I know that you can’t help but be worried. What will happen to your domain in the future? What future does it have without the heir?” Jukai pauses. Once again, he wonders what Hyakkimaru is even doing now, what path he has chosen for himself after all. He takes a breath and places his hands on Tahomaru’s shoulders. “I can see why your mother chooses not to return. She has rejected her path of the ruler’s wife and the Lady of Daigo for the path of a mother. But you…you can’t silence your heart, Tahomaru. Your love for your land is too strong to stop caring. Right now, you are full of remorse and you question your every decision. But if I understand anything, this is exactly what a good leader needs.” Exactly what your father lacks. “I am not persuading you. Your path is only for you to choose. I just want you to be true to your heart. Stop running away.”

Tahomaru flinches as he hears his own words in that speech, those he said to his mother earlier. He just nods, his only eye downcast. Perhaps I should make you a new one, Jukai thinks.

~ 

Tahomaru decides against a prosthetic eye. “I don’t want to mask it,” he shrugs. “It’s not like it will bring back my vision. So, what’s the point?”

There are lots of scars on his young body, but the ones left by his brother’s hand are the most lasting. Thin but distinct, they form a bizarre symbol on his open brow, an eternal mark of the mistake Tahomaru is never going to forget.

~

They spend the rest of the winter working hard together. Jukai teaches the boy everything he knows, from medicine and anatomy to the Dutch language and habits that he learned overseas. Tahomaru is craving for knowledge, and they spend a lot of time talking, discussing ideas and just having fun playing shogi that Jukai has carved in his spare time. They never return to the talk they had by the riverside.

On a rare snowy day in February, when the plum trees have already burst into bud, Jukai is the one to bring home the news he has learned from the villagers. He pauses before entering the room where Nui is sitting on her knees, sewing a new hakama for him. Her son’s head is resting on her lap, like it was on that day when their paths intertwined. But now, Tahomaru is just sleeping, his face soft and peaceful in the warm candlelight. The sewing is put aside as Nui’s hands gently brush the boy’s hair, careful not to disturb him. A gentle smile is playing on her lips and lights up golden sparkle in her eyes. Jukai watches them, deep love overflowing his living, beating heart.

He allows himself to dream that someday, somehow, there will be four of them in this plain, cozy room.  

He steps inside, putting down the bag of rice. Nui looks up, greeting him with a nod and a silent smile so as not to wake up her son, but Tahomaru is a light sleeper. He slightly flinches and sits up, rubbing his eye like a child. That’s good. Jukai needs him awake.

“The market was boiling with news today,” he says as he sits down across them, taking off his hat. “People say that Lord Daigo Kagemitsu has passed away.”

Nui squeezes her eyes shut, gulping heavily. Tahomaru jumps to his feet, his face turning white. His hands are trembling. He tightens his fists and rushes out without a word.

~

Jukai finds him on the backyard, by the small sakura tree. Tahomaru is standing straight, his face lifted toward the sky where the fluffy snowflakes appear from the darkness. Some of them are melting on his face, turning into water. His opened eye is dry.

“He is my father,” Tahomaru says harshly without moving, causing Jukai to stop halfway. “He might have done terrible things, he was mistaken, he was cruel, but still…he was the father who cared for me. Who taught me everything. Who saved Mutsu and Hyogo… I loved him.” He utters the last words almost like a challenge as he turns to him, a sharp glint in his eye.

Cry, Jukai wants to say. Please, my boy, let yourself cry. Let all this pain out at last.

Tahomaru just squeezes his fists tighter. “You were right. I shouldn’t have stayed here. I haven’t even let him know that I'm alive. He died alone, abandoned by his own family, believing that he had lost everything. I—” he drops his head, never finishing the sentence, his face hiding in deep shadows. Jukai feels a heavy knot tightening in his chest. Another mistake this boy will never forgive himself.

Jukai takes a slow, deep breath.

“There are things that we can never repair,” he says, his voice even. “No matter how skillful my work is, I will never return the limbs and other body parts that I was cutting in hundreds to the ones whom I tortured. I will never return them their lives. The past can never be undone. But this is why it doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is what we can do now.”

Tahomaru flinches and looks up at him, his eye wide. That’s it, my boy. Forgive me for ruining yet another cozy home of yours. You could’ve grown to love me, but now you will detest me. How foolish I was to believe I can still have a family after having ruined hundreds of them.

“Sensei…” Tahomaru exhales, “You didn’t fall from that rock into the sea, did you? You jumped.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“But you were saved.”

“I was saved more than once, Tahomaru. All those years, I thought that the gods hadn't let me die because I must atone for my sins first to gain back that right. Saying that I was doing it for the people, hadn’t I actually been doing it for my own escape? But you made me understand something. It is not about my salvation. When I realized that you were alive, I felt alive, too. And I asked heaven to prolong this life I had been waiting to end; for death is simply a waste when there are those whom I still can help. Honestly, I don’t care about my soul anymore. I just don’t want people to suffer and die if it’s in my power to save them.” Jukai squeezes his eyes shut, a lump in his throat making it hard to utter the words. “And that is why I’m terrified now. The samurai will start to fight for the succession, and this domain will be torn apart. The war will feed the cruelest and wipe off the earth the ones who strive for peace. There will be war and death everywhere, until a new cruel lord arises from the chaos...”

He trails off as he hears a rustle.

Crunch, crunch of the fallen snow. A hot touch of hands on his shoulders, fingers squeezing the fabric, digging into his flesh as if to pull him out of the deep, cold water.

“I will never let that happen,” Tahomaru looks him in the eyes, his gaze fervent and determined. “You were saved by fate. Then, you saved my brother, my mother and me. I won’t let it go to waste, I swear. I will do all I can with my own hands. Even if I don’t trust myself. Even if I detest myself. I will still do what I can to help people, just like you.”

Yet again, he never cries. Jukai is the one who does.

~

Nui slides her narrow hands, no longer white but stained with burns, down her son’s surcoat, checking her work. She has repaired the little holes burnt by the sparks of fire, she has washed off the blood and the soot from the red fabric and cleaned the lining snow-white. She smoothes it once more, satisfied.

“Thank you very much, Mother,” Tahomaru says formally, but with a gentle intimacy in his voice. He helps her rise from her knees. After that, he checks his sword, a short wakizashi, and tucks it in his sash. His long tachi was broken that day, and they couldn’t afford a new one on such a short notice. Tahomaru said that it doesn’t matter.

Clad in his samurai clothes and armor, he appears almost the same as on that day, wounds aside, but there are some changes, too. His hair is a little longer now. He’s a little taller. His stern face is clouded but calm. Most of the changes are internal, though.

“I’ve said I would always stay by your side, yet now we must part again,” Nui says, caressing his cheek.

“It won’t be for long, Mother. Once I settle everything, you will be free to stay wherever you like. If you like it here, we can start anew in this place. That hill nearby is a nice position for a new castle.”

“I don’t need any castles, my son, all I pray is for you to be safe.”

“You don’t need to worry that much. I am sure at least some of the samurai will remain loyal once they learn that I am alive. Now, I must hurry,” he turns away, rushing out to leave.

“Tahomaru,” she cries out, “the time we spent here together will always be the treasure of my life. I have so many memories of you now. Thank you for that,” Nui can’t suppress her tears any longer.

The boy turns abruptly. Then strides back, firm and fast, and wraps her in a tight hug. He stays like this for a while, burying his face in his mother’s hair. Jukai can tell that despite everything, it is now that he is most happy. His soul is whole and complete.

Many perils await him still; probably he will have to fight and to kill; but Jukai knows that the peaceful moments they've spent in this old humble house will keep him on the human side from now on.

“Sensei, please, take care of my mother,” Tahomaru says once they are outside, bowing down to him.

“It will always be your home. Come back any time you want.” Jukai takes a breath before adding, “Come back together.”

“We will,” Tahomaru simply says and mounts his horse.

The snow is melting on the hills, turning into fluid water. A million tiny streams meander among the stones and thickets in wandering curves before finding their way to the river, where the flow is clear and strong. Jukai places his hand on the woman’s slender back as they watch the boy rushing down the road he has chosen.

Chapter Text

Fwoosh. A flare of orange in the dark. He brings the fire to the wick, protecting it with his palm. This one…is for the child who was lying on the barren ground, his ribs sticking out, one of his arms devoured by the hungry dogs feasting on the dead flesh like heinous vultures… He squeezes his eyes shut, but it doesn’t drive the image away. Nothing ever will.

Tahomaru, a blunt pain in his chest, resumes his way up the long corridor—an illuminated path he is arranging to welcome his enemy—and stops before another lamp. This one…is for the woman who sat by the wrecked house, her features indistinguishable, rotted to the bones by the illness. Maybe it was for the best that she fell in the battle before the plague could turn her face like that, he can’t help but think.

“This one…is for the little girl in her arms,” he whispers, his throat squeezed tightly, as he ignites another fire.

Hundreds of faces light up before his eyes, flashes of warm fire against the blackness. So bright and so fragile. His memory holds way more faces than there are lamps in this castle. They all had died so the one could live on. If the deal was wrong, shouldn’t they have existed in the first place? Should they have never been born? Is it the law of the merciful gods his mother was always praying to?

Another flash. He is setting his life aflame with his own hands. A few moments later, this fire will spread all over the castle. It will become the funeral pyre of the Daigo domain. He doesn’t know it yet.

Or maybe he does.

'My brother and I were taken hostage by the enemy when we were young. Had the Daigo land not flourished, we would not be here.'

“This one is for Hyogo. This one…is for Mutsu.”

Twin flames of fire behind his shoulders, one on the left and one on the right, illuminate the room.

Tahomaru stabs his sword into the floor and squeezes his three eyes shut, centering himself. This is his home. He can sense the familiar presence behind and knows that they are here, with him, silently watching him. And yet, now, he is alone. Alone to face the demon.

The lights go down. Tap, tap in the dark. He’s here.

Here, in the core of the Daigo castle, in the room where they both were born, their paths are colliding for the final clash. Here, only one of them will remain.

…They could have been brothers. They could have been growing and playing here together. That was what he used to imagine, in those rare moments between sleep and wake, when his mind was wandering, untamed. The remnants of the naivete of the stupid boy who had died by the Banmon. Tahomaru knows better now than to fall into the trap of illusions; for in this story, there are no ifs. Had the demons not gotten his brother, Tahomaru wouldn't be existing either. Or if he did, he wouldn't have been the same: just a boy who looks up to his elder brother, sharing with him the burden of responsibility; a boy who is cherished by his mother, as there would have been no reason for her to hate him. She wouldn't be looking through him as if he were a ghost. He wouldn't be dying inside each time, desperate to understand what he had done wrong. Maybe he wouldn't even be called like that, for Tahoumaru, “Many Treasures”, is the name suited for an heir, not a second son.

The Tahomaru he is was born upon the sacrifice of his brother. Now, it is for their swords to decide whether that was wrong. And if that was—then he will go down with his people whom he has sworn to never forsake.

Day and night cannot coexist. Just like that, their paths can never merge.

The enemy, whose dark shadow appears against the dim light of the entrance, two bloodied blades in his hands, certainly believes the same.

~ The story of the lingering night ~ 

A flash of orange flame illuminates the twilight of the small temple, making him flinch at the reminiscence. But this memory is no longer vivid, as though a whole decade has passed, not just a few months. The silver smoke of hundreds of incense sticks fills his vision, washing the colors off the world as well as off his memory. Only the bouquet of spider lilies remains bright-crimson, the color so alike yet so different from the menacing demonic red he saw that day through Asura’s eyes.

The flower of late summer has suddenly come into bloom in late winter. Too much blood had been spilt, he heard people say. The soil is soaked in it. No, others argued, it is an omen of a future bloodshed, a much more dire one. We must pray, pray hard to the Compassionate One…

Suddenly catching his attention is a skillfully carved statue of Kannon, Goddess of Mercy, placed next to the flowers. Tahomaru reaches up for it. The uncoated pine wood is simple yet fine and strong, and its pure brightness suggests it was made quite recently—he can tell it after the time he spent working with Jukai-sensei. Somehow, it seems out of place here, in the old murky shrine.

“I don’t know where it came from,” the samurai behind him says. “But Lord Kagemitsu never parted with it in his last days.”

With a reverent bow, Tahomaru returns the statue on its place. He steps back and kneels, folding his hands together for a prayer.

I am sorry for abandoning you, Father. Selfish cowardice it was; for I was unable to face everything that I had done…that I had become. I am not asking for your forgiveness. I will never forgive myself. But it no longer matters, for the past cannot be changed. What does matter is what I still can do. He clenches his teeth, driving away the image of the man who spoke these exact words just a few days ago. Somehow, thinking about him in this place, at this very moment feels like treachery. Father… I swear to ensure that your last will is fulfilled.

Tahomaru takes a deep breath. Day and night cannot coexist.

He opens his eye, but another half of his vision remains black. A strong reassuring presence behind his shoulder reminds him that he is not alone. There are still those who will follow him. Tahomaru rises from his knees and takes one final bow to the funerary altar of Daigo Kagemitsu.  

“I am ready,” he says, and hangs the long tachi sword that belonged to his father back to his sash. “Let us proceed.”

~ Two days earlier~

He knew where to head first, and he was proven right, finding the remnants of his people in this quiet and secluded place by the northern border of the domain, at the confluence of two rivers flowing into the sea. White walls and curved roofs rose against the misty blue of the western horizon like a flock of cranes nestled for a quick rest, surrounded by the tender pink of hundreds of plum trees. That was Okawa-jo, Great River Castle, an old stronghold of the Daigo clan that had been left by Tahomaru’s great-grandfather Daigo Kageshige upon finishing the construction of a new, larger and better-fortified castle on the mountain to the south. With the most fierce battles shifting to the southern border of Kaga Province, shaping into a longstanding, stubborn conflict between the Daigo and the Asakura clans, Great River Castle had lost its past strategic significance and had been passed by Great-Grandfather to Maeda Masahiro, one of his closest and most loyal retainers, as a reward for his selfless service. And so it had been for more than thirty years, until the recent war had taken Maeda’s last heir, prompting him to return the old castle to his dispossessed suzerain: for the mountain citadel that had witnessed Daigo Kagemitsu’s glory had not stayed to see his downfall, completely demolished by the fire and the great earthquake that came afterward…

“Maeda-san, don’t you find it ironic that the kanji of our clan’s name, Daigo, bear the meaning of the Ultimate Truth from Buddha’s teachings?” Tahomaru asks, surveying the area from the wall of the highest level, where the terraced platform of huge stones is crowned by the dim gold of an old temple. Extensive yet way lower than the walls of the Mountain Castle were, it still provides a great view of the land below, and the wind here is strong and fresh, except for the stench of dead flesh it brings. “It says that there are no distinctive things or beings, only a boundless, pure perfection.”

“I am not sure I understand, lord,” the old samurai says. “What my eyes see is the heads of brigands and looters set upon stakes by the gate. They are distinctive, and they are not pure nor perfect.”

Tahomaru hums bitterly. A mundane attribute of these harsh times. He has already ordered to take those off, though, despite his retainers arguing that they should stay for at least a week more until the tissues start to fall off the bones. But Tahomaru did not want more death to be displayed in this domain than there already was.

Down there, a group of eta undertakers can be seen executing the order, starting from the furthest row.

“I am not sure I understand either. Mother said that it can’t be understood by theorizing or speculating, but only through prayers and meditation.”

“Your honorable mother is highly educated in the religious matters, Tahomaru-sama, but I am just a plain warrior who only knows the truth of war.”

“Yet you've been maintaining this ancient temple in perfect condition,” Tahomaru notes. “I heard that it is even older than the Hall of Hell. I wonder, had my family never left this place, would Father’s desperation have led him to these doors instead…”

A heavy silence falls upon them. Maeda looks ancient, just like these stones, distinct lines of his wrinkles carved deep by the harsh noon shadows, as he quietly says, “It did, in the end.”

Tahomaru draws a deep breath, clenching his teeth tightly. They have been postponing this talk the whole morning. Now, he nods to the man to proceed.

“Kagemitsu-sama’s last days were full of sorrow and grief,” Maeda says, in a voice low and solemn. “His scar never ceased to bleed, a slow trickling of life that could not be stopped. There was a physician who said that he could prolong his days by regular transfusion of blood from others into his veins, but Lord refused to even consider that, ordering to banish the warlock with his outrageous ways from our land. He would not have taken even a single drop from his people. He was spending many hours in this temple, silently facing the darkness, and no one could say what thoughts were occupying his mind. He never spoke it to me nor lamented our situation, and his orders were as sharp as ever, but I could see it in his eyes: hope was leaving his heart along with the blood leaving his body. If only he knew that you were alive—” Maeda gulps and bows abruptly, having realized his slip. “My apologies, Tahomaru-sama. I have said too much.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” Tahomaru says. “You are right. I should have returned sooner.”

“I believe you had your reasons for the delay,” Maeda says reservedly. “We were staying on the edge of an abyss, but now, there is hope again.”

Tahomaru nods dryly, feeling a faint nausea arising in his stomach. Hope? Why are they continuing to praise him? Is he not the one who has failed to protect his people?

His beloved land, the land he wanted to make the strongest and the richest domain of all, is lying in ruins. The villages he saw on his way were mostly dead or abandoned, some of them nothing more than huge black spots of ash, burned down to the last infant in desperate attempts to stop the epidemic. It disappeared just as abnormally fast as it had burst but took a terrible toll. The droughts had ceased, and the floods never returned; but what they had left behind, Tahomaru could barely recognize as once rich and green Ishikawa fields. The war then harvested what the calamities had left over: the young and strong, the ones who could have rebuilt the villages and revived the paddies…

Indeed, the edge of an abyss it is, but can his return somehow turn the tides, like they all hope? It will take years, dozens of years to make this land a decent place again, let alone a prosperous one—

Tahomaru shakes his head slightly. He can’t miraculously fix everything, and he should not immerse himself in such vain dreams yet again. But at least he can prevent another war. Internal fights for the succession would finish this domain and send it down to hell, just as Jukai-sensei feared. He should act fast, reestablishing his power, before some greedy clan would think of grabbing the land and everything that is left on it, looting the villages and the peasants’ last storages…

“What were my father’s last orders?” Tahomaru asks: it is time to focus on the matters at hand.

But Maeda doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he bows his head slightly as if in apology, several loose silver strands falling over his brow and hiding his eyes. Tahomaru turns to look at him, puzzled.

“These words have been spoken with his last breath: ‘Find my son Hyakkimaru. He must inherit this land. Ensure it,’” Maeda says at length, causing Tahomaru’s heart to skip a beat. “Such was Lord Kagemitsu’s last will. I charged the troops immediately; they left two days ago, but the search has not brought any results so far.”

“I see. Thank you for hurrying,” Tahomaru exhales.

“Lord,” Maeda raises his head and looks at him straight, his eyes harsh, “it seems like your brother doesn't want anything to do with this land. Besides—please forgive me for speaking so very frankly—he is not educated enough for the hardest duty of rulership. In the hopelessness of the situation we were facing, a desperate move like that might have miraculously brought hope. But the change in circumstances must not be ignored. I beg you, my lord, take this duty upon yourself as you have always been preparing to do.”

“You have heard the Lord’s will”, Tahomaru says calmly, emphasizing the word Lord, “and it is clear. Do you want to disobey it?”

“Never, even if I must die.” Maeda raises his chin proudly. “But it is not me that you should be worried about, Tahomaru-sama. I regret to say it, but there are samurai whose loyalty and resolve in following our late Lord’s order may not stay unaffected by the essence of it.”

Tahomaru frowns. “What is it with you weaving the words like a court lady? You should not be so careful in your speech with me, Maeda-san. You have known me ever since I was a crying bundle on my wet nurse’s hands, and seen me drooling onto my father’s sleeves. Lay it out.”

“My profound apologies, lord,” the man nods his uncapped white head in a short and sharp warrior’s bow. “I am talking about Imagawa Yoshinori who has significant forces under his command in Daishoji Fortress, where he is staying to secure the western border. His three sons were killed—” he halts and immediately corrects himself, “fell in the Battle by The Two Pines.”

Tahomaru closes his eye, gulping heavily. “The Battle by The Two Pines” is what the carnage his brother and the demon-horse wrought has been poetically called. About two hundred soldiers died there, and hundreds more were crippled for life. Many of those soldiers were freshly recruited peasants, and their families have been left to survive in the devastated villages on their own. But maybe that wasn’t the worst, and the hardest consequences are yet to sprout. The samurai clans that have lost their heirs there will not forget and will not forgive; for revenge has always been the Ultimate Truth of the samurai, a sacred right and a duty to the dead no earthly law could deny them.

“We shall see,” Tahomaru says, tightening his jaw. “For now, inform him that I am alive and expecting to see him here, that’s all. Once he arrives, I shall speak to him about this matter.”

“Already done, lord. I sent messengers this morning: they are to bring the word of your miraculous return to all the samurai of the land. Concerning Lord Kagemitsu’s last will, only the closest retainers have been informed of it, as of yet.”

Tahomaru hums. Understandable. Maeda wanted to find Hyakkimaru first and meanwhile confirm the senior vassals’ consent, which on itself seemed like a lost cause: most likely, a feud would have arisen between Maeda’s loyal faction and those like Imagawa who would have opposed Hyakkimaru’s right of succession—and Maeda’s factual regency. Besides, had Maeda announced Lord Kagemitsu’s will right away, Hyakkimaru, unaware of it, would have become a target for any clan tempted to seize the power.

But the main reason was, of course, Maeda’s own reluctance to give the rule to the one who had brought—or so they think—the devastation to their land.

Tahomaru sighs. “Trust my father’s judgment, Maeda-san.”

“He did it only because he believed that you were dead, lord,” the samurai objects, restrained yet firm.

“No.” Tahomaru shakes his head, his sight fixed on the faraway horizon. How big the world outside this domain is—a sudden thought crosses his mind. But the farthest he’s ever been is Hakkotsu cape on the northern shores of Noto, half a day by sea from here… “In this decision, I see his remorse. Father must have come to regret not raising Hyakkimaru as his heir. My brother is stronger than me; he would have never made the mistakes I did. Had he been put in my place, he would have found the way to keep our land safe and prosperous by the right means.”

“What are you even saying, Tahomaru-sama...!” Maeda chokes on his breath, no longer composed, his grey bushy eyebrows bristling in indignation. “Your brother may be strong, but he lacks the love for this land that you have! You were willing to die— to descend into Hell for your people, while what he did was killing them so that he could live on. True, that was the divine punishment we all had deserved, but this land needs a samurai who is ready to give up his life for it, not an incarnation of the fearsome Fudo, to rule it.”

“I have never said that our people deserved any divine punishment,” Tahomaru retorts harshly. “If anyone did, it is only my family. My brother was blind, deaf, mute, and limbless for the best part of his life, exiled and rejected by his own kin. This is the only reason why he has no understanding of such things as duty and responsibility to our people. But I believe that he repents bitterly of the deaths he has caused. He is neither a demon nor a fearsome god. I know for a fact that he has defeated the rage in himself and chosen the path of a human.”

'You are lacking, just like me. You are the same as me.' Those blunt words ring in his ears as Tahomaru recalls his brother’s face when he crouched down to him. 'Tahomaru.' His voice was so soft when he uttered his name. A gentle smile was tugging at his lips. A demon? The only person who looked deep into his heart and understood him. Who noticed the huge hole there. That was his brother. Tahomaru’s whole world turned upside down that very moment… The moment he lost. The moment he realized that, despite his goal to protect the innocent majority, he had never been destined to win that battle.

“He may lack the proper education,” Tahomaru adds, “but it is not so hard to attain. What is more important is his heart, and his right to inherit this land which no one can take away from him. He was born first, not me. We must follow the paths of our karma.”

Maeda’s face changes. He regards Tahomaru not with a vassal restraint but with an amazement of a parent who realized that the child had grown up. “You have changed, my lord. You have never been the one to bring up such things as the divine law.”

Tahomaru remembers his worst nightmare: the image of his mother’s back turned on him, her hands folded together in the praying gesture; the nightmare that would come true every morning he would wake up. He hated all things divine. All those deities who wanted humans to beg on their knees like miserable dogs… He believed that a man could be strong enough to achieve anything with his own hands. Tahomaru squeezes his fists. A lot has happened lately to dissuade him of that delusion. The law of karma is as unbreakable as day and night taking turns over the land: that is why the Goddess of Mercy protected Hyakkimaru and not all those thousands of children who died of starvation and sickness, instead.

“So I have.”

“I shall trust your judgment, Tahomaru-sama,” Maeda decides, his voice humble yet firm. “People said that you were wearing the demon’s eyes and were endowed with the demon’s strength that day, but I see that you have defeated it in yourself, too.”

Tahomaru nods with gratitude. All he has to believe is that in the end, he truly did.

“But I beg for just one thing, my lord,” the old samurai adds, a distinct tremor in his voice betraying the intensity of his agitation. “Take the rule for the time being, accept the samurai’s oaths of allegiance. Do not let the chaos of uncertainty take over this land.”

“Do not worry, Maeda-san. I will not,” Tahomaru says. “After all, this is what I am here for.”

~

“Lord, your wet nurse and the other maids are safe and beyond happy to serve you again,” Maeda says once they descend to the lower terrace of the castle hill. “They will show you to your chambers.”

A warmth fills his chest as Tahomaru notices a group of women hastily approach him and drop down to their knees, prostrating themselves. Their shoulders are trembling with the suppressed cries. Not all his previous life is gone, after all, he thinks with a weird mix of feelings. There are still people who were a huge part of it, who watched him grow, who took care of him every day, a humble and quiet, yet important presence.

Not perfectly quiet, Tahomaru corrects his thoughts with a smile, reminiscing his wet nurse Umeko’s constant fussing over his scratches and boyish adventures in his childhood days. Later, she would scold him for pushing himself too much in training and for riding off without notice, worrying his father and making Mutsu and Hyogo rush after him. But she was quiet that day. The day he ordered everyone to vacate the castle. Only her eyes full of tears were screaming as she silently bowed to him and left, pulling a stunned younger maid along.

“Rise, please,” Tahomaru says, his voice faltering. “I am glad to see you all safe and sound, too.”

The women’s cheeks are wet with tears of joy as they lift their faces. Only one head, hair lush and shimmering like starry night, remains bowed. Tahomaru’s heart gives a start as he recalls how soft it felt to the touch. The very next moment, it drops with another remembrance. He sets his teeth, slamming the memory shut.

~

His new chambers are bright and warm, opening into the small inner garden—completely unlike his old room that watched the high outer terrace from which half of his domain could be seen. Tahomaru is perfectly content with that. The scent of the blooming trees and the soft sunlight seeping through the green are calming. Probably, it used to be his ancestors’ nursery.

“Thank you very much, Furi,” Tahomaru nods his head slightly, accepting the bowl of tea.

The girl who is seated against him in a perfect seiza posture, her small hands folded on top of her bended knees, bows down in her turn. A shy smile is touching the corners of her plump lips—a slight disturbance in the calm flow of the proper tea ceremony. He can say it without even lifting his gaze from the thick froth of his tea. She is so very young, barely older than him, and pretty in that sweetest way that makes the blood heat up, but Tahomaru can’t bring himself to as much as look at her.

Still, he sees enough with his peripheral vision: the gentle whiteness of the skin, accented by the delicate blush that perfectly complements the plum blossoms on her violet kimono, too fancy for a maid (her father, a minor samurai, must have achieved a deed of importance in battle to earn money for it); the eyes dark and deep in an unusual way; the hair too puffy and light to conform to the strictness of the proper hairstyle, slightly curving at the tips…

“It feels nostalgic,” Tahomaru says to fill the uneasy silence. “To have you serve me tea like this.”

“My lord was so busy last season,” Furi says lightly as though completely oblivious to that uneasiness, but he can tell she is faking it, not even too masterfully. Although her name means “pretense”, she has always been pretty bad at subtle performances. If it hadn’t been for this little fault, she could have made a splendid career even at Court, or so people would say; he wasn’t competent in that matter to judge. “You were training so hard; I would not dare to distract you with such a trifle.” 

“My whole life has been a training to become the strongest in this land, as the heir should be to protect his people,” Tahomaru smiles bitterly, a familiar frustration filling his body once again with the echo of an old, never really healing wound. “Every day, I was training and studying hard. I practiced more than I slept. But in the end, it all proved to be futile.”

His head down, he clenches his bowl, unable to face her. Was it right before they burned down that rat monster’s house or later, after the unfortunate battle on the cape? His mind was clouded with darkness, focused on one thing: killing his feelings. Feelings were what made him weak, blunting his resolve, he believed. He had no such privilege as to waver. Mutsu had been right, she had been so right more than half a year before that, prior even to the first calamity striking their land. Feelings can get in the way of your duty if you aren’t strong enough to cut them off. And he had to be strong. He had to cut that final string…

“Nah, all I say is excuses,” Tahomaru shakes up, driving the remnants of that darkness from his mind. He takes a breath and finally looks up at the girl. “Please, forgive me for that night, Furi.” He clenches his teeth and bows deeply, knuckles pressed hard to the tatami.

“My lord, you should not be apologizing to me!” Furi staggers back, sounding genuinely scared. “I am only here to be what you want me to be. Doing your will is what makes me the happiest of the living.” A fervent blush paints her cheeks at this obligatory expression of humility, just like it did back then, when he ordered her to stay. Tahomaru remembers touching that blush with his fingertips. He remembers the fiery heat that overtook him a moment later, though hazily. That was the first time he ever touched her. Even though it was another face, another skin he had been dreaming of touching like that for a while…

“Forget that nonsense,” Tahomaru flares up, feeling the blood throb in his temple. “From this day, I you are no longer on my service.”

Furi’s face turns white just as fast. Too open and emotive for a maid. But then again, she hasn’t been brought to him as just another maid…

‘Father has assigned that girl to serve me and ‘educate’ me, as he said,’ a scene from the past flits through his mind. ‘I mean, what is she even supposed to be? A concubine? She is barely older than me! And I never asked for that! Anyway, I don’t want to do it with her.’

‘You sure? She seems nice…’

‘I’m not saying she isn’t. It’s not the point, Hyogo! It just…doesn’t feel right…’

Furi bows down ceremoniously, joining the tips of her fingers on the tatami and all but touching her forehead to them. “If my lord dismisses me, I regretfully accept it.” She stays like this for a few moments. Her eyelids remain shut as she rises, her thick eyelashes fluttering. There is an edge to her voice as she says, “Forgive me for failing you, Tahomaru-sama. I am deeply sorry.”

Her small hand twitches toward her belly as if to slide into the opening of her kimono. Tahomaru feels the blood freeze in his veins along with the time around them. He's already once witnessed the scene.

He jumps to his feet, flipping the small table over. The hot green liquid splashes across the field of plum flowers. “Stupid!” he thunders, drawing a tanto knife from the girl’s bosom. Indeed. “It’s not about failing...! I’m only giving you the freedom to live as you wish. Don’t you wish to be free from this duty?”

“I…wish?” Her agate eyes are wide with trembling tears as she repeats the words she must have been taught to forget forever. She pays no attention to her soaked and disordered kimono, to the pain the splashed tea must have caused.

“Yes. You must do what you truly wish. This is my final order to you,” Tahomaru says, struggling to control the tremor in his voice as his heart pounds in his chest. “I shall make sure that you and your family never want for anything; you can stay wherever you like, in the castle or down in the village, or even somewhere far away from here…”

The tears are running down her cheeks and her voice is shaking as Furi manages to utter, “But all I want is to serve you, my lord.”

Why? In an unbearable frustration Tahomaru turns away, suppressing the desire to pull at his hair. He can’t understand a single thing. Is it about her sense of duty engraved deep into her being, or her genuine love for him? Love? Is there even anything left to love in him? What is he supposed to do? All this is suffocating. These eyes and these hands, these disordered layers of the crumpled silk… And these walls, and the chambers of the lords long gone, the sunlit gardens and the blooming plum trees—they are no longer offering comfort; they are like a frail dream decorating the dark immensity of the dead landscape. A desire to flee, somewhere, far away, suddenly takes over his mind. How the hell can he rule the domain if he can’t deal with his own servants? The outside world is so large… Hopefully, once he finds his brother—

“My lord…”

Deafened by the pulsing of the blood in his ears, Tahomaru barely recognizes Furi’s words.

Her voice is still a bit shaky but collected as she says, as if answering his unspoken question, “Day by day, I have been watching you working hard to avert the doom of this land. You were giving your everything to your people. You barely slept; you trained day and night; you were out helping villagers more often than you visited your beloved mother. That night…you sacrificed your own heart. I was moved deeply.” Furi’s voice breaks, and she takes a deep breath before continuing, “I am just a weak woman, but my strongest desire is to help you with everything I have to carry this burden. I shall never ask for your attention again. Please, allow me to just stay by your side as a silent shadow and serve you, in whatever way you will have me. Because this is what I truly wish.”

Tahomaru’s cheek twitches as he tries to still his heart. He can only nod, unable to look at her, yet accepting the request.

He must not run away. Eternally mutilated with the ugly scars, reminders of all his faults, he can never, ever run away from them.

~

The long day of ceremonies begins. The news spread fast, and the samurai from across the domain rush to Great River Castle to greet him and to pledge their lives and the lives of their families to the service of the new Lord. Everyone praises Tahomaru, son of Daigo Kagemitsu, the young ruler of the Ishikawa domain, the one who has returned from Hell and brought back hope to their land. They love him. They trust him. They are ready to follow him.

It will not be for long, Tahomaru repeats in his thoughts, accepting yet another pledge. His duty is to put everything in order and to pass the rule to his brother, the true heir of Daigo, once he is found.

Tahomaru will do all he can to persuade him to take over this land. He will choose the most loyal and sincere samurai to help him and guide him; he will make sure there are no unrests, and the others, too, realize what he realized that day. Hyakkimaru, blessed with his unhuman strength and agility, might seem a wild, half-wit demonic creature barely able to communicate, or so Tahomaru would talk himself into believing; but in truth, he was not.

That day, Tahomaru understood it painfully clear.

Hyakkimaru was the true heir blessed by the gods to bring down what had been built on his blood. He was not only strong but wise and merciful. He was the one to stop his blade and spare his brother’s life.

~

The funeral feast is held on the same night. Many songs are sung, and many poems of war and valor are read within the great hall of the old castle. The samurai, violent and brutal warriors, cry like little children over the stories of heroic deaths as the young crescent moon goes down behind the sea, and hundreds of lights come aglow in the valley. Daigo Kagemitsu is glorified as a tragic hero who sacrificed his son along with his own soul for the people but was brought down by the cruel and almighty Fate in the end. Hyakkimaru is considered a hero, too; for at this moment, there are no foes and no allies, only the poetic tragedy of doom. Although the stories of his fights with the demons are mostly made up, exaggerated and embellished, as no one can know those for certain, they move the warriors’ hearts, and tears overflow their eyes just like sake overflows their cups. The ones sung by a blind monk biwahoshi are especially good and detailed.

The songs glorifying himself Tahomaru tries not to listen, focusing on his sake and the narrow, ever so slightly freckled hands of Maeda’s daughter filling his cup, instead. Suddenly, he remembers those freckles. In their early childhood, even before Father would bring Mutsu and Hyogo, they used to play together with her and other highborn children. Those were some stupid childish games with no thoughts about the future duty… 

Tahomaru has never drunk sake before, save for the rare ceremonial occasions requiring no more than a gulp, so the sensations of dizziness feel new, yet unpleasantly remind him of the moment when he was lying on the floor of the burning castle, conscious but unable to rule his own body, unable to fight for his life nor take his sword to end it like a samurai. The sensation of death creeping slowly to take him away from all he loved, forever, was terrifying. But it was sweet at the same time. Tahomaru takes another gulp. The music continues to flow but he can’t make out the words; only a voice, slow and old, suddenly creaks through the haze all too near:

“At all times, there is something over which the indifference of stars and the eternal murmuring of rivers have no sway: it is the actions of a man who rebels against fate.” 

Tahomaru puts his cup down, shaking off the shivers spreading up his spine, and sees the blind biwahoshi sitting in the shadows next to him. Facing the emptiness, the wandering priest seems to address no particular person, yet Tahomaru can sense the intent, lingering non-stare on him.

“All three of you are similar in that way, don’t you think so, young lord? Don’t be afraid of songs: they are to move people’s hearts; for the heart that is still is as well as dead.”

The old man is gone into the night before Tahomaru even processes his words. All three of them?

Rebelling against fate…

The delicate hands with freckles fill his cup anew and disappear into the fog just like the strange man did before. The mournful songs about the Battle by The Two Pines are sung next. Tahomaru rises, struggling to collect his senses, and notices Maeda Masahiro who is seated with his back straight, an empty cup clenched in his trembling hands. His face is set, firm like a stone.

Tahomaru kneels beside the old man and refills his cup.

“You have lost someone by The Two Pines, too,” he deduces, his heart heavy. “Who?”

The samurai flinches. “My son Masashi, lord,” he says with restraint, his eyes downcast almost apologetically. “But do not be sorry: he wasn’t even supposed to be there. He was only fourteen. He chose it himself, against my will, as he saw all those villagers being recruited to defend our land against the Asakura invasion. ‘How can I stay behind when even the peasants who have never held a sword must fight?’ he said to his mother and sister when leaving. He wasn’t killed by your brother. His body was scorched by the fire of that demonic horse.”

Tahomaru closes his eye, feeling a lump forming in his throat. That is barely an excuse. Yet Maeda does it: he tries to absolve his brother, his future lord, the one who has caused the death of his last heir…

He could have hidden Lord Kagemitsu’s last will. He could have pretended those words had never been spoken by his dying suzerain. He could have just taken the rule into his hands and sent the troops to kill Hyakkimaru, not to invite him to this castle. Was it an unwavering loyalty or something more?

“…But I cannot complain about such a fate,” contradicting his words, tears are swelling in the old warrior’s eyes. “Should it not have been for your brother’s sacrifice, he might have never been born at all, for I might have fallen in a battle or died another death a long time ago. I must thank your brother for giving us those years of peace spent together. I could never imagine, after my first wife and my eldest sons had died, that I would be blessed with another happiness. You have said that no people outside your family deserved a divine punishment, my lord, but you are wrong. We all were a part of that deal, willingly or not. We all have been living on the borrowed time. If it was our karma to die long ago or never be born, then the demons only postponed it, and now, we have gotten it back. This is how the world is. It cannot be helped. This is his sister that I am concerned about now...” He halts, realizing he has been carried away.

“What is it? Speak it,” Tahomaru demands. He turns his head around but can’t see the girl anymore. She must have left some time ago…

“Yes, lord,” Maeda obeys. “She had lost not only her brother but the fiancé, too, in that battle, and upon learning it she tried to kill herself. The gods spared her life, but it seems like the scar on her neck has made her even sadder. I suppose she believes that nobody will love her anymore. Her mother never leaves her side to make sure she doesn’t commit such an act again.”

A cold hollowness tugs at Tahomaru’s chest. He hasn’t noticed that scar; to be honest, he didn’t even look at the girl’s face, nor does he remember her name. But for this man who has lost all his children, she is the only treasure remaining on this earth, and the fear that fate may claim her as well must never leave his mind…

“Tell her she must not worry. She should not be ashamed of her scars, for they speak of her courage and devotion. Any samurai will be glad to take such a selfless woman as his wife,” Tahomaru says somewhat awkwardly. Yet he believes the girl’s worries to be a good sign: someone who is concerned about own appearance doesn’t truly intend to die. “But first, let the wounds heal. She must have loved that man dearly to do that…”

“Thank you, my lord. I shall pass her your words.”

After that, they drink in silence some more, Tahomaru’s mind circling Maeda’s words round and round. Shouldn’t they have existed in the first place? Should they have never been born? was what he wondered on the day he accepted the demon’s power. The answer is lying around the walls of this castle: the ashes of the dead villages and the fields covered with unburied corpses; the hills disfigured by the landslides; the houses swamped to the roofs by the mud of floods. As if a pulled string that had been held all those years by an invisible hand, strained, trembling on the edge but never breaking, was suddenly released… And who could possibly stop the sound from spilling?

The darkness beyond the illuminated terraces is pitch-black, measureless like the boundary world he witnessed through the demon’s vision; only now, he can see no light of souls no matter how long he stares into the night. Is Father’s soul still here, or have the depths of Hell already swallowed him? The dark wind blowing in his face smells like a void. The corridors of the unfamiliar castle seem like some cryptic maze, and there is no Furi to guide him to his new rooms. She said she would become a shadow, and there are plenty of shadows surrounding him now, yet none seems familiar. Tahomaru closes his eye and wishes to find himself in the small room of the rural house, where Mother is sitting by the fire with a sewing on her lap, and Sensei is telling him stories about the distant lands…

“This is not about our feelings. This is about some detail being out of its place.”

Is his place really here?

“Lord, the night is cold. Let me guide you back to your rooms,” an old voice says, but it isn’t Sensei since he never called him like this. Why do they call him like this? He’s not the ruler. He’s just lost, and he wants to his room.

Ah, he’s being carried already on someone’s back. Hyogo used to carry him like this when he would fall asleep in the dojo, exhausted after the hours of sword practice. He presses his face to the warm nape, feeling cozy and small. How old is he? He never allowed himself such a weakness ever since Mutsu told him all the truth about the war they had witnessed, so he must be six. Maybe seven.

“Forgive me for arguing with you all the time, lord,” the voice says once the way through the maze is over, and he is laid on the swaying deck. Why is he on a ship? “I am old and can’t feel the flow of life as clearly as you anymore. This land is blessed to have you, and I believe you will make it flourish once again. I shall trust your decisions.”

“Don't be sorry,” Tahomaru mutters, his tongue wobbly but his mind finally clear, even though the sleep is quickly taking over him. “I need you to argue with me, Maeda-san. How can you trust me when I do not trust myself? I need my brother… I want him to be here with me…” these last words he must be uttering already in his dream, for there are cozy walls of his old room surrounding him, and it seems like gentle shadows are shifting his body, undressing him and covering with warm, soft darkness. His body feels so small under the blanket. Tahomaru turns his head. There is another futon beside his with a head lying still on the pillow, the dark hair flowing like a silky stream onto the sheets. He whispers “Aniue” softly but gets no answer. Then, he crawls over, takes out a little inkwell he hid in his under-kimono after the lessons, and starts drawing mustaches on his brother’s serene face. Hyakkimaru keeps breathing long and steadily, so Tahomaru adds whiskers like Hyogo’s, and then paints his eyebrows long and bushy like his own. He can’t say whether his brother really is asleep or faking it, allowing him this little mischief. Tahomaru feels butterflies in his chest. He knows that Umeko will scold him again in the morning…

~

Tahomaru wakes up to the cruel headache, wondering what the hell happened yesterday and whether there is another wound on his head left in another unfortunate fight with his brother. He can feel no bandage, though. Once he sits up, his memory belatedly catches with reality. The room looks almost too familiar, but the view behind the sliding doors is different. His garments are there, too, on the stand where they would usually be, but these are new garments: twilight-grey hakama pants; a rich and austere dark-blue kimono embroidered with the family crests; a black haori with a silver lining—all this is probably from his grandfather’s heritage. It looks like a random piece of night that outstayed its time, left forgotten amidst the bright light of the morning. Furi isn’t here to help him dress up, and the breakfast is already served on the sunlit terrace, tea steaming as if it were prepared just a moment ago, though there wasn’t even a shadow that Tahomaru’s eye could catch. That’s some ninja skills…

It fills him with relief. Facing the past requires all his resolve, which is very inconvenient when there are too many urgent matters at hand. It is not the time to think about such things. Except for the aching head, Tahomaru doesn’t feel very much alive anyway. But this is all right this way. This is fine. He is a detail in a mechanism. He has a duty to fulfill, or rather a function. Probably it is the only reason why he still lingers here, while all that was brought by the deal has already been erased from this earth…

Umeko appears in Furi’s stead to help him through his morning routine. It's been more than a year since she last took care of him like this, combing his hair and tying all his hakama knots; and it has been a year of walking further and further down the path of hell. Would he have acted the same, Tahomaru wonders now, if his wet nurse had stayed close to him, scolding him routinely for skipping breakfast or staying up late at night over The Art of War treatise, sighing with that frustration in her warm, attentive eyes?

“How is your back pain now?” Tahomaru asks, noticing a lot of new silver strands in the woman’s long hair. She is only a few years older than his mother, and her soft, plain face is still smooth, but there are dozens of tiny wrinkles around her eyes and between her eyebrows, carved by all the worries.

“It is perfectly fine and strong as ever, my lord,” Umeko smiles, her eyes, still red from crying, squinted with mirth. “I am only growing old, but look at you, what a sight you’ve become. If only time could have mercy and wait for a bit longer: I’m going to miss the sight of these wild locks.”

Tahomaru feels a knot fastening in the pit of his stomach at her quiet sigh. Soon, he will receive the cap of an adult along with a new name replacing his childhood one. Who will choose it for him? Who will lead him through the genpuku ceremony and cut off the tips of his hair? Somehow, the thought itself feels bizarre and distant as though it were one of those odd Outlanders’ rituals, not a major event of every youth’s life…

“Time will wait, Umeko-chan,” he says, holding the woman’s back as he helps her to rise. It must wait until I find him. “There are more urgent matters to take care of first.”

Tahomaru puts on the haori to complete his rich dark garments, thinking that they would have suited his brother better, and walks out into the light of day.

The lingering night...

~

The name appears in his memory as soon as Tahomaru looks at her face: Setsuna. It might have been brought up yesterday, during the talk with her father; or maybe his mind extracted it from his childhood memories this very instant. Tahomaru hums: an instant, a tiny speck of time is the meaning of her name. Now, it must seem like an unfortunate jinx to her parents who are constantly worrying about her life. The girl stands in the gallery of the castle wall, watching the sea, her expression remote and detached as if she is just waiting for something. And indeed, noticing him, she immediately approaches.

Her fine, chiseled face is pale, except for the golden dust of freckles painting the straight nose and the cheeks; the long hair of rare brown, shining like copper, flows smoothly down her misty-blue kimono. Her eyes are filled with sunlight, so bright that the color disappears.

The scar tracing her neck from the ear to the collarbone is long and very distinct, but she isn’t trying to conceal it. Her head is held high as she approaches him.

“Father has passed me your words, Tahomaru-sama. Thank you very much,” Setsuna says with a bow, her voice as well as her white face devoid of any emotion. But when she looks up at him, a sudden strength flashes in her eyes. “But he is mistaken about my concerns: my appearance doesn’t matter to me, nor am I bothered about marriages.”

“Then what is your concern?” Tahomaru asks, taken aback.

“Acceptance. I do not agree with the nonsense my father says about karma. I shall never embrace it.”

These bright eyes seem the only living feature on Setsuna’s cold, still face. There is ire, and also an adamant resolve in them. Tahomaru can’t help but shiver internally. If Furi is a gentle night of spring, Setsuna is a cold, severely cold winter morning. He doesn’t remember her being like that. He vaguely recalls the cheerful girl laughing with her mouth wide, the girl whose eyes filled with sun were warm. But the time has changed them all.

Tahomaru fights not to stare at the long and deep scar that bears witness of her unwavering hand. The fastest and most effective way to end one’s life... How could someone even survive such a cut?

“We cannot rewrite the past,” he tries as if stepping on the thin ice. “Whether by fate or by an unfortunate lot, it is done and cannot be undone. We can only accept it and move forward, keeping the warm memories of those we have lost in our hearts.”

“There is nothing ahead for me, Tahomaru-sama. My brother has died, and my fiancé is gone, too,” Setsuna’s voice clank harshly as she lifts her chin even higher, and Tahomaru realizes that no words can reach her now. “I have been training with bow and naginata ever since I was little, as all Maeda women do: we must be able to defend the castle should the enemy enter it. But I regret complying with such a fate. Hiding behind the walls… Had I gone that day to the war alongside them, I would have been spared the dishonor of living to witness my clan come to an end, and my home being inherited by the one who is responsible for that. The one who has slaughtered my beloved.”

Tahomaru nearly backs off from the dark desperation of her words. It takes all his strength to hold her gaze. He would have gladly given this castle to Maeda for eternal possession, but the circumstances have made that impossible, for he and his brother cannot be homeless lords. No samurai would take seriously a refugee. But the construction of a new castle will take too much time and resources his domain can’t provide in the near future…

He bows shortly, not knowing what else there is to say that would be appropriate in his position and not demolish her pride.

But the girl doesn’t seem to expect anything from him. She has something more to say herself. “But now I know why I survived. To avenge them.” She doesn’t bother using honorifics any longer, and there is an open animosity in her voice. “You better order to execute me now; for I will never forgive your brother, Tahomaru. He will not enter this castle for as long as I live, I swear it on the last Maeda blood still running in my veins.”

Either to kill or to be killed. She is not going to live on, Tahomaru realizes. She is a pulled bow; a burning arrow placed on a string, ready to pierce the enemy and perish in ashes…

His heart gives a thud. Suddenly resurfacing from his memory, sending shivers across his shoulders, is the vision of a silent meadow beneath the bottomless sky, a rustle of grass, and the breeze of quiet words: 'You gave me a new image. An image of the future I wanted to strive for…'

“So, what are you waiting for?” Setsuna’s harsh words rip through the memory. “Won’t you take the words of a woman seriously? Then you shall soon regret it—”

“Enough,” Tahomaru cuts her short. “I’ve heard enough. Now, listen to what I have to say. I know a better solution. You shall become my wife.”

This one finally pierces through her defense. Setsuna recoils, her long eyebrows bent in indignation. “W-what?”

That way you will be the mistress of this castle, and you won’t murder your brother-in-law, Tahomaru wants to explain, excited by his own wit, before the realization of what he has done creeps into his mind.

Instead, he takes a step forward. “Or are my scars too frightful for you?”

Setsuna backs off, her hand reaching unconsciously to the scar on her own neck; her lips begin to quiver as if she really was terrified. The change in her demeanor is drastic. The sharp glints in her wide eyes are trembling like the ice that is ready to crack. Tahomaru isn’t certain whether he wants it or not.

The next moment, it happens. She drops her head, squeezing her eyes tightly, and whispers, “My lord…”

A chill runs down his spine as Tahomaru realizes that there is no turning back. He can’t take his word away. It won’t be fast, of course, since a year of mourning must pass. But it has to be done. This is right. This is the only way he can protect this girl, the last treasure of the man who has done so much for his family, from her doom.

A sudden commotion behind causes him to turn around: a group of samurai, Maeda in the head, is rushing to him down the gallery.

“Grave news, lord!” Maeda says, short of breath. “A messenger arrived from the western border: Imagawa Yoshinori refuses to believe that you are alive, considering it to be a trick on my part. He proclaimed himself the ruler of the domain!”

Tahomaru’s heart falls. Somehow, he has been expecting something like that. And indeed, the worst happened.

“He only uses it as an excuse!” Shimura, an old chief of guard Tahomaru has inherited from his father, boils with indignation. “That treacherous fox just wants to grab the land!”   

“But why?” Saito Hajime, commander of cavalry, wonders. “He has no heirs left, and there are not even many men under his command. Has the old man gone mad because of his grief?”

“How many men does he have?” Tahomaru asks.

“One hundred samurai, most of them his direct vassals, and about twice as much ashigaru foot soldiers, at best,” Maeda replies.

Tahomaru arches his eyebrow. “Then the only chance for him is to side with the Asakura.”

“I’m afraid it may be exactly the case, lord.”

Tahomaru closes his eye and slowly draws in the air. It smells so sweetly of the spring. Another spring that will be stained with human blood. 'Someday, you will create the peaceful land of Daigo.' Is it even possible to achieve in this world? Tahomaru envisions the small house where he was blissfully serene; where he did not have to kill his heart every day, routinely pushing each sentiment away as he would wake up; where he led a simple life, fishing and learning crafts, feeding stray cats and taking care of plants. The house where Mother called him “my son” for the first time. Only three days have passed since he left it, yet here he is now, wondering whether all that was even real, and whether those house and village exist somewhere beyond his mind…

He exhales and opens his eye. Even if not, he still has them.

“Gather the army,” Tahomaru commands. “Lead it to the Two Pines. I shall meet you there.”

An excited commotion shakes up the group of samurai. It is not a happy excitement, but rather a familiar heat of the only work they are accustomed to, the only path they know. When but one course of action remains open, everything becomes right and clear even in the times of chaos.

“But lord, where are you going?” Maeda asks in surprise.

“I must visit the village by the river nearby, the one that my mother described. There may be those who know of my brother’s whereabouts.”

“Lord, is it the time for this?” Maeda argues. “We can search for Hyakkimaru-sama later, once the matter with Imagawa is settled.”

“Must we not put the late Lord’s last will before everything else?” Tahomaru retorts, his gaze heavy. “I believe you can manage the preparations without me being present for a day.”

Maeda purses his lips, shamed, yet still objects, “I can’t let you travel alone, lord. That area is controlled by the Ikki, a group of rebellious peasants, whom we haven’t yet brought to obey. I shall charge the troop of at least thirty finest samurai to accompany you; no, I myself shall go with you,” Maeda says firmly. “Saito, get the army ready by The Two Pines. You’ve heard Lord Tahomaru’s order.”

“Yes, sir,” the samurai bows shortly.

“Send somebody for Lord Takenaga, he must still be here,” Tahomaru adds. “I will need his forces deployed by Shibayama Lagoon, on the high southern shore, and be ready to advance should the reinforcements be needed.” His mother’s cousin, Awazu Takenaga, became the head of his clan not so long ago, and even though there had been little amity between him and Lord Kagemitsu in the past, he seemed genuinely glad yesterday to see Tahomaru alive. “At least five hundred should stay here. Great River Castle is too vulnerable from the north as well as from the east: the mountain passes are within a day’s reach.”

“Lord?” Maeda gives him a surprised look. “Miwa clan has been our good neighbor for generations. As for Hatakeyama on the east, they are weakened now by internal conflict for the succession. There is no need for such a reinforcement. You must take as much samurai as you can afford to Daishoji Fortress so as to bring Imagawa to his senses without even engaging in a needless battle.”

“Old alliances may vanish in the blink of an eye, as we could see. I will not leave this castle exposed,” Tahomaru says with finality.

“Yes, lord.”

His counsellor will argue with him till he is blue in the face, but once the lord has made the decision, proceeding with it is the only path.

Setsuna is still there when Tahomaru turns around. Her face is pale, and her eyes are clouded with a deep shadow. Yet again, she is being left behind within the walls of this castle, watching men go to war. Tahomaru shortly bows to her, wordless, and proceeds to get ready for the depart.

“In this world, you either kill or be killed”, Father would say. But his brother showed him a third way that day. The way of mercy and understanding. Putting on his armor once again, Tahomaru wonders whether he is strong enough to hold to that path, too.

Chapter Text

The sun was slowly sinking down behind the bodies of the dead and the dying—a humongous red ball that had a hard time squeezing its overstuffed belly into the underworld, having soaked too much blood. There was no light in that sun—it could not rip through the clouds of bitter smoke. Only the color of blood seeped through. The whole sky above him was overflowed with it.

A black raven was hovering over his head, cutting through the last rays of the sunset in a wide circle, its eye set on the tasty piece. Not yet, he thought. Stupid creature, do you not see that I am still alive? Soon, you will have me. Soon, you will peck my eyes and rip the flesh off my bones. Soon.

…Fly then to her, sit on her terrace. In place of the white dove with a letter on its leg, she will see you, a black messenger of Death, and will understand at once that I have married another. On the field by the two crooked pines, among the fuming autumn grass, She has received my vows, and I will be constant to Her.

The raven cawed and went for another circle. It could let itself be patient. There were voices all around, voices of torment. Of fury. Of desperation. The last sounds of life, faint and enraged, long and short, were falling from the lips that moment later would freeze forever, pale masks of anguish and pain.

A samurai lying next to him, his leg cut off, his body half-burnt, looked up into his eyes. He did not wail anymore. He just smiled at him, his eyes clear, as if the pain had no power over him anymore. Who was this samurai? Maybe they had known each other. He could not remember.

What was his own name again? Ah. He hadn’t even had one. Just a number. The third one.

He closed his eyes, feeling his blood trickling away and down, down into this soil, mixing with the blood of the others into one terrible flood of red. Would it revive this scorched desert?

...He knew it would not. It was only the beginning. It would get worse. He saw it before his eyes. There were thousands of colors blowing in the wind, tens of tens of thousands. There were corpses covering the land, air above them black with the swarming crows. There were flames devouring temples and palaces, villages and towns. There were flashes and roar produced by the guns, something he had only heard about in the stories of the distant shores; guns held by the hands of samurai. He wished he could tell her. She would have believed him, she always had. They used to think that those visions were important, that they were meant to change something. But it turned out they were vain. He smiled. Every being tends to think that its life has some profound meaning, but in the end, existence is just that—vanity.

“Those images are not real,” a low and deep voice intruded into his mind, like distant rolls of thunder. “And they may never be.”

Oh, but they will, he wanted to reply, yet it was already too late to voice anything. He was drifting into darkness, his body fettered by the chains of this quiet marriage. He looked at the sun but saw only black smoke. He gulped the water of rivers dyed in red. He died a million deaths, each of those more agonizing than this one. He barely sensed the pain of the wounds covering his own body—because the pain of others was immeasurably above everything else.

…Yet he did recognize a tiny, almost gentle, prick in his arm, just below the elbow.

“‘What was the point of my birth if I end up like this, a nameless corpse among the hundreds of others ground up by a senseless strife of a tiny domain?’ is what you think, I guess,” the voice was growing louder while the wailings were fading, and the darkness began to slowly shift. As if being washed away by the tide…

Why? Is it…releasing him?

“I collected this blood from those around you who were still alive. There will be more. Wait.”

The voice and the sound of steps moved away in the new silence surrounding him.

He felt a touch: the nameless samurai, exerting the last effort, reached out to drop some tiny object onto his palm. Clenching his fingers over it instinctively, The Third One looked up into his eyes, only to see them slowly closing, the last sparks of life fading away. Their bodies were connected with a thin straw, arm to arm.

The raven dipped and sat onto the samurai’s bloody mess of a chest.

Why?

He asked it once the steps returned, and another portion of blood was inserted into his vein. A nameless blood. How fitting for him… His voice regained the sound as the last strength of others revived his body further, bit by bit:

“Why…me?”

“Why not?” the voice countered. “I sensed a thirsty soul in you, the soul of an outcast. I know it too well. Now, gather yourself and rise. Your path has only just begun.”

~ The story of Ikki ~

The sun shines high in the cerulean sky when they leave Great River Castle in the direction of a lone mountain looming like a mournful shadow over the southern horizon. Tahomaru pulls the reins, halting on the high riverbank before the bridge, struck by the scenery. Long years will pass before life returns to its slopes. But their descendants never will. The place that was once his home is now forever cursed, defiled by the beast of Hell that was invited there by no other than Tahomaru himself.

Maeda Masahiro waits patiently by his side, having ordered his samurai to check the way ahead, even though they are yet to step into the rebellious area. Tahomaru spurs to resume his ride, but his steed balks, whinnying loudly.

“What’s the matter with this horse?” Maeda frowns. “I shall order to bring you another one, lord.”

“No need. This is a fine horse. I was just too harsh on him, I suppose.”

Maeda eyes him keenly. “You were not. But your mind must be in disturbance because of all the troubles. The horse feels it.”

Tahomaru purses his lips, saying nothing. His mind is not calm, true; but it has nothing to do with the troubles. This is foolish, but lately he has developed this weird aversion to horses. Or maybe not so weird, considering he is still having those nightmares… Still, it is too foolish and unfair to the noble creatures, Tahomaru thinks with self-reproach. He shivers internally, forcing himself to caress his steed’s neck soothingly.

“Asakura suffered terrible losses in the autumn campaign, too,” Maeda says, misinterpreting Tahomaru’s anxiety. “It would be a wild gamble on his part to make a move now, at the break of the sowing season. That man is greedy, but he is not insane.”

“Asakura may have nothing to do with Imagawa’s rebellion,” Tahomaru shrugs. “It was but an assumption of ours. For all we know, Imagawa could have really gone insane; or he may have something up his sleeve that we have no idea about. For now, guessing his reasoning is pointless.”

“You are right, lord. In either case, the traitor’s reasons are of no importance.” Setting his mouth tight, Maeda turns back to cast a look at the castle. From here, it looks like another light cloud flowing above the horizon. A shadow darkens his eyes.

“Don’t worry, Maeda-san,” Tahomaru says, intercepting his glance. “I spoke with your daughter this morning. I believe she will be fine. She has a strong will.”

“Lord…” his advisor’s voice catches with emotion. “I am sorry for troubling you with this small matter.”

Tahomaru shakes his head. No man should witness all his children, every last of them, die. And Setsuna was seeking death, not revenge. Or else she wouldn’t have revealed her intentions to him in the first place. She would have rather kept a low profile until the opportunity came, or hired a ninja to find and quietly assassinate her sworn enemy, maintaining a humble and fragile image as the noble ladies would do—that is if avenging her brother and fiancé had truly been her intention.

But was it really death she was seeking, Tahomaru wonders now. She could have killed herself plenty of times. Instead, she confronted him as though in the last desperate attempt to find some ground in the flood of darkness that had engulfed her. A cold and resolute samurai daughter—or a lost, scared young girl hoping for someone to lend her a hand, too proud to even realize it?  

“Who was her fiancé, by the way?” Tahomaru wonders out loud, realizing he never asked that before. “Was it arranged or by her own will?”

“It was Imagawa’s third son, Taizo, my lord,” Maeda says, causing Tahomaru to flinch. “They were close friends since their childhood, and although not much could be said about his martial skills or bravery in battle, for he was a rather mellow young man, I thought it was better to let the heart choose. All I wanted was for my daughter to be happy.”

Tahomaru nods bitterly. He has but vague memories of that guy, meaning Taizo was no match for him in the dojo, indeed. He remembers his elder brothers Yoshimitsu and Yoshiaki, though: they were strong and skilled swordsmen, but eventually Tahomaru surpassed them as well.

He frowns, “This is an unfortunate development, then. You were almost a family, and still Imagawa has turned his back on you without a second thought.”

“I have known Imagawa Yoshinori from his teens,” Maeda confirms. “He had always been a man of honor. I could foresee him oppose the lord’s choice of heir for the obvious reasons, since he cherished his elder sons above everything, and he isn’t the one to forget a grudge, not even for our longstanding comradery. Truth be told, prior to your return, I was prepared for him to move against me and those loyal to the rightful heir upon learning about Lord Kagemitsu’s decision. That is why I delayed announcing it. But I cannot imagine what made him go as far as to betray you, lord, and with that cheap excuse too. He had never shown any signs of a plotting mind, nor of nourishing ambitions above his status.”

“So, the only reason for Imagawa to go up against you could have been your decision to support my brother,” Tahomaru clarifies, “and he knew nothing about it. Or at least, wasn’t supposed to. Who else have been informed of my father’s last will?”

“Senior generals Saito and Shimura, and Takajo Suehiro the chamberlain,” Maeda replies slowly, a cold gleam of suspicion appearing in his eyes. 

Not just them. There was another one. The one harboring the same vengeful feelings. Tahomaru suppresses the thought.

“Let us not jump into conclusions for now,” he says in haste to call off the subject he has so incautiously raised. “Imagawa could still have some other motive.”

“I do hope, though vain it may be, that he will come to his senses once he sees you with his own eyes. Maybe then, he will have the decency to put an end to his madness like a true samurai should.”

Which means seppuku. Tahomaru sighs. He doesn’t need another pointless death. But it may be an inevitable result: he might have reached out to a girl who is only beginning to live, but there is not much that he could do for an elderly man who has lost everything and is treading a straight path to his grave.

“Maeda-san, I have a matter to discuss with you once we return to the castle,” Tahomaru says with a sense of unease. He is yet to ask for Setsuna’s hand properly. He has shown her an alternate path, but will she really follow it through? 'To let the heart choose…'  What does he have to offer her beyond the survival, he questions himself yet again, but his mind is rippling with uncertainty, and a stiff detail in his chest offers no response.

“Yes, lord.”

“Let us not waste any more time.” Chasing the thought away for the time being, Tahomaru takes the reins and turns away— when suddenly he catches some movement with the corner of his eye. He looks back swiftly, cursing the blind spot in his vision. But nobody is there. The road behind them is empty, and so is the open pine wood by its side, pierced through by the pearly rays of the sun.

The air is serene. The singing of birds is undisturbed. Tahomaru takes a deep breath, calming his heart.

Of course, nobody is there.  

Sometimes he will still imagine the shadows following his steps closely. But they have gone now far ahead of him, to the dark void from which there is no returning…

“What is it, lord?”

“It’s nothing. Just a rustle of wind, perhaps.” Without another word, Tahomaru spurs his horse forward.

~

“Is it really the Ikki village?” Maeda says in utter amazement, shielding his eyes with his hand against the sun to overlook the high wooden wall. “I don’t recall ever seeing it. Was it even here before?”

“It was,” Tahomaru nods, watching the commotion on the wall. “But certainly not like this.”

“Samurai are coming!” the cries can be heard. “I’ve told you! The Daigo samurai!”

In a moment, a group of men rises to the wall, each of them holding a long spear or a bow.

“What do you need here?” shouts one of them. “Leave or be shot!”

“Indeed, it was too reckless to forego putting on your helmet, lord,” Maeda reprimands him quietly. “We are too close. Please, stay back.”

“We shall not harm you!” Tahomaru rides forward, ignoring Maeda’s suppressed grumbling. “You all are the people of Daigo, the ones whom I, Tahomaru, son of Daigo Kagemitsu, has sworn to protect to the last drop of my blood!”

“Not anymore!” the spearman says, regarding him from the wall with a cold expression. “Now, we’re free people, and we ain’t belong to no samurai clan!”

“We don’t trust samurai! Nothing good comes from samurai!” another one shouts, pointing a spear at him.

“Besides, the heir of Daigo is dead and has been dead for like three months now!” the first man adds. “That’s why the samurai are about to fight for this land. You won’t lure us into obeying with such a cheap trick, impostor!”

“If you want this land, then try to take it from us!” The spears tilt his way, and in the loopholes, Tahomaru can see the archers pulling their bows. Just how did they manage to rebuild and reinforce this village in this short time? These people are amazing!

“How dare you pretend not recognizing the lord, you worm?” meanwhile, Maeda roars with his most menacing combat voice, riding forward to shield Tahomaru from any possible threat. “Lower yourself to your proper level and clear the way!”

Tahomaru raises his hand to stop the bickering. “You have a reason not to believe my words. But there must be someone who knows me by face. Is the child named Dororo here?”

By the commotion among the men Tahomaru can say that the said child is here indeed.

“…I said let me out! Open the gates, dammit! Yahiko! Jiheita! Come ‘ere, tell those dumbasses to open the freaking gates!” the yelling mixed with swearing echoes from the wall, followed by some unintelligible arguing. “Oh, the hell with y’all! I’m jumping then!” The next moment, one of the archers is kicked and pushed aside, and Tahomaru sees a kid springing up and climbing over the battlements. Dororo’s eyes are huge and round like bowls of berries as she goggles at him in disbelief. “It’s really you!”

Tahomaru’s heart skips a beat when Dororo, completely ignoring the height, literally leaps from the wall. She seems fine though when she rolls over and rushes down the embankment.

Tahomaru stills his men, raising his hand, and dismounts.

“You’re alive!” Dororo nearly knocks him down, jumping up onto him like a little monkey, and hugs him with fierce desperation. The next moment there is a punch followed by the drumming of the little fists against his armor as she bawls, tears streaming down her cheeks, “Where the heck have you been all this time?! Bro blamed himself for your death so much, can you even imagine how tough it was for him?!”

Tahomaru chokes on his breath. “He did?” 

“Of course he fucking did, you stupid jerk! That was more words than I’ve ever heard from him! ‘We could’ve made it from there together, I must’ve grabbed him at once, if I only wasn’t so slow, those eyes were so inconvenient—’ Why?? Why the hell you…” She squeezes her eyes tightly, tears spattering on his cuirass, and delivers him yet another pointless punch.

Tahomaru can’t find the words to say, overwhelmed. It sounds so unlike Hyakkimaru… But then again, does he even know his brother as he really is? 

“If only he knew… if only he knew that you were alive… maybe he wouldn’t have left… wouldn’t blame himself for everything… wouldn’t suffer so much…” At last, she trails off and stops punching him, her hands all bruised, and just stills like this, pressed to his chest.

“Dororo!”

They both flinch and look up as three other men appear on the wall.

“It’s him indeed!” exclaims the one in the middle, a tall and bony man in a monk’s brown robe.

“Tahomaru-sama! Unbelievable!” another man, shorter but stronger in his build, adds. Tahomaru recognizes his face: he was in the starving village with a child on his arms, begging for food. It was this man who beheld his vow to all the people of the Daigo's land: 'I will never forsake you.'

“I recognize you, too, although you have less eyes now!” the youngest of the three shouts. “But why did you come here with an army?”

Tahomaru glances over his shoulder at his “small escort” of thirty fiercest samurai on their warhorses, all clad in armor, eyes glaring grimly from within the shadows of their helmets and hands clenching their bows. He curses under his breath.

“Why, indeed?” the tall monk in the middle rejoins. “Keep the gates closed!”

“Arrgh, stop it already, Doushu! Yahiko, tell him!” Dororo loses her patience. “He’s told you they won’t harm us! Let them in!”

Dororo must have some real weight among these men: they contemplate her words seriously.

“But are you certain that we can trust them?” Doushu asks.

Again, Tahomaru has to wave his hand slightly to calm the angry uproar arising behind him: “How dare they doubt the lord’s word!”

“Yes, I am,” Dororo says firmly, her hands on her hips.

“Ugh, I don’t like it!” the youngest persists, clenching his fists.

Yahiko pats him on the shoulder, “Calm down, Jiheita. As for me, I trust you too, Lord Tahomaru. I will never forget your words that day. I know that you care for your people sincerely. You were fighting your own brother to defend our land… This is some tough decision to make.”

“Yahiko! We’re not his people anymore!”

“Sure, Ji, but we were back then…”

“Alright. We will trust you, Tahomaru-sama, and may we not regret it,” Doushu, probably the head of the village, decides at length. “Open the gates!”

~

“The boy who was with you back then… Sakichi… Was it your son? Is he alright now?” is the first thing Tahomaru asks once they are allowed into the village, and everyone gathers in the main hall of the shrine for sharing the meal and the discussion. This village is not ruled by one chief, Tahomaru learns. There is a council of about two dozen men, the most experienced and trusted ones as well as the most young and ardent, who decide on every matter by finding a common agreement. What is peculiar is that Dororo is among them, too.

The man, Yahiko, seems taken aback for a moment by his question, as if surprised that Tahomaru even remembered that.

“Yes… Thank you for your concern, Tahomaru-sama. It wasn’t my son; I was only taking care of him those days, since his parents had died earlier. But he’s alright now: his relatives from another village took him in.”

“Good,” Tahomaru sighs with relief. “Thank you for not abandoning him.”

“No…it’s nothing. Thank you for your help back then, Tahomaru-sama,” Yahiko bows.

The other villagers do not seem as friendly. Their eyes are dark with distrust as they glance at the samurai, some of them tensed with the fear imprinted deep into their hearts, others with an old animosity. The samurai, though, hold themselves with such a calm and a solemn restraint as if they were readying their spirits for committing seppuku; for their lord’s order to lower themselves to these rebellious peasants’ level requires no lesser resolve than the ritual suicide, or even a stronger one. And who can guarantee that there are only peasants among this unruly crowd, they wonder, and not some despicable outcasts—butchers, tanners, undertakers? Woe, then, to them for sharing the roof and the meal with the unclean! But loyalty to death is the only way of a samurai. Their spirits will be cleansed from all the impurity by their blood they will spill someday for their lord, the one who didn’t hesitate to descend even to Hell for the sake of his people, and who was purified in the fiery storm that left no trace on his body…!

Shimura, the chief of guard, lowers his gaze in shame, his eyes watering. In the days of old, such a hideousness would never even have occurred. The accursed village would have been burnt down, with the heads of the rebels put above the ashes, up to the last woman and child, as a fair retribution for this outrageous defiance. It is their, samurai’s, fault that their lord must suffer through the dishonor of this “meeting”. But maybe even more important than the lord’s honor is his duty to keep the society in order. No daimyo should defy the laws of his honorable predecessors, which, established long ago, hold the world from falling into chaos. And yet, they have grown so weak that the events like this became possible. He struggles to not let the tear escape his eye, grimacing fiercely.

“What is it, Shimura?” Tahomaru raises his eyebrow, calm like a Zen monk.

“My lord…” are the only words the samurai can manage to squeeze out of his burning throat.

The lord shrugs in perplexity. Of course, he has no use for his pointless remorse…

“You did well to survive on your own,” Tahomaru raises his voice, addressing the villagers. “Thank you for your hard work in such perilous times. From now on, I shall take care of you.”

“We don’t need to be taken care of, Lord Tahomaru,” Doushu retorts, his voice soft but his words harsh. “We won’t give up this freedom so many people have selflessly fought for. If you want peace, we will gladly live in peace with you. If you want war, we’ll fight. But we won’t belong to you anymore.”

The samurai fall completely silent, tensing, placing their hands on the hilts of their swords. After the words like these, there is bound to be at least one head sent flying over the tables. But the young lord stays calm, his brow furrowed in contemplation.

Dororo looks down and blushes, seemingly a bit guilty but at the same time incredibly proud of her comrades.

I was ready to die for these people, Tahomaru thinks. He almost did, more than once. But really, what difference does it make for them? What good has it brought them? They just want to live calmly on this land, working hard, farming rice and watching their children grow. An honest and simple way of living that has nothing to do with the ambitions of nobility or the code of honor of samurai. The way that he had the chance to try and comprehend himself. Once again, his thoughts drift to the calm village at the bend of the river where he was brought back to life.

“So be it,” Tahomaru decides. “I strive only for peace, so let us live as good neighbors on this land from now on.”

The villagers’ faces change. There are cheerful shouts, uncertain with disbelief at first, then loud and excited, followed by the toasts for the generous Lord and the free people, afterward. But only one voice resounds in Tahomaru’s ears, lingering like a sound of a lonely string:

“Waka… You will create…the land of peace.”

Tahomaru takes a long breath before looking down at Dororo by his side who is beaming at him happily. He returns that smile, his heart weightless in the void. I will, even if it is no longer mine.

Not all the samurai seem pleased with this development: sharing the meal with peasants is a dishonor enough, but the lord giving them the core part of his ancestors’ domain at their outrageous demand?! What blasphemy! Yet none dares to murmur. For now, they are still in high spirits upon his return from the dead, but for how long, Tahomaru wonders. Maeda on his right sips his drink, calm and imperturbable.

“What, you won’t argue with me on this matter, Maeda-san?” Tahomaru asks quietly.

“In these circumstances, this is a wise decision, Tahomaru-sama,” his counsellor says. “Their location within the domain makes us natural allies, and a good ally is better than a grudged subject. Most of the paddies here are devastated, so no taxes to help the other territories could be collected anyway. Letting them manage this village and the surrounding land will free your hands to take care of the more urgent matters. I shall make sure that all your men understand that.”

“Thank you, Maeda-san.”

~

“I don’t like these news about another brewing war with the Asakura, or whomever it is,” Doushu says once the parley is over, the samurai have quit, and Dororo has brought the young lord outside to tour him around “her” village. There are only three of them left in the meeting hall. “What should we do if they attack again? Shall we join forces with the Daigo, or shall we stay inside and defend our village?”

“Daigo, Asakura, Imagawa, another samurai clan… What difference will it make for us, ordinary people?” Jiheita shrugs, arms folded. “Why should we care who rules over there? It’s not like those are demons and these are deities; all them samurai are basically the same and want same things.”

“Jiheita, cut it!” Yahiko loses his calm. “Do you really want to try how it is with the Asakura samurai strolling outside these walls? I’m not that curious, thanks!”

“Tahomaru seems like a wise leader,” Doushu says, rubbing his chin. “As long as he rules, I suppose we can rest assured that no move will be made against us. Asakura or that Imagawa, though, aren’t likely to leave us at peace.”

“Right, fine, got it!” Jiheita waves him off impatiently. “My point is we’re peasants, not warriors, to be dragged into that war mess! Let them settle it between themselves.”

“We’re not warriors themselves, but we have hired enough of soldiers to protect the village,” Doushu reasons. “We have horses, and we’ve bought and collected on the battlefields lots of weapons. Besides, many of our people have been through the last war as ashigaru; they can fight. I hope it won’t be needed. But our village stands by the side of the plain most suited for a major battle, and at the mouth of the Daishojigawa River’s gorge, a roundabout route to this land. There was a reason why the Daigo had built their castle here, since from this place, they could control the southern part of the whole province. We can’t hope to be left alone should the enemy come this far.”

“Our walls are strong! We can hold any attack!”

“Okay, let’s not talk about it anymore for now,” Yahiko interferes. “We’ll see how the things unfold and then decide.”

“Yeah, I’m tired of all the talks today!” Jiheita stretches his back. “By the way, why did you lie to him, Yahiko? Why didn’t you tell him that the boy had died because his body was already too weak to take food by then?”

Yahiko sighs, sending him a frustrated glare. “Have you seen his eyes?”

“His eye, you mean.”

“Whatever. He’s burdened enough. He’s even younger than you and has to deal with the mess his father’s left on him. And yet he’s accepted all the responsibility on his shoulders. There’s no use to add yet another shadow to his nightmares.”

~

'There are signs of others sneaking onto this cape, too. I believe it’s a band of brigands.'
'No matter. Kill every human being who is a threat to the peace of our people!'

“...So, this is why you were on that cape with all those people,” Tahomaru says, his own voice cutting through his memories as if through the deep dark water. “I see now.”

“Yup,” Dororo says lightly, folding her arms behind her head. Now, wearing a decent kimono with a trouser-like hakama, she looks a bit older and perhaps a bit taller, but her attitude has barely changed from that of half a year ago, when they first met by the lake. “We went there this December and took as much as we could, but it is hella heavy! And it’s too far away. So, there’s still lots of it in that cave. We’ll need to make another trip soon. We must help the other villages, too…”

Dororo won’t leave Tahomaru’s side for the rest of the day. She tours him around the village, showing proudly the fruits of her father’s treasure and everyone’s hard work, tells him so many things and showers him with so many questions, from the well-being of his mother to the details of administering the village budget, all the time squeezing his hand tightly, that Tahomaru has little space for wondering why. But he is genuinely surprised. Wasn’t he the one who attacked them multiple times, once even bringing a small army on five warships? The one who allowed to take her hostage? Isn’t she supposed to fear him, resent him, at the very least keep her guard, instead of spilling out proudly who her father was and where the money for rebuilding this village have come from? But there is not even a hint of animosity in her demeanor, and the way her slightly red eyes still shine, the way she shifts her look away yet clenches his hand as if in fear that he may vanish… Tahomaru begins to understand. She misses Hyakkimaru so much.

“You’re so alike,” Dororo blurts out, proving his guesses right, once they are in the stables: the day is declining, and it’s time for them to say farewell. She pats the neck of her gorgeous white horse, feeding him hay from her hand. Regulating his breathing, concentrating on nothing but her words, Tahomaru drives the gory images away. The colt has grown to be so much like his mother… Dororo’s cheeks are slightly blushed as she continues, oblivious to his uneasiness, “I’ve always seen it. I didn’t want you to fight. I tried to tell Bro many times, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He didn’t understand back then…that having family is so cool. Of course, he’s got me, but…when there’s someone who looks like you, whose blood is the same as yours…it’s the whole other deal. I know.”

“He did listen to you,” Tahomaru says. “After all, he was the one to spare me.”

“Yeah, I know. He told me everything. That you returned him the eyes, too… I thought it was so stupid and unfair that you had to die like that, after you’d reconciled and defeated the last demon together.” Her eyes begin to glisten once again as she adds, “Bro will be so happy to learn that y’all are alive. We were searching you in the ruins for so long, you know, until the samurai and your dad appeared. I had to pull him away then…well, so that they wouldn’t meet. But we heard they’d been rummaging the place through and through for many days after that.”

Tahomaru bites his lip, trying not to focus on the images of his father searching for their bodies day and night, covered in his own blood, while they were safe and peaceful in a village a few hours away by water. He reminisces the late autumn in the humble house, the simple labor to put his mind in order, Mother’s gentle care and Sensei’s grounding presence. Tahomaru was defeated in a sense much deeper than the loss of a battle. It took him weeks and a lot of inner struggle to take his first full breath. It is no use to even regret now his inability to face the past sooner: regrets are only justified when you have chosen wrong. But if you were too weak to even make a choice, isn’t regret just a self-indulgent delusion?

“But what happened after that?” Tahomaru asks. “Why has he gone off on his own and where?”

“I don’t know, okay.” Dororo’s voice gets edgy as she rises to her feet, brushing the hay from her hands. “He left back then, in November, all alone, without even taking a sword. While I’m kinda glad he didn’t, still, it’s dangerous out there!” She starts pacing the stable house anxiously. “What if there are ghouls left? He can’t even protect himself!”

“I believe he doesn’t really need a sword to protect himself,” Tahomaru hums, recalling his brother’s wild reflexes and strength.

“Okay, but he hasn’t even taken any warm clothes with him! It was freaking winter, and hella harsh too, and he had no idea about winters! That it’s cold and you must look for a shelter; and he can’t even hunt or spear a fish with his bare hands! And I haven’t taught him how to do a proper fishing—”

Tahomaru chuckles quietly.

Dororo stops pacing and sends him a glare. “What’s amusing?”

“You are overly protective. A woman must have some trust in her man.”

“W-what are you saying!” she chokes on her anger. “I’m not some stupid woman!”

“Nah, you are not. But keep it up and someday, you will make a perfect wife.”

“C-cut it already!” Dororo’s cheeks are glowing red. “I’ve told you I’m not a— Wait, how did you even figure it out?”

Tahomaru lifts an eyebrow. “What, have you actually been trying to conceal it? I thought you were just a tomboy. I’m sorry then.”

“I’m not a tomboy! You may know lots of stuff but you know shit about me!” she hisses, her eyes turning dark at once.

Tahomaru purses his lips, shamed. There is some curious strength about this girl, something that makes her seem older than she is and than she acts. She has seen a lot in her life, that is for certain, yet has managed to remain untouched by all the evil and filth. Tahomaru suddenly remembers what escaped his conscious mind on the battlefield, where he and his brother collided in their demonic powers: the crystal-clear light of the two small souls, one of a human and one of a colt, flickering madly in worry and pain. Hyakkimaru, just like the mother-horse, had turned himself into a nemesis and cut through the land of Daigo like a sword cuts through flesh, all for the sake of this girl. How could he, Tahomaru, assume that he knew anything about her, having no idea of their path together, of their struggles, of their bond?

“True, I do not,” he admits, softly. “Do you consider yourself to have been born in a woman’s body by mistake?”

“What?” Dororo looks at him, confused. “I don’t. I just— I’ve got to be strong to survive. Always had to.”

“You need not to be a man to be strong. There are women who are stronger than most of the men can ever hope to be. Trust me, I have known one of them.”

“So, she really was a girl!” Dororo exclaims. “I thought so! I just looked at her face and figured… It was so calm and beautiful.”

Tahomaru inhales sharply, shaken by a sudden jab in the pit of his stomach. He stiffens, quickly collecting himself.

Dororo glances at him cautiously. “If you want… I can show you their grave. We buried them near that place where you fought, down by the stream where the large stone is.”

“Please,” he replies, his voice gone at once.

~

The boulder is huge and smooth, polished by the swift water of the stream running down the slope. Its clear silver arms embrace the fallen piece of rock, unable to move it from the way, and thus forming a tiny island. About a dozen steps down the riverbed, the water arms find the chance to interlock again, reuniting. There, on the right bank by the confluence, a single grave is set.

Tahomaru holds his breath, touching the dark gravestone. They were always together in life. Death, too, has failed to separate them…

“The rock divides the stream in two,
  And both with might and main
Go tumbling down the waterfall;
  But well I know the twain
  Will soon unite again”

—he recites quietly.

Dororo gawks at him. “This is a pretty verse. Did you just compose it?”

“Of course not. Emperor Sutoku did, many generations ago. It is one of the hundred famous tanka every child must learn by heart.” Mutsu had learned them all first, even faster than Tahomaru. She always strived to be the best, opting for swiftness and precision where she lacked physical strength, 'for how can I protect you if I am weaker than you?' Tahomaru did not want to be protected by her. He would have rather had it the other way around, but to say it would have been a deadly insult to her. In fact, he did try it once—

He clenches his teeth, cutting the thought abruptly. No point in reminiscing that. No point anymore…

“Well, I haven’t attended a school, so…” Dororo grumbles, trailing off, and puffs her cheeks. After a while, she asks hesitantly, “That emperor… did he write it about someone he was separated from? Did they meet after all?”

“It is unclear,” Tahomaru says. “Some consider this verse to be a simple observation of the nature, others say that it refers to the Buddha’s teaching about the unity of all things, or that it was a love poem. Or it may be, after all, that he was expressing his wish to return home and reclaim his throne; for even though Sutoku was the elder son of the emperor Toba, he was forced by his father to abdicate in favor of his younger brother.” Tahomaru pauses, feeling shivers creeping up his spine. Doesn’t this story sound familiar? His voice is tensed as he continues, “Eventually, Sutoku died in exile. He was said to have resented the Court and became a vengeful spirit upon his death. Everything, from the subsequent fall in fortune of the Imperial court to droughts, calamities, and internal unrests, was blamed on his haunting.”

“Oh, shit,” Dororo curses, “just like Bro. I bet he is blamed for everything now…”

“No one blames him,” Tahomaru asserts. “As no one will ever banish him from this land for as long as I live. I will find him. You will unite again.” He steps away from the grave and bows low to the little girl before him. “Thank you for burying them. I am forever indebted to you.”

“W-what,” Dororo waves her hands in fervent embarrassment, “d-don’t mention it! I did nothing anyway, it was the guys…”

“Then I shall thank them, too, the next time I visit.”

His samurai are already waiting for him by the road. Tahomaru touches the neck of his horse, feeling no more of that irrational fear. As if his soul has been strengthened a bit by the short meeting with this girl and her horse, or by this place alone…

“Where are you going now?” Dororo asks.

“To the border, just like I said at the meeting, to subdue a rebellious samurai.”

“Will there be war again?”

“I hope it won’t be needed. Once he sees me and all the samurai faithful to me, he can’t continue to pretend not believing that I am alive.”

The girl nods, brushing her fingers through her horse’s pearly mane. She stays silent for a moment, chewing on her lip, until at last says quietly, without lifting her eyes, “Tahomaru… Please, don’t hate Bro. I mean, I get that you don’t think of him as an enemy anymore, but still—” she looks at the stone upon the grave, her words barely audible, “please, don’t hate him. He’s done some horrible things, and he regrets them so much. Just…so much. I know it.”

Me? Hate him? As if I were the one in the position to—

“I do not hate him,” Tahomaru says, and this very moment, standing by the grave of his closest people, his heart heavy but his eye dry, he means his words. He can’t feel any hatred.

Actually, he can’t really feel anything, or else he would not be standing but crouching on his knees in terrible pain...

But for now, just knowing is enough. He can’t hate his brother. He can’t.

He has the duty to ensure that their father’s last will is fulfilled, and the things are brought back to how they should have been if the deal had never been made. The true heir should inherit this land. This is what matters now.

Tahomaru can feel Dororo’s attentive eyes on him as he mounts his horse and sends it down the slope, and then north, to the plateau still black from the blood that was burnt down to the ground.

Looming above it are twin pines, big and strong but crooked, wringing their branches as if they were silently writhing in pain.

~

“…Wait!”

“…Wait! Wait, I say! Taho…maru!”

He pulls backward and wrenches his horse around. Dororo, breathless, is running to him down the road. She bends over once she catches up, gulping the air.

Tahomaru looks at her in surprise. “What is it?”

“I’m going with you. Don’t you try to object ‘cause I’ve already decided!” she waves her arms around furiously.

Tahomaru is too taken aback to really object, so she continues with enthusiasm:

“No one knows Bro as good as I do. We’ve got our secret signs and signals, you know, like special smoke and such! Without me, you’ll search him for ages. Concerning the village, well, don’t worry, they can do decently without me for a while. Besides, I’m the best travel companion one could ever hope for! I can survive basically everywhere, I can do everything on my own, and I mean everything, and my stone throwing skills are no joke!”

“Where is your steed, then?”

“Eh?” Dororo looks taken aback, too, by the lightness of his question. “Yuki’s too young yet, and it’ll be safer for him to stay back…”

You are the one to talk, he thinks. Taking a child to a potential battle? But suddenly, an idea crosses his mind. Tahomaru hums, amused, as he appraises her dubiously, “So what, are you intending to run on your own alongside us? Are you really that good at travelling?”

Dororo looks at him with a deadpan expression. “No. I’m intending to have you offer me a ride, you witty samurai boy.”

Tahomaru smirks, extending his hand. Dororo reaches for it with a victorious smile.

~

The sun sinks into the mist, turning the hills and the dales of Ishikawa to a golden haze, as they approach the Two Pines. On the field, they see a great host of samurai, their yari spears shining like a pine wood in the last rays of the sun, their banners with the crests of their clans fluttering in the cold breeze like foam on the sea. Loudly and joyously they shout as Tahomaru rides forth, and he greets them with heavy heart.

Dororo quietly gasps in his saddle. She has never seen an army so big while still in all its glory. What she was used to witness was the aftermath: corpses covering the bloody mud, banners lying around broken and torn, and not proud colors but black swarms of crows curling in the stale air…

“Only one thousand we have managed to muster here, lord,” Saito, commander of cavalry, reports as he rides up to Tahomaru. “But all of them are mounted samurai fully devoted to you. Responding to your request, Awazu’s two hundred horsemen have set up on the high southern shore of Shibayama. Five hundred our men remained in the castle. The scouts set off east and west this morning; we await their return soon.”

“Thank you for your service,” Tahomaru nods. “Set up camp for the night. Here, we shall wait for the news.”

“Yes, lord.”

Tahomaru dismounts and reaches out to help Dororo, only to find her already on her feet, strolling independently among the confused samurai. She looks around the place with curiosity. But her face is pale, tensed, as though in trepidation that she struggles to suppress.

She seems so out of place here, this little girl who hates all the things related to war, yet time and time again finds herself in the very midst of it. Shortly introducing her as “a family member of great importance”, exchanging mechanically with his generals about provision, logistics and other urgent matters as though he has been doing it his whole life, Tahomaru suddenly feels his mind blank out, seized with a keen sense of incongruity. He halts, looking blindly over the fussing camp. A thick lump is forming in his throat. Here he is, commander of the army bigger than he ever imagined leading in his teens, even as he persuaded Father to let him to war. Every last samurai left in this domain, except for those defending the castle, is now gathered here, all of them trusting him wholeheartedly, ready to follow his order even to their death. Is he, a boy of sixteen, competent enough to wield that power? Why should all these old and experienced warriors trust him in doing so? What if he commits a mistake—will they dare to oppose him, or will they follow his will, believing blindly in his miraculous ability to “feel the flow of life” and the divine right to send them to death?

“Tahomaru…” Dororo steps beside him, brushing her fingers against his hand. Her voice is quiet and strained as she asks, “Should you really go fight that samurai? Let him rule if he wants it that much. We can live just fine in the village all together, all we’ve got to do is just find Bro… Well, and take in Sensei and the Lady will be cool, too…” She clenches her fists as she looks up at him, her eyes glimmering harshly, “Why must you get dragged into this stuff again? Why the land must suffer another war?”

“I can’t—”

“I know, I know, you can’t give away the land of your great samurai ancestors and all…”

Tahomaru shakes his head. “It's not about that. In truth, I am not the ruler and I can’t give away what is not mine. This domain belongs to my brother, by our father’s will and by the right of birth. He is the one to decide its destiny.”

My only role is to preserve it until he is here to make a decision.

Dororo glances up at him, looking taken aback, but quickly drops her eyes. “So, that is why you are searching him? Your father really wished that?”

“Yes.”

“I know what he’ll say,” she mutters. “‘Don’t need it’.”

“Well, that will also be a decision.”

And a very probable one, Tahomaru thinks. What will he do in that case? He only came back to keep this land from falling into the chaos of internal wars for the succession, yet that’s what he is doing now. Leading an army to a war. Tahomaru shakes off the chill spreading over his shoulders. To let Imagawa rule all he wants… Perhaps, she is right. Is that what he would have done, restraining his urge to meddle in the affairs of the land he had once failed, letting others to decide its future, had he not had his father’s last will weighing on his shoulders with the heaviness of guilt and duty?

Did he make another wrong decision when he chose to come back? Was his cowardice actually the lesser evil for this land?

What would Hyakkimaru do in this situation, he wonders, had he been the one raised as the heir? Would he give up the rule and step aside—or would he crush the rebellion firmly and fiercely?

“There is still a chance to avoid battle,” Tahomaru says. “Imagawa only needs to see me with his eyes, like you have done, and realize there is no trick. He has no reason to oppose at least my rights.”

“Yes. Sounds legit. Then why don’t you believe it will happen?” She looks him straight in the eye.

Tahomaru looks away. He watches the grey dusk closing over the mountains with the same imminence with which the light faded from Mutsu’s eyes.

“Because… I guess I’ve long since lost any right to hope for the best.”

Chapter Text

The white fluff that falls thickly from the sky is actually a firm water. A water that you can eat. Who's made it like this? Hyakkimaru takes a handful from the ground and gulps it down. It burns his throat.

He knows it’s called “snow”: he heard people in the village below talking about it. There’s too much of it in the mountains this year, they said. The mountain gods are willful and cruel, they said. You’re better off not going there, there’s nothing but cold, white snow.

This is exactly why he did go. 

The snow is everywhere: up in the air and under his feet, melting on his face and gluing his eyelids, turning into ice. Everything is blurred within his view, and the forest disappears in the blizzard. His eyes are useless.

Hyakkimaru squeezes them shut, but only flat darkness encircles him. No light of souls. Not a spark of the demonic flame. Not a single living shape… except those that haunt him.

'…You took it from me!'

He flips his eyes open, heart shuddering in his chest.

This is the darkness he can’t face.

He’s freezing. He’s been walking for days with nothing but his worn-out kimono and a thin cloak on. Hyakkimaru has never felt this cold: he only regained his ability to sense last spring. But his gut feeling is telling him that if he stops walking now, he may never, ever rise again, so he keeps going. His legs feel heavy and stiff, senseless, like prosthetics. It was easier to reclaim them from the demons than to protect them from the frost. Maybe this frost is a demon, too? He can’t be sure now. All he sees is blurred whiteness.

It’s his hearing that betrays him next. The snow under his steps resounds like the crackling of fire. Crack. Crack. Craaack.

The momentarily relief turns into a never-ending reminder.

Fingers frozen on the pouch with the rice seeds, he stops. The crackling stops, too. And it is the first time in a long while that he feels it:

Nothing.

Hyakkimaru rises his head toward the invisible sky, relishing the absence of any feeling.

Not a sound, even of his own breathing. Nothing before his eyes. Even the ground under his feet is almost intangible, soft and welcoming. It accepts his body, wraps him in a fluffy embrace. Extinguishes the last sparks of pain.

Nothing.

Time passes. It grows dim, but not really dark. Nights are never completely dark, never completely like blindness. Light is always there, even if faint and distant. The white haze catches it from the sky and disperses all around. Then, it grows brighter again, and the snowfall ceases. Another morning comes.

Hyakkimaru sees the grey foggy sky above and an endless, pure-white slope ahead. It goes straight up into the colorless void.

On all fours, he rises from his snowy cocoon. It must be cold, but his body is aflame. Hyakkimaru tears off his cloak and throws it away. It doesn’t help. He flips his robe open on the chest. He wants to tear his chest open, too: his flesh is burning.

His mind is fooling him, he understands that much. It’s giving up. Decides there is no point in perceiving reality anymore.

Is it the last mercy of death, Hyakkimaru wonders, suffocating. Did the fire, on the contrary, feel freezingly-cold at the last moment?

'Brother, I will give these to you…'

He’s not dying here. Not after everything. But the snow under him is steaming, dyed in deep red. It’s not water, this snow isn’t made of water. The blood is dripping from his hands and from his eyes. Every pore of his body is oozing blood.

It turns into flowers, red demonic flowers that lick his skin like fire.

'I sing when I’m feeling sad. Instead of crying…'

A scream rips through his throat. His body arches in agony. It throws him up onto his feet and sends blindly rushing ahead.

~

The hut appears before his eyes like another delirious vision, buried in snow to the half. But the downwind side is free, and Hyakkimaru distinguishes the door. It is shut, and no smoke is rising above the roof, but it must be warmer inside, and there’s a lot of firewood piled up under the porch. He’s saved.

“If you wanna live, you better off not entering this hut,” a strong and clear voice shouts, making him halt.

Hyakkimaru abruptly turns around. Standing by the trees is a tall, fluffy creature. It takes his fuzzy mind a moment to process all the details and conclude that it must be a woman. Her hair is tied in a high ponytail, and she’s dressed in men’s clothing with an overcoat of animal fur above it, yet her voice is indeed feminine. She holds a long bow raised to shoot.  

“Away!” she commands, fitting a burning arrow to the string.

A flash of fire hits the door and spills over the wood. Another one pierces through the thin decrepit shutters; then another one, and another. The hut is set aflame in no time—there must be oil spilt all over it.

“Why?” Hyakkimaru wants to ask, but the sound gets stuck in his throat.

Glued to the spot, he watches the fire destroying the house: beams breaking and falling down, roof collapsing into the flames, sparks swirling up to the treetops. The smoke stings his eyes, causing them to produce tears. In the blur, he sees faces, each feature cut sharply into his memory, burned deep by the fire—the first sight he beheld in his life.

He stares, unable to blink, watching them slowly disappear in the roaring fire once again.

“Why?!” he yells on top of his lungs, reaching out to them. “WHY?!!”

The woman answers, but he can’t make out the words. Finally, he is sinking into darkness.

~ The story of Sen ~

“Winter this year is abnormally cold. Maybe it’s true what they say about this land being cursed…”

Hyakkimaru opens his eyes, but the orange light is so dim he can’t identify the place. The dancing fire faintly reflects on the high ceiling. It looks like a wild rock. Is he in a cave?

“…Nah, fairytales. It’s just nature. It happens.”

The woman’s voice bounces from the walls, harsh and unpleasant, despite her speaking quietly as if murmuring to herself. The cave must be large. The bristling wind seeps from the outside and deep into Hyakkimaru’s bones, mixed with the heat of fire. They refuse to merge, continuing to torment him simultaneously. The next moment, the voice draws closer, and something touches his mouth.

“Here, drink it. It’ll make you warmer,” the woman, her face now covered with a grey cloth up to her eyes, puts a flask between his teeth and pours some burning liquid down his throat.

Hyakkimaru feels a fierce glow flush through his body. He coughs, desperately gulping the air.

The woman chuckles in a low voice, “Stop rolling your eyeballs, I know it’s strong but it won’t kill you. Better brace yourself for what’s coming next.”

What’s coming next? he wants to ask, but his throat still burns and his breath catches. Except for that, Hyakkimaru can barely feel his body, and he doesn’t feel his legs at all. Are they gone now?

Suddenly, the world begins to spin around him. The ground sways and shakes with each heartbeat. The ceiling is pulsing like a wobbly cocoon. The woman above him is morphing into a weird creature and then back into human. Her eyes multiply. They are dark, but the glow of the fire illuminates the depth, causing it to shine with golden, orange, green and dark-red particles, like the bottom of the mountain lake he has seen on his way. Is she a demon? A ghoul? Or an undead spirit, like that carver? How is he supposed to know now? Why is she hiding her face? Was it poison in the flask?

“What…is…it?” Hyakkimaru chokes out, his voice coming out hoarse from his sore throat, as he senses rather than sees the woman placing some tiny objects on certain points of his body and probably on his legs, too. The next moment, a fire flashes all too near: each pair of her hands takes a burning stick from the hearth and touches it to the objects.

“The only way to save your limbs, probably,” she replies in the same low and dry voice. “Mogusa, a mountain fire plant. Lay still.”

Still? The rolling ground makes it hard not to fall on the ceiling. Hyakkimaru’s body is paralyzed, though, either with the frost or with the poison. Should he collect his last strength and run? Should he kill her? What for?—there’s no body part that he needs to reclaim; and even if he kills an army of demons, will it return him those whose faces he sees every time he closes his eyes, or the one whose face he’s never gotten to see?

It won’t.

…Pain bursts in a flash, stabbing his body like a dozen daggers. Hyakkimaru screams and jolts, a bolt of lightning striking right through him, from his head to his feet, and reaching to the tip of each finger. Now, he’s being burned alive for real. Is it my punishment, he wonders before his mind blanks, as he hears the woman muttering strange words, her tone detached and chanting like a monk’s sutra:

“Kaku to dani
Eyawa Ibuki no
Sashimogusa—”

~

“It is their punishment,” the first man said, his hands running up and down some scorched black figure lying on the ground in the pile of garbage. He seemed like searching for something. “Shouldn’t have stolen my share of rice last month!”

“Serves you right!” the second man laughed, hoarse and creaky, picking up a piece of some metal from the debris. Or so it seemed to Hyakkimaru who was only learning to identify the objects he saw with his eyes. “They could’ve stolen the house from under your drunk ass while you were having fun with their girls! If anyone needed that dirty hole of yours, it is. By the way, that bastard you had with the hat maker’s daughter can be here, too, can’t he?”

“Nah, I’ve told you the boy’s left. I gave him that gemstone I dug up in the mountains and said: ‘Go to the castle town and sell it, lad; buy yourself a horse and a sword so that no scum would pick on you on the road; then go to the north where life is calm and samurai are lazy, find a fine place and make yourself a living with the rest of the money’.”

“Phew! You could’ve prospered now instead of scrabbling for trash in this filth! I never knew you cared for the boy that much.”

“Of course, I did; he’s the only one of my bastards who inherited my mother’s lovely eyes, after all. Besides, those old farts here wouldn’t have left him alone, I tell you, they hated the boy.”

“Sure they did! He looks a lot like you and not at all like them, after all—” the man halted as he finally noticed Hyakkimaru approaching. His sneer turned wider and sharper at once, “Hey, there! Wanna try your luck too? It’s our mine! Go rob corpses somewhere else!”

“I don’t wanna try my luck,” Hyakkimaru replied flatly, overlooking the wreckages. He was staying on the dead ground, ashes extending left and right and all down to the rippling river. The black ruins of some high building, maybe a watchtower, were still standing, an ugly disfigured shape against the pure whiteness of the mountain ridge. They looked like a light gust of wind could blow them down.

“Why you’re here, then?” the first man asked, a grimace of distrust on his flat, round face. It would’ve looked kind if it wasn’t for the glassy glint in his eyes, like that of a crow circling over the dead flesh.

“Was it burned?” Hyakkimaru asked back. “Why?”

“Look at him, such a happy oblivion,” the second man’s sneer shifted sideways. “Did you descend here from the Pure Land itself?”

“Why was it burned?” Hyakkimaru insisted.

“Because of the plague,” the Flat Face shrugged. “That shit spreads fast if not handled quickly. Daigo can be an ass but bless him for reacting so fast.”

“Yeah, our village could’ve been next,” rejoined the Sneer. “But finally we’ve gotten some luck. It’s ridiculous how much stuff is still left! Okay, boy, you can dig a bit down there, too; the place is too large anyway. Samurai consider it unclean, so they haven’t taken anything from here.”

“Well, good for them, I ain’t that picky!” the Flat Face laughed. “Just gotta have a priest read a bit of sutras, and it’ll be okay.”

“Yup, the plague is burned out, that’s what matters.”

“I see you’re picky, too, lad?” the Flat Face casted a sidelong look at Hyakkimaru. “We ain’t no looter scum, okay? But we’re having it tough this season. Gotta look for the ways to survive and feed the children.”

“What is ‘plague’?” Hyakkimaru asked. “Why burn it?”

“Are you making fun of me or what?” the man scowled, his large face reddening.

“Come on, Yaku, the boy’s half-wit,” the Sneer scoffed. “Look at his clear eyes. Must be a bliss inside that head of his.”

The Flat Face didn’t laugh along this time. He glared at Hyakkimaru, his eyes heavy. “Look here, boy. The plague did it. There was a big village, and now everyone’s dead. Old geezers, children, women—and they were some fine women, I tell you! Not even a cat’s left. What is plague, you ask me? The plague is a demonic crap. It starts as tiny stains on your body and quickly eats you alive. You can’t deal with it. It’s invisible and it kills in thousands. Listen here, boy: if you ever encounter it, you just lock the person down and stay away, even if it’s your dear fucking mother, and then burn the place down to the last rat, understood?”

“Yeah, and if you touched someone infected, better just kill yourself at once,” the Sneer added, “and in any case, make sure that your corpse is burned once you’re dead, and no animal touches it. That’s if you’re any decent as a man.”

“Why?”

“Why? It’s thousands over one, boy, that’s why. That’s how it is.”

“But this year’s been beyond tough, right,” the men continued to chatter as Hyakkimaru resumed his way through the debris down to the river. “Something’s off. I tell you it may actually be true, about some demon children that returned from hell.”

“That was one child, I believe. And some horse, too.”

“No, I’ve heard there were two of them. And it was a fire-breathing kirin, not a horse—  Oh, look what I found!”

“What’s it, another arrowhead?”

The voices faded into a far-off ghostly murmuring. Hyakkimaru was stepping on the soft black cover, the men’s words circling in his head. Was that “plague” a real demon who got inside human bodies, disguised as an illness? Or was it the effect of him slaying the demons, like that Tahomaru’s archer had told him on the cape? The demons protecting the land from other demons… Was it how it worked in this world? It didn’t make sense…

Thousands over one? Why should it be like that?

There had been hundreds of people in this village, they said. Only a hollow sound of the wind descending from the snowy mountains, cold and harsh and clear, now whistled over the ashes, raising little black swirls here and there. Hyakkimaru’s mind couldn’t grasp it. He could not feel the numbers, even though Dororo had tried her best to teach him. She would love to talk about numbers: of money, of prices, of various goods. She could count them fast in her mind. Hyakkimaru had learned a bit, too; but at times, he would still blank out, trying to connect words and symbols with the real world around him.

One over thousands. Was it the number of people that had died in exchange for him staying alive? Was he supposed to feel guilty over something he hadn’t done with his own hands? 'This responsibility is for your father, the Lord, to bear…'

Hyakkimaru halted, looking blindly in front of himself.

Was it the number he had killed with his own hands that day, riding the horse?

He didn’t know. He couldn’t see the bodies. He couldn’t see the blood or ash. All he could vaguely perceive were the fading red shapes in the sea of red. And the more he had been killing, the redder it had been getting…

'The body you return will be stained with human blood.'

It was. Dororo’s skin had been colored beautiful, warm shade of white that he didn’t know yet the name for; but his had been ugly black and brown from all the soot and the dried blood on the day he had recovered his vision. Dororo had said she would help him wash it away. He had said no. He would do it himself.   

'Who will stay with you then?'

Dororo would. But he couldn’t stay with her like that.

Lost in thoughts, Hyakkimaru nearly tripped on another burnt object.

Not an object. A body. A black and disfigured body that hadn’t turned into ash. Hyakkimaru crouched down to look at the face. Had it been a man? Or a woman? Probably not a child, but could have been a teen like him. The clothes, the hair, the eyes were gone but the skin and the flesh not completely so; they were just scorched, coarse and dark like the meat fried over the fire. The face blindly stared ahead, deep holes in place of the eyes, mouth opened in a silent cry.

'…There’s nothing but ashes, Bro, please… Please, let’s leave now, until—'

'No! I must find him! I must! I must—'

See.

Was it better not to know his brother’s face at all—than to only know him like this?

Hyakkimaru rose to his feet, his knees wobbly and his head misty.

…Or the reason why they hadn’t found the bodies that day was that they all had turned into ash? The same greasy ash that got stuck to his feet, to his palms, to his clothes, that was filling his nose with each breath?

His vision blurred, and a cruel blow wrenched his guts, crushing him back down to his knees. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, so no vomit came out. Only bitter swells of emptiness arose, pushing through his throat, one after another, again and again, until not even emptiness remained.

Then, the burning came.

It blazed with stinging pain every bit of his body, making him aware of it once again. Aware of the struggle to take each breath. Aware of the effort to hold himself upright. Aware of the light piercing his eyes with thousands of rays, and of the blood gushing through his veins in raging streams, carrying the pain from his heart to each fingertip. Why was life so painful? Was it death that was actually a bliss, not life?

Was it what he had fought for, killed for? Was it what they had sacrificed themselves for?

Being alive.

A ray of clear blue light ripped through the bloody haze of his vision.

Hyakkimaru was staring at something faintly glistening between the black fingers clenched tightly at the body’s chest. The cord had been devoured by the flame, but the remnants of it were still sticking out of the deadly grip of the palm that had been trying to protect something—bright and clear like a drop of water—till the body’s last breath.

'…I tell you, Bro, a gemstone like that would’ve fetched a hefty price! It was reaaally big! Too bad I had no time to spare—could’ve been such a loot…'

Hyakkimaru had never seen a gemstone. Dororo had described him. She would often talk about treasures and their prices. Surely, this boy could have afforded a horse and a fine katana in exchange for it and made it to the north without starving on his way. But perhaps some things were beyond price.

Even if that price was being alive.

Hyakkimaru gripped the pouch at his own chest and scrambled to his feet. Unstable, jerking from the ghostly fire biting at his body on every step, he stumbled away. Away from this land covered in ashes. Away, to the mountains, where there was only cold and snow, and where every flame would fade away.

~

What a vain hope it was.

“—Sashimo shiraji na
Moyuru omoi wo…”

The consciousness comes back to him in a moment with the clear sounds of the woman’s voice.

“Don’t worry. You’re not the first man that I’ve saved with this thing. Feeling better?”

Hyakkimaru sits up, panting. The world is slowly reassembling before his eyes. There are small cones of fuming ash on each of his limbs, and on his torso, too. The ones on his legs are the only ones still burning, thin smoke rising above them. He starts to sense a faint tickling there, too. A bitter scent fills his nose at the same moment.

“Shake those off, too, when you can feel them,” the woman says.

How if he can’t move his legs, Hyakkimaru wants to ask, but the next moment they twitch as if on their own. The pain swells into a thick burning wave. It is bearable, though. It is good. Rolling up and down, up and down, it reminds him of the moment he regained his senses. He stomped into the fire just to try that new peculiar thing. It was horrible. But the cold water Dororo poured on his foot afterward was blissful. Since that day, they became his inseparable companions: the pain and the bliss.

Hyakkimaru drops himself back in terrible exhaustion. “What was that?”

“An old medicine. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”

“I haven’t. I thought you were burning me alive.”

“Why didn’t you fight, then?”

Hyakkimaru looks up into the woman’s calm and curious eyes, the only feature visible above the scarf that is covering her face, and thinks that they are beautiful. Big and long, a bit stern under the curved eyebrows. Now, his mind will always attach this new concept of beauty and ugliness to everything he sees. He doesn’t know why something is beautiful or ugly, he just knows it is. But he also knows that beauty can be deceptive.

“Because I didn’t want to kill you.”

She hums, “Pretty confident, aren’t you.”

“Why did you burn that hut?” Hyakkimaru asks in his turn.

“It was infected. A person who had escaped from the village in the valley was staying there.”

Hyakkimaru flinches. He feels the woman’s sharp eyes on him. He asks, “Where’s that person?”

“Dead, obviously,” she shrugs. “Died a few weeks ago. There’s no cure from that illness. Only the snowstorm prevented me from burning the hut earlier.” The woman narrows her eyes, examining his face, and Hyakkimaru realizes the purpose of her mask. “You don’t look ill. But the plague is treacherous. It may stay invisible for a while. That’s why I can’t take you to my village. But you can stay here until you’re fine. I use this cave sometimes to spend nights when I go for a hunt. There’s a lot of firewood, dried fruits and meat, and pelts to keep you warm. I knew a cruel cold was coming so I stoked up.”

“How did you know?”

“This October, I saw the red Harvest Moon rising,” she says. “This autumn’s harvest was bloody indeed.”

Hyakkimaru notices a bitter smirk touching the corners of her eyes and a painful streak between her eyebrows. It was easier to read disturbances of the spiritual flame, but the details he sees with his eyes can tell a lot, too, if he observes.

The woman frowns under his gaze and turns away. “My name is Sen,” she says as she picks up her bow and walks to the exit from the cave. Only then does she rip off the cloth from her face and tosses it into the fire. “Now, lay and rest. I did what I could, the rest is up to your blood. If it’s strong, you’ll be fine.”

“Thank you. My name is Hyakkimaru,” he replies properly, like Dororo has taught him.

Sen halts on the threshold, turning her head only slightly, her profile sharp against the clear moonlight. “Quite a name you’ve got. Like it’s meant to tell a story.”

“It is.”

“Maybe you’ll tell me it later, then,” she says, walking off.

~

Sen avoids talking to him much, though. She visits Hyakkimaru every now and then, brings food and some healing herbs, shortly describing how to use them. She never takes off her mask and never comes close either, keeping her guard. Hyakkimaru doesn’t insist he’s fine. After all, he can’t be sure.

Days pass, and Hyakkimaru’s fever ceases, leaving him weirdly renewed. His body feels lighter than ever. At the same time, it seems filled to the fullest by some glowing essence, so tight it feels like it might even start to ring, like those icicles hanging over the mouth of the cave when hit by a finger. It is strange.

Here on the heights, the days are white and blue, and the nights are black and silver. The wide sky is clean and silent, filled with different shades of light flowing one into another above the sharp mountain ridges as the sun and the moon rise and set, followed by the stars. Sitting still at the threshold, Hyakkimaru watches. He listens. With each breath, the crisp air pierces his throat with a thousand tiny needles but leaves his body warm inside. Leaves it stronger, clearer. Calmer.

The ghostly fire biting his body is gone.

He’s urging to continue his journey. Maybe to go to the other side of the mountains and see what life is like there; or to the north where he’s already once been, yet never saw the sea with his eyes… But the day he tells it Sen, she just shrugs:

“The recent snowfall has blocked all the passes. Seems like you’re stuck here until it starts to melt. Till February, at the very least.”

“I can manage it,” Hyakkimaru retorts, “I already walked through the snow.”

“Yeah, and ended up here,” Sen scoffs skeptically. Her narrowed eyes are keen, dwelling on him for a while. Then, she takes off her scarf. “Your health seems perfectly fine now, but don’t be so full of yourself. Never underestimate the mountains.”

Hyakkimaru observes her face up close for the first time: it seems quite young, but not as young as that of a girl of his age. Her lips are firm, and her skull bones are sharp with no trace of teenage plumpness.

“You've said I wasn’t the first man you saved with that fire-plant medicine,” Hyakkimaru recalls, carefully stringing the words together. He’s still not quite used to long sentences.

“That’s right.”

“Those strange words you said… was it a sutra? Are you a priest?”

“What? No,” Sen laughs in amusement. Her laughter sounds as awkward as Hyakkimaru’s phrasing as though she hasn’t done it in a long while. “It was just a poem. The first man I saved was my future husband, a young and stupid samurai back then. Severely injured, he fell behind his troop and would have frozen to death if I hadn’t come across him. That poem was his way of confessing to me.”

“Confessing? What did he confess?”

Sen shrugs, “His love, obviously. But it’s no surprise you didn’t understand a word from it. I hadn’t, either, since I was a peasant girl of sixteen and had no knowledge of the high-style Heian Japanese. Them samurai are prone to flowery words. He had to translate it to me and then to explain what’s so good about it, which ruined all the effect,” she chuckles, her voice sounding a bit younger with the little quavers of merriment in it. “Oh, I still remember the shade of red his face turned that moment! He was just a year older than me, after all.

How can I tell her
How fierce my love for her is?
Will she understand
That the love I feel for her
Burns like Ibuki's fire plant?”

She snorts, “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s beautiful. Should it be ridiculous? Sorry, I don’t know much about love,” Hyakkimaru mutters, utterly confused.

Sen’s face changes, the glint of superficial mirth quickly dying from her eyes. They grow dim like the silent cloudy sky. “I think you do, Hyakkimaru,” she says. “I’m sure of it.”

Feeling a knot tightening in his chest, Hyakkimaru thinks of Mio. She loved to sing of a red flower, too. That’s how he perceived it back then—a burning flower, burning with the red demonic flame, since it was the only shade of red that he knew. Yet it was beautiful. The most beautiful and the most sad thing he’s ever perceived in his life.

Is that what love is, he wonders.

~

A few more days pass until Sen decides that it is safe to take Hyakkimaru to her village. “You can’t spend the whole winter in this cavern, or I will have to reanimate you again,” she says with her usual dark irony. The day grows grey under the low, heavy clouds that begin to strew big snowflakes again as they reach a small valley. There is a bunch of snow-covered huts lined up by a quick stream.

Exhausted after a half day’s march through the thick snow, Hyakkimaru savors the view of the cozy strings of smoke rising above the roofs. Even though the gorge seemed pretty near ahead, Sen was leading him down a long winding track, checking the snow depth with a long wooden staff every now and then and prompting Hyakkimaru to do the same. “Fresh snow like this is treacherous: it covers holes and crevices in the rock. You can’t know what’s underneath unless you try it carefully first,” she was teaching him on their way, cooling down Hyakkimaru’s impatient desire to just go straight forward. The slope seemed perfectly smooth to his eyes. But eyes could betray, he had to remind himself again.

Once they get to the bank, they hear loud children’s voices:

“Mother! You’re back!”

On their right, where the forest comes near to the stream, two small figures are waving their hands cheerfully at them. In their colorful, yellow and green clothes, they are very distinctive against the white and grey of the snow-clad forest.

“Mamoru, Yukio!” a strain crawls into Sen’s voice, and the next moment she shouts, quickly raising her bow, “Get down!”

Hyakkimaru blinks. Suddenly leaping out of the forest right behind the children is a greyish silhouette, hazy to his eyes and almost ethereal, like shadows on the snow. Hyakkimaru realizes that it’s a big wolf only when the arrow hits it in midair. Having followed their mother’s command without hesitation, the children got down into the snow just in time. The beast drops dead.

But now, focusing his eyes on every slightest movement, Hyakkimaru does notice at least two more lurking at the edge of the trees. Sen tries to shoot again, yet the distance is too big to aim precisely, and the forest is too thick.

Hyakkimaru takes off at once and plants himself between the children and the trees. “Run to your mother,” he commands, gripping his wooden staff firmly.

The boys quickly scramble to their feet, but only the smallest of them leaves; the elder one (seemingly around Dororo’s age) draws a big dagger from his sash. Hyakkimaru sees it out of the corner of his eye as the wolves attack all at once.

Though big and fierce, probably desperate from the severe hunger, these are but mere animals. Hyakkimaru had been crushing monsters and demons with a plain wooden staff, even shorter than this one, at the time when he was still a boy who knew no deadly slash of steel…

Somehow, it was easier back then. He must be exhausted from the long way now. Besides, he is still not used to his vision in battle, just like it was with his hearing. It will get better with time.

Hyakkimaru stiffens as the realization of what he is thinking hits him. He doesn’t need to fight and to kill anymore. He doesn’t need to get better at this.

“You took them down with just two blows!” the boy’s eyes are huge, almost like those of Dororo when she looked into his eyes for the first time. “How did you…?”

Hyakkimaru remembers to check the wolves to make sure there’s no life in their eyes anymore—he can no longer see the souls fading away, but the fading of the eyes, the way the furry bodies become stiff, like inanimate objects, is no less obvious. The snow melts and steams under the hot blood oozing from the cracked sculls. Hyakkimaru’s heart sinks into his stomach. His mouth feels dry.

He has always been killing to make the malicious red dissolve and disappear. It felt like he was cleaning the world from it. But now, everything is reversed: the flaming red is streaming freely out of the dead bodies, and the pure whiteness is all stained with it. 

Could he have been slaughtering like he did if he had known this horrid view of death all along?

Sen and the younger boy run up to them. There is a mix of worry and relief in the woman’s eyes as she says, “Thank you, Hyakkimaru. But you shouldn’t have risked like that. I would’ve shot them once they came closer.”  

Hyakkimaru shrugs, “There was no risk. They’re just wolves.”

Sen casts a glance at him but says nothing. Instead, she turns to her sons and raises her voice sternly, “Mamoru, Yukio! Have I not forbidden you to cross the stream? Mamoru, you are supposed to protect your younger brother. Could you have protected him against three wolves with a knife?”

“But, Mother, we can’t always stay home like girls! We just wanted to—”

“But’s and just’s are forbidden, don’t you forget the rule! Be a man and accept your punishment with dignity. No shooting lessons this month.”

“But…!”

“Another ‘but’ and I shall add another month to your punishment. As for you, Yukio—” Sen’s voice gets softer as she looks at the smaller boy, “Have you not promised me not to leave the village while I’m away?”

“I have, Mother. I am sorry,” the little boy’s voice shakes with the tears he barely holds back.

“Don’t do this anymore. Not until your arm is healed properly. Your brother is strong, but do not put him in the danger of having to protect you.”

Yukio hangs his head even lower, shamed. Hyakkimaru sees a couple of big tears dropping from his nose. Only now, he notices the boy’s empty sleeve.

“A wolf took off his left hand in late October,” Sen explains to him grimly. “I was on our paddy, reaping rice. Our housewife saved him.”

Hyakkimaru nods, his heart heavy. He notices Mamoru squeezing his little brother’s good hand reassuringly and whispering something in a comforting voice.

Sen eases her tone, probably having decided that’s enough of scolding, as she announces, “Boys, this is Hyakkimaru. He will stay with us till spring. Be kind and civil to him. Now, let’s take these wolves and go home.”

Oh, what a wild elation then begins! The reprimands are forgotten, and the boys jump excitedly around Hyakkimaru all the way to their home, showering him with questions:

“Hyakkimaru is a cool name! Does it mean you’ve defeated one hundred demons?”

“We know some kanji, you see! Father has taught us!”

“You’re so cool! Almost as cool as our father! He fought many great battles!”

“I will be a warrior, too!”

“We have his old sword, wanna look?”

“Where is your sword? Have you broken it?”

“Will you teach us to fight like that, too? I wanna crush enemies just like you!”

“Yeah, and then we’ll go back!”

“We used to live near the castle, you know, in a biiig mansion with a stable house!”

“It’s too boring here in this village, nothing to do but to grow rice… Mother won’t even take us with her to hunt!”

And then again: “Teach us, teach us how to fight like that!”

Hyakkimaru says softly, smiling down at the boys: “Better you teach me how to grow rice.”

Yukio’s eyes go wide in surprise, while Mamoru asks in a confused disappointment: “Eeeh, why? What’s good about it? You’re so boring!”

“Mamoru, enough!” Sen shuts him down.

They stop by a rather big house with a steep roof covered in thick snow. It resembles a giant snowdrift. An elderly woman runs out to meet them, her face worried, and starts to fuss around the children until Sen calms her:

“It is not your fault, Inee-san, I know these rascals just tricked you. What did they come up with this time? ‘Must go help Ichiro-san chop wood’?”

“Exactly, my lady. I should not have fallen for such a shallow lie.”

“We weren’t lying!” Mamoru exclaims in indignation, his small fists clenched. “We really helped him and only after that—” he trails off under Sen’s condemning gaze.

“Inee-san, this is Hyakkimaru, the boy I’ve told you about,” she says to the woman. “Let’s find him some warm clothes. Oh, and would you take care of these wolves, please. They’ll make a fine coat for him.”  

Inee-san—probably the housemaid—looks at the wolves’ crushed skulls, then back at Hyakkimaru. She drops her gaze shortly and bows down, but he still notices a shade of worry in her eyes. “Yes, my lady.”

~

“Where’s their father?” Hyakkimaru asks later, when Sen helps him into some complicated clothing with many cords and knots which belonged to her husband. His mind absorbs all her movements greedily, making sure he will be able to repeat the process on his own. He’s missed on many things in life, but Dororo would always reassure him that he learned fairly fast and would catch up with others in no time. True, the gaps in his knowledge have been filling up fast day by day, but Hyakkimaru still doesn’t feel that he’s anywhere near the full understanding of the things around…

“He went off for war this autumn,” Sen replies casually, fastening the final knot. Though constraining and squeezing the body in some odd places, it sure does feel warmer than his old robe (which Inee-san took to clean and repair). Sen rises up from her knees, overlooking her work, and adjusts some folds here and there. “He never returned. They say there was a great battle, something about fire-breathing demons who killed thousands…” she snorts. “Fairy tales. I believe he’s just found a woman somewhere and stayed with her.”

Hyakkimaru captures her voice falter for a fraction of a second.

“No. You don’t really believe that.”

Sen lifts up her eyes. She chuckles quietly, regarding him with a bitter amusement. “You’re a strange boy, Hyakkimaru. So blunt yet so sharp. So strong that I could’ve cut at your strength, had I been a bit weaker. But it’s okay to sheath your sword sometimes, you know.”

Her gaze sends tingling shivers across his skin. What is she even saying. He has regained his hands now, and he has no sword…has he?

Struggling to calm this sudden turmoil within, Hyakkimaru asks, “Where was that battle? Nearby?”

There are no demons left, but maybe some ghouls are still lurking around killing people… He may as well put an end to this.

“No, it was far away, near the Lord’s castle. We used to live there,” Sen explains. “But after the Banmon had collapsed, my husband made us leave to this village, to my family house. He believed it would be calmer here in the mountains, saying vague things about karma going to strike this domain soon. Turns out he was right. He sent Inee-san to me just as Asakura attacked again. She described me all the epidemic, locust and stuff. But ever since then, there was almost no news from below.”

…Near the Lord’s castle—

The thumping of blood in his ears all but drowns out Sen’s next words.

—there was a great battle—

“Hyakkimaru? I was asking, do you know what happened after that?”

—fire-breathing demons who killed thousands…

“The war has stopped. The castle was destroyed. Everything is in ruins,” he says flatly, his own voice echoing inside him to the drumming of the blood. I did it.

I killed your husband.

He says nothing as he exits the room, feeling Sen’s confused gaze on his back.

~

Hyakkimaru knows that he must, but every time he opens his mouth to say the words, his voice just isn’t there.

Why can’t he? 

This night the snowfall turns into another heavy blizzard. It howls and rages outside like a hundred ghouls, stretching out its cold tentacles through the chinks in the doors and the shutters. Mamoru and Yukio sleep peacefully by the hearth, a square deepening in the center of the main room, curled together along with a bunch of fluffy cats. The younger boy’s stump of an arm, still bandaged up to the elbow, is resting on his brother’s chest, under the latter’s palm that is shielding it with care. Sen bends over them, adjusting their covers, her strict face softening at the sight.

Something squeezes Hyakkimaru’s chest, too.

So, this is what a mother’s care is like, he thinks, wondering what the boys are feeling. True, he also had it, but he could never perceive it as they do. He could not sense the warmth of the hands that tucked him in and combed his hair. He could not hear those warm, gentle notes of the voice that addressed him, nor its strict tone as he was being scolded. He will never do now.

And yet, he did feel safe and calm whenever the Soul was near. His “mama.”

He messed up the word, he understands now. Was it better to address that man “Father”? Are fathers supposed to take care of their children like this, too? 

To Hyakkimaru, the word “father” would ever since evoke a heavy cold petrifying his insides. But not to these boys…

He keeps silent as he helps Sen and her housemaid skinning the wolves: Sen said they should be handled quickly before the bodies are cold. Hyakkimaru learns, watching her hands making precise cuts, nimbly severing the skin and carefully squeezing the fat out of it with the blunt side of a knife. There is a lot of tricks to make a fine pelt that will last long, Sen tells him while he repeats after her.

“My lady, please, don’t,” Inee-san tries to persuade her at first, “you should not be doing a low work like this! Normally, even peasants won’t touch a dead body—”

“Inee-san, please spare me these samurai superstitions,” Sen just waves her off. “Here on the heights, there are no outcasts to take care of this job. Everybody is equal before the mountains. To survive, we all must work hard.”

And they work hard late into the night. Hyakkimaru tries his best to help these two women while his mind gets stuck time and time again, unable to rip through the thick red veil of that day.

Did the father resemble his sons? He must have killed that man, most certainly he did, but he could not even see the faces of those he killed. They were all just red. Red from his own hatred. Hundreds. Thousands. They all had gathered there, Hyakkimaru learned later, to fight back the Asakura army that had invaded the land of Daigo. Not to fight him.

He did not care. Not the slightest bit. They were standing on his way. He just wanted back what was his.

And for that, he took what was theirs.

At the time, he thought it was a fair trade.

…When the work is almost done, Sen asks Inee-san to draw a bath. The housemaid leaves. They are left alone.

Now is the time. Confess. Hyakkimaru opens his mouth, but there’s a thick lump in his throat. He swallows hard on it. The kimono tightens up around his chest, and the tasuki straps cut into his collarbones.

Now.

Another blow of wind shakes the shutters and stirs the fire. A cold draft curls around his ankles. It crawls up his arms and his neck. Hyakkimaru swallows again and lifts up his eyes from the work.

Sen is watching him.

He sucks in a breath. The back of his neck flushes with hot sweat.

“You look tired,” she says softly. “Let’s call it a day. It was quite exhausting even for me.”

“No, I—” the voice comes out creaky from his dry mouth. I’m not some weak boy, Hyakkimaru wants to protest. I’ve been travelling around crushing monsters left and right more than you can imagine. And not just monsters. 

He grabs the knife tighter to keep the tremble in his hands from sight.

Not just monsters.

Sen touches his stiff shoulder and pulls him up as she rises to her feet. “It’s fine. Come on.”

~

She helps him in the bath. The room is small and filled with the hot steam that curls in an uncertain glow of one candle like a mob of hazy spirits. I’m not a child, Hyakkimaru flares up again, and yet again his voice fails him. He barely controls his body. His mind races. The spinning of the thoughts intensifies to the point where they become a senseless blur. Instead, his bodily senses suddenly sharpen.

The water runs down his body and awakens the unknown sensations. For whatever reason, Hyakkimaru recalls the feeling of Mio’s hands on his skin, cleaning and bandaging his wounds. The fierce, excruciating pain mixed with the tingling warmth. Now, it’s worse. There is no pain, but he would prefer it to these odd sweet shivers running all over his body, leaving it painfully strained. Sen keeps silent as she pours hot water over his shoulders, scrubbing them thoroughly with a sponge. He wants her to just leave.

Except it’s him who must leave. He has no right to stay in this house, to sense all this. Not for a moment.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” her low voice wraps around his body and touches some taut strings deep inside. “You’ve never had it?”

“Had what?” 

In the thick damp air, his words die. But she must have heard him. She lets out an amused hum. “How old are you, Hyakkimaru?”

“I don’t know.” How would he know? No one’s ever told him. Or…he just couldn’t hear. “I was born…when this land began to prosper.”

“Must be around seventeen, then.” Sen’s fingers slide over his back, massaging his stiff muscles. It feels so good that Hyakkimaru tenses even more. “Sometimes, you seem much older. But sometimes…much younger.” Her hands are gone from his skin. She rises. “Now, get into the tub and relax properly. I shall leave you.”

~

His body acts strange, and Hyakkimaru has no idea what to do about it. He falls asleep in a small vacant room, aching, craving for something that is neither killing demons nor keeping Dororo safe by his side.

In his sleep, he hobbles through the snow again. He can’t feel his legs. Hyakkimaru looks down—and sees the prosthetics. The blizzard is wailing around him in a hundred voices. Among them, he distinguishes Sen’s words:

“Fresh snow like this is treacherous. It covers holes and crevices in the rock.”

He stumbles over something and barely keeps his balance. The snow is smooth and white under his feet. It is too deep. He can’t see anything underneath. Hyakkimaru takes a step—and stumbles again. He raises his leg higher and stomps angrily into the snow. It works. He takes another step like that. And another. Finally, he can keep walking again, stabbing his feet into the ground like blades into flesh.

“You can’t know what’s underneath unless you try it carefully first,” the wind gently whispers into his ear.

Hyakkimaru drops his gaze—and freezes.

Under his steps, the snow is dyed red. It melts and steams like fresh blood oozing from the wound.

His legs are bared swords.

~

He passes a few days in a haze, helping the family in their mundane duties. “I want to avenge our father,” Mamoru confides to him as they shovel snow before the house in the morning. “I know I should practice hard first, since that demon must be tough. But someday, I will surely find and kill it!” Yukio adds every now and then how he won’t lose to his big brother even with one hand, and together, they will become the strongest samurai ever. Hyakkimaru flinches each time he utters the word aniue. Other than that, everything is a muffled blur.

In a week or so, the blur somehow crystallizes. The snowfall stops, and the frost sharpens. The air grows thick, almost liquid, glistening with a myriad tiny sparkles, and every breath hurts. Hyakkimaru knows that he will eventually tell the truth, but for now, he settles with doing as much as he can to help them endure this winter.

He goes with Sen on a hunt, a wolf fur coat on his shoulders, a long bow in his hand. His vision slowly adjusts to the subtlety of winter colors as he learns to differentiate between the countless shades of white and grey and brown, the patterns of plumage and fur, the shapes of footprints on the snow.

“You can judge how strong the frost is by the sound of your steps in the snow and by the color of shadows on it,” Sen teaches him. “The shade of the sunset will tell you whether another storm is coming, and how strong the wind is going to be. There are hints everywhere, you just need to observe.”

Observe. Take hints. Try the ground carefully before stepping on it. Only now, Hyakkimaru begins to understand. The world he used to live in was anything but that: the true essence of things was the only thing that he perceived. Now, it is the only thing that he doesn’t.

She seems so strong, but her soul is a fresh wound covered with thick layers of pure-white snow.

“Even though it takes everything just to survive, I love harsh mountain winters like this,” Sen looks down at the village that seems so tiny and cozy from the cliff they are standing on. In the deep-blue twilight, it begins to shimmer with warm lights painting the snow with golden and rosy glow. “The world becomes quiet. The mind becomes clear and calm. As if the endless spinning of life stopped and froze for a while to give you a break. It almost seems like there is nothing in the world except of silence and the purity of the snow; no past and no future.”

She looks at him, her eyes crystal-clear yet dark like bottomless lakes.

“So, let it, Hyakkimaru. Let the winter give you a rest. Whatever is tormenting your mind—let the snow bury it until spring.”

~

They will spend the days working, and in the evenings, Sen will teach the boys to write and to count. Hyakkimaru will study, too. The snow will quietly fall outside, or bang against the doors in ceaseless attacks; and he will feel warm and calm as if nothing existed in the world except for this house wrapped in a swirl of snowflakes.   

Until spring.

Chapter Text

The night was half-alive, dripping with mist, exhaling long heavy breaths of stale air. The forest oozed with silence and disembodied howls. Two mounted samurai cut their way through the thick shadows of the mountain road like arrows cut through the water depths, or so it seemed to the one behind as he spurred his horse—harder, fiercer, yet the night appeared to only freeze about him. Arrows don’t cut through water. They stall and get stuck soon, losing all their force.

Something here sucked force, too. Belatedly, the rider realized what it was. Yes, it must be here. Somewhere, hidden in the humid darkness, broken and abandoned—

The darkness stirred. The rider flinched and reined his horse to a halt. Pulsing in his bones rather than in his ears, a low dong of a bronze bell was calling the gods to life. At his left, above the cracked stone of stairs and the fallen trunks, above the moss and the creepers, rose a crippled skeleton of the Hall of Hell. 

Blood throbbing at the back of his eyes, the samurai stared into the black hole of the entrance and saw darkness moving within darkness. A gust of wind soughed across his skin. The smell of the forest, damp and rotting. Death. This place reeked of despair. How could someone come here in search of hope? How had this shrine even appeared here, and how many human lives ago? There was a legend, the rider vaguely recalled his grandmother’s tales, an old legend about the people who dwelt here ages ago, the dark, wild people of the woods…

“Fuku, don’t slow down!” a shout from ahead ripped through the stale air.

The samurai blinked and shook off the chills that had chained him. Right, the air was stale. No wind was rustling in the leaves. No shadow moved. The trees by the road were still, their shadows cut sharp in the orange glow of the setting moon.

This place was dead and abandoned, and no god was dwelling here anymore, not even that of Death itself.

The rider urged his horse forward, rushing desperately after his fellow. Behind them, an enemy of real flesh and bones was nearing, with thousands of steps about to shake this dead silence. They truly had no time to waste on some obsolete superstitions.

But sometimes, hope could only rise out of despair, it came to his mind. A desperate hope.

This is what they will need soon.

~ The story of hundreds and thousands ~

“Taho, what's it like to see with only one eye?” Dororo asks. She covers her right eye with the palm of her hand and turns around on her spot to overlook the darkening landscape. Glowing with hundreds of campfires, the field lies still under the dusky sky, filled with silence too profound to dare to stir it with a loud voice or an occasional laughter. The mists appear from the dark mouth of the mountain gorge, roll down the Daishojigawa's valley and over the Daigo’s army camp, drifting westward, engulfing the massive hump of the dead mountain like the waves of a slow ocean. The young moon declining to the horizon grows ever redder, with the crooked silhouettes of the Two Pines painted in bold strokes against its dim shining. Dororo completes her survey and turns back to him. 

“Very annoying,” Tahomaru admits, stirring the firewood. It puffs and releases a swarm of sparks that swirl up into the empty sky. “The field of view is too narrow, and you can’t perceive the distance precisely.”

“But you were fighting even better those times, on the cape and by the ravine,” Dororo notes, biting on a rice ball.

He shrugs, “Because I was training even harder.”

“You really wanted to kill Bro that bad?”

“I did.” The words are heavy on his tongue. He looks into the flames.

“You were doing it for the people, right,” Dororo states rather than asks. As if determined to justify him, to make him into another big and nice “bro” of hers. Naivete is considered a weakness, Tahomaru muses, but in her case, perhaps this optimism is the reason behind her peculiar strength. Hyakkimaru was lucky to have her by his side.  

“Yes. I considered it the only way to save the land,” Tahomaru does not deny.

'In this chaos, we have to think of better ways to ensure the people’s safety,’ his own words spring to the surface of his mind. 'To teach little girls how to fight is not the way to go.'  He recalls Aki, the girl from the village whom they made a prosthetic arm for. She resembled Dororo in a way, with her tomboyish attitude and the eyes harsh and bright. 'I’m not a tomboy! You know shit about me!'

Tahomaru looks up. He watches Dororo who is seated with her legs crossed in a boylike manner, chewing on the rice balls she has stolen from the army’s supplies on a dare she herself had brought up—and sees yet another girl from ten years ago. It wasn’t their choice but the hardships they had been through that made them tough like boys. But it was their own strength and resilience that let the hardships toughen them instead of breaking.

There are different ways to stay alive in the world that is falling into chaos. Different kinds of strength; from the straight flight of an arrow—to the cunning wit. But ultimately, it is not staying alive that is the biggest challenge. It is staying human. Dying human. Tahomaru clenches his fist.

He has robbed Mutsu and Hyogo even of that ultimate right.

“But what if you did it? If you killed him?” Dororo asks, her voice ringing through the heavy mist of his thoughts like a wind chime. “Would all the epidemics, famines and other stuff never have happened? And all those people continued to live?”

“Yes, for a while,” Tahomaru nods. “But many others, even though not in this domain, would have died instead, killed by the demons that the Deal had invited into this world. And some day, I understand now, it would have ended all the same. Then, all the calamities that had been held back by the demons over the years would have been released. The longer the deal had lasted, the more disasters would have piled up and eventually befallen this land. The demons have great power, but even they can’t cancel the law of karma.”

“So, the things have just returned to how they should’ve been without the deal?”

“So I suppose.” 

“Maybe that’s why he’s left, then,” Dororo ponders, her voice hollow. “If the deal hadn’t been made, we would’ve never met each other, after all.”

Tahomaru flinches. There is a blunt pain in his chest. If the deal hadn’t been made… He says, “No one can know for certain.”

“Well, even if we did meet by some chance, he would’ve been all princy and arrogant like—” Dororo glances at him, but quickly shifts her eyes away, her cheeks flushed, “—well, like your average samurai boy. He wouldn’t have been the same Bro.”

“If the deal had not been made, he would have had no place for arrogance in his heart,” Tahomaru retorts, his voice hard in his ears. “As the heir, he would have been rather too preoccupied seeking the way to help our suffering land.”

“But he would’ve never done the thing your father did!” Dororo says firmly, a fiery gleam in her eyes.

Tahomaru nods, “He would not.”

But I, most likely… Would I…?

Dororo’s shoulders shrink again. Pressing on them heavily, draining vigor even from her buoyant heart is the silence so unusual for a big army set up in the middle of nowhere: no occasional steps rustling, no horses snorting, no chatter buzzing; only a ghostly sound of the wind flowing over the scorched desert accompanies their talk. How many wraiths may still dwell here, Tahomaru wonders, on the place of the bloody carnage, some mournful, some raging, unable to find their peace? Maybe it is their invisible presence that makes it hard to speak his thoughts out loud? To say that, probably, it is pointless to even search for Hyakkimaru on these lands. His brother must loathe the domain that was thriving on his sacrifice. Perhaps, he has long since left its borders and went far, far away… The search may take years; and even if they do find him, Hyakkimaru may downright refuse to return.

Tahomaru shakes his head. No, he will. This girl is the reason why he certainly will. 

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks, shrugging off his jinbaori. “Here, put this on.”

Dororo looks up at him with her eyes wide. Not used to receiving this kind of care. Probably has never even touched a fabric like this…

“Wow, it’s so soft!” she marvels indeed, wrapping the red surcoat around her shoulders and stroking it with amazement. “I’d never have guessed! What’s this fabric? I’ve never seen anything like this on the markets!”

“A Dutch wool. Made of the fur of the special animals that we don’t have here on the islands. It is really good for cold weather.”

“Yeah, it’s so warm… I thought it was just, you know, so as to look flashy and martial.” Dororo’s cheeks are flushed with warmth and embarrassment. “Maybe we should buy some of this wool, too, if the next winter is gonna be as harsh as this one. Outlanders got some really cool stuff…”

“It is to look flashy and martial,” Tahomaru chuckles. “A must for a lord in battle since he needs to be recognizable. This fabric is rare and very expensive, too. You better focus on basic things and local resources. As I’ve told you, it is better to produce than to buy, and although a large amount of free money can be tempting, putting it to work is certainly preferable to importing goods.” 

“Yeah, I got it. You explain things so easily. You know, I think it may actually work. About Bro being the Lord, I mean. You’ve just got to explain him everything like you did to me, and he will learn in no time. He’s smart!” Dororo smiles proudly at him. But even that smile doesn’t last long, quickly fading away as if brushed from her face by the shadows. When she raises her look on Tahomaru again, there is nothing childish in her eyes, nor in her dark tone. “But there’s a thing I suppose even you can’t explain. Why is all this happening?” She nods at the hundreds of campfires glowing like the embers of the still smoldering battlefield. “All your samurai wars for the land, I mean. When will they stop? Is there really an Emperor out there? In fact, it’s his land, isn’t it? Why won’t he do anything about it, or emperors are only good in poetry?”

“Seems so,” Tahomaru sighs. Her question is not a matter of idle curiosity, however, so he elaborates, “The Imperial Court lost actual power to the samurai clans long ago, after the Genpei War, when the first shogunate was established. But by now, the Shogun’s authority has all but evaporated as well. He lives in his splendid residence in serenity and refinement, enjoying the art of tea ceremony, as they say, and has little interest in the matters of government. Local lords, with no superior power over them, have too much freedom to fight each other for lands and influence. When will it stop?” He meets the girl’s demanding gaze. Some eight years ago, it was him who asked the same question, pictures of the real war his young attendants had described terrifyingly vivid in his child mind. Lord Kagemitsu was the one to give him an answer. “Never, as the things are. Nothing will ever change until the country is reunited under a strong hand.”

In the end, all he can do is to repeat the same words.

“And how to reunite it?”

“I wonder.” Tahomaru adds some firewood into the flames. The tamed flames of the bonfire, they look nothing like the demonic flames that surrounded his brother’s figure that day, a random thought crosses his mind. What an heir, what a lord could he be, if that immense power had been fostered and polished properly? Tahomaru can’t help but wonder. “My father wanted to be a glorious and renowned lord. His dream was to rule the whole country. But even with the demons’ help, he only came as far as gaining influence with the Governor of this one province, before it all started to fall apart. I just wanted the wars to stop. But I did realize that for it to happen, we must crush or subdue the neighboring clans, lest they continue to bite us with no end. Especially the Asakura clan of Echizen Province that had been looking for the ways to expand into Kaga since forever. So, I have always supported my father. Like every samurai, he believed military force to be the only means to achieve peace and prosperity. Is there another way, I wonder? To establish peace between the domains of just one province seems an almost impossible task, but to bring the whole country to peace and order? There are dozens of provinces, each of them split into countless domains. Who can even do that and by what power, I wonder?”

Dororo keeps silent for a while, a furrow of perplexity shading her brow. “Tahomaru… Have I made a wrong decision? I mean, creating another tiny domain… There are too many of them already, like you’ve said. The more domains, the more fighting…”

He shrugs, “Those people do not want to fight. They just want to live peacefully. Besides, it can’t even be called a domain with no lord ruling over it—just a free piece of land that belongs to its natural owners. That is why I didn’t oppose it, like I have to oppose Imagawa. You weren’t wrong.”

“I thought so too. That we wouldn’t have anything to do with wars. But still, we had to build walls and fetch weapons and gather warriors just to protect ourselves against ronin squads and such folks. It is all the same.”

Tahomaru hears the familiar pressure in her voice. She, too, is burdened by the weight of a responsibility far exceeding that of an ordinary girl of her age. But he has no answer to her question. The more he thinks about matters that he used to see clearly and unambiguously, the less understanding he can find within himself.

Their reverie gets broken by Shimura who appears in the circle of light to report:

“Lord, the scouts from the west are back.”

Tahomaru rises to his feet, “Summon the generals.”

~

“Imagawa’s forces of four hundred men are positioned in Daishoji Fortress and show no signs of going on the offensive yet,” the scout, a young samurai in his twenties, reports. All the generals are gathered around the fire. Dororo, strict and businesslike (and also a little bit martial in the jinbaori), is seated by Tahomaru’s side, like she was at the meeting with Ikki.

“Daishoji is a strong fort located in the area suitable to resist against an overwhelming force,” Maeda says with a scowl. “Your honorable grandfather Kageshige withstood a month-long siege by the Asakura’s three-thousand army there and won that battle. We may need reinforcements, my lord.”

Tahomaru shakes his head. “Siege is what I want to avoid at all costs. If the campaign is protracted, our resources, already few, will be strained beyond the limit. If Imagawa claims to rule the domain, he will have to come out, or his so-called rulership will be null and void.”

“An impeccable reasoning, my lord,” Maeda says with a respectful incline of his head, “very thoughtful, and surely in accordance with Sun Tzu’s immortal teachings.”

Tahomaru raises an eyebrow. “You mean I am wrong.”

“The Banmon road leading down to the Daishojigawa river’s dale is the only natural corridor to pass through this hilly area wide enough for a major army,” Maeda says. “One can hold just Daishoji Fortress and control the whole Kaga Province. Nobody can control Kaga Province, though, without controlling Daishoji Fortress. We will have to take it, my lord, even if Imagawa does not come out.”

Tahomaru frowns. He turns his attention to the scout again: “What is people’s mood in the area?”

“In some of the villages, discontent is arising against the tax increase,” the young samurai reports zealously. “Imagawa’s men are feeding them promises to lower the taxes. The mood in the villages least affected by the disasters is that it is better to separate so as not to feed the ravaged territories, with the blame laying squarely on the late Lord’s shoulders.”

“Pathetic selfish slackers!” Maeda spits out. “They know no honor!”

“That was to be expected,” Tahomaru says flatly. “People are scared. They just want to live.” He turns to the messenger, “Inspect every damaged village: I need a detailed list of casualties and losses. Based on it, the taxes will be increased or decreased for each village starting next month. It will also help us to develop the plan of dams and canals in order to prevent future disasters. Make sure people understand that the rebel’s promises are not to be trusted: there can be no miracles. Only together, we can overcome the adversity. Listen with patience to all the complaints. Be strict but do not be arrogant. Peasants are the foundation of this country: it is thanks to their hard labor that we all can eat.”

“Yes, lord,” the samurai bows with delay, touched by his words. His family rose from the farm folk not so long ago, after the first successful wars against the Asakura. But samurai in first generations are often the ones most easily corrupted by their new status, misapplying their superiority to abuse those now standing below them. It never hurts to remind them of basics.

“Ikki’s example may be contagious,” Maeda says. “Their prosperity among the overall misery will lead people to believe that it is better to be on their own.”

“They have money that the other villages have not,” Tahomaru objects. “Their prosperity, though, is definitely going to affect the surrounding area: money and resources circulating in such an amount will help the nearby villages to rise, too. But whether they will go as far as to revolt and join the Ikki depends on our actions.”

The sound of hooves followed by the rushed steps disrupts the talk. “Make way!” the chief of guard shouts. “Lord, the scouts from the east have arrived!”

Two more samurai kneel in the circle of light, their hair in disarray, their faces covered with smeared dust, their eyes glistening nervously. Only a grave reason might have given them the excuse to appear before their lord in such a disorder.

“What is it?” Tahomaru frowns.

“Lord, a huge army is marching to Tatesuki Pass!” breathing heavily, reports one of them. “They must cross it tonight!”

“Tatesuki Pass?” Saito gasps. “Asakura indeed, then!”

Tahomaru feels something hardening inside him. So, it was that simple. A story as old as time: join the stronger force in hope for some reward. And right now, Asakura is indeed the strongest force around.

Maeda clenches his fist in terrible frustration, “Imagawa, you fool! Did we not fight shoulder to shoulder with our late lord to defend Tatesuki Pass? Have we not sworn to not let that hateful colors to the land of our fathers ever again?” he cries out bitterly. Collecting himself, he turns to Tahomaru: “It is now clear, lord. Imagawa is waiting till Asakura reaches us, and then he will join the attack. They want us beset on both sides.”

Tahomaru nods, “So it seems. We won’t let them, obviously. Instead, we must pull back to let them join here and advance further,” he says, ignoring the suppressed gasps of astonishment from his generals. A samurai that flees, avoiding a head-on fight? Blasphemy! Tahomaru continues calmly, “Drawing them northward, as far as Shibayama, we will create the impression of being weak and scared. There, by the lagoon, is a nice position to give battle: the land is narrow between the sea and the hills, with three rivers traversing it. They will have no room to maneuver and will be forced to huddle together. We shall meet them with the attack from the hill, and Awazu’s regiment will strike at their left flank to ensure the outcome.”

“I see!” Maeda exclaims, his eyes clearing. “This is why you have sent Awazu there! You have foreseen this development…”

“I just had to consider all possibilities. Asakura is greedy, as you have said. It is unlikely that he will think twice before advancing deep into our land. We shall use his greed against him.”

The samurai are now gazing at him with their eyes wide, shaken to the core by his resolve. Tahomaru knows he would have never done something like this if he had had to leave the peaceful villages by the main road for the enemy to loot and burn. He wouldn’t have had the nerve. But now, the devastation has become their advantage: lying along the road are but cold ashes and deserted wreckages plundered by the marauders to the last seed of rice.

“But, lord, if I’m allowed to add—” the scout, still struggling to even his breath, cuts in.

Tahomaru turns back to him, “What is it?”

“The army we saw marching to the pass had no colors. There is no prove it really is Asakura.”

“No colors?” Tahomaru lifts his eyebrows. “How so?”

“I don’t know, lord. We looked thoroughly but did not see any banners, not even a single family crest. But that army…it was enormous!”

“What do you mean by ‘enormous’? Be exact!”

“A-about ten thousand, lord, and more are still emerging from the mountains.”

“What?! Ridiculous!” Maeda exclaims. His voice is rattling with anger. “Have you been drugged, or are you intoxicated with your own fear?”

“There can’t be an army that big even if Asakura joined forces with the neighboring clans!” Tahomaru says, wide-eyed. “This is just insane. To send it by the high and narrow mountain pass instead of the straight and wide Daishojigawa’s valley would’ve been even less sane.”

“But, lord, we have seen it with our own eyes,” the samurai stutters, his eyes glistening feverishly in terror. “Please, believe us!”

“I am not questioning your sincerity, only the reliability of your eyes.”

“Lord, but we—”

Tahomaru raises his hand, calming the man. “I’ve said I am not doubting you. But there are many ways to deceive human eyes. I want to take a look at that army myself.”

“Please, Tahomaru-sama, don’t do that!” Shimura intervenes, his face horrified. “It is too risky to face them: we may be forced to retreat, and it will harm your dignity!”

“No risk if I just take a couple of men with me and sneak there secretly. I know the mountain paths there very well.”

“Lord,” there is a touch of exasperation in Maeda’s voice, too, “you are the ruler, not some measly spy to act like that.”

“Spying may be as important a business as ruling sometimes, it will do no harm to my dignity,” Tahomaru waves it off. “Come on, who is willing to come with me? I can’t wait to look at that enormous army!”

Maeda has to squeeze his eyes shut so as not to roll them. Getting all excited over something like this! Their lord is such a boy still!

Tahomaru looks over his struck-dumb samurai, ignoring Dororo who is tugging at his hand and has been doing it for a while.

“Any man will be honored to go with you, lord,” Maeda says in a voice not too different from a long, frustrated groan. “Let me at least pick the most skillful and reliable ones.”

“I shall humbly trust you in that matter, Maeda-san,” Tahomaru nods. “If we rush, we’ll meet them before the dawn. Charge us spare hors— ouch!” he shrieks, halting mid-sentence at the sudden pinch on his wrist.

Dororo sends him a heavy glare. “Stop ignoring me! I’m not used to being ignored at the councils.”

This was to be expected. Tahomaru looks at her crossly, embarrassed by his own lack of restraint. To his excuse, that pain was enough to wake up a dead. “What is it?”

“I’m going with you, that is.”

“No. You shall go no further.”

“What?!” Dororo yelps. “But you’ve agreed to take me with you!”

“I never said I was going to take you close to the enemy’s positions. I cannot risk your safety like that.”

She clenches her fists, “Traitor!”

Tahomaru can’t help a sigh escaping his mouth. His samurai find sudden interest in counting the stars above and the campfires around them, delicately ignoring what they’ve concluded to be a sort of a family squabble.

“I have another favor to ask you,” Tahomaru says softly. “Please, go to my mother, it is to the west not far from here. I want you to tell her about the latest developments. She is worried. Wait there for my return. After that, we’ll continue to search for my brother together.”

Dororo puffs, seriously shaken, probably torn between the desire to come with him and the prospect of seeing Lady Nui whom she has grown so fond of. Tahomaru smirks, satisfied. What he had planned for this girl was to take a break from her grown-up tasks and troubles and to spend some time as a child she is, in a family that will take care of her and pamper her, even if just for a while.

“By the way, Mother makes delicious sweet buns,” he adds. “She will be most happy to treat you.”

“Not fair!” Dororo growls.

“Besides, you still have to tell her and Jukai-sensei all about your journey together with my brother.”

“But that army!” Dororo will not give up so easily. “What if it’s true? What will you do about it? And what should I tell the Lady?”

“Don’t worry. It can’t be true unless Asakura rounded up all his peasants on the verge of sowing rice and for some reason drove them to fight for a devastated land, having forgotten to take banners in his rush. So, no need to tell Mother about it. I’ll send you a messenger once we find out what it truly is. Now, go and rest till morning. I’ll have a few samurai to accompany you to the village.”

“But isn’t that Imagawa on the west, too? Why is it okay for me to go there, and not with you?”

“You will get there by the hilly area, circling his fortress. Besides, all his attention will be here, not at his back. At the far-west corner of the domain, with no significant routes and positions to fight over, it will be safer than anywhere.”

Dororo turns away, obviously finding no more reasons to object but still mad at him. “We’ve just met, and you’re already sending me away,” she grunts, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re just like Bro, leaving me like that.”

Tahomaru gets on his knee to her eye level and takes her hand in his. It is small and gentle, but he senses a lot of scars and scrapes and old callouses, not from working the land nor from wielding a sword—but from digging the graves for those whom she lost on her way.

“I am doing it because I am worried for your safety,” Tahomaru brushes the wild locks away from her eyes. “I am certain he did what he did with the same mindset.”

“I don’t get it,” Dororo mutters quietly, still pouting, but squeezes his hand tightly in return. “I don’t get it at all.”

He smiles, “Someday, you will.”

~

They set off into the night, black wind tearing past them, the dark mouth of the mountain passage opening before them, carved against the blackness with an even deeper shade of black. Tahomaru feels something tugging at his insides, something cold and vaguely, bitterly familiar.

“Please, lord, stay in between,” Ando Hideaki, a young samurai, says, catching up with him. “I’ll ride ahead to check the way. Otani will bring up the rear.”

“Fine,” Tahomaru agrees with a sense of relief. It is too unsettling to be followed by a pair of riders, but not those ones. Ando spurs forward, as light and fast as the wind.

Maeda has picked the most trusted and skilled warriors from his personal attendants, but Tahomaru understands that their first priority will be his safety, not the task itself. He intakes the air deeply and tunes in with the night. Something is wrong with it. Something weird is lurking ahead. Of course, the scouts were not lying, nor had they been deceived. But Asakura has nothing to do with what they saw. Now, with the demolition of the Mountain Castle, it would make no sense for Asakura to go on a round trip to the high and steep Tatesuki Pass, like he did in the autumn campaign to strike at the castle from the east. Many samurai gave their lives to fight back that attack. Now, to reach the Two Pines, the enemy could have just used Daishojigawa’s valley and get here a whole day sooner. A ten thousand army this high in the mountains… Nothing of it made sense.

There is no use in speculating. Tahomaru sets his eye on the path before him, trusting Otani with covering his back, and tries his hardest to ignore the nagging feeling of being followed by the shadows, the same feeling that stirred him by the bridge when he was leaving the castle. 

“Mutsu, Hyogo,” he thinks, “am I going insane, too, or are you still watching over me?”

There is no answer from the shadows. There cannot be. 

~ Ishikawa mountains. Winter ~

“How do you grow rice in these mountains?” Hyakkimaru asks one bright, cold morning, overlooking the valley from the porch.

“You seem really interested in farming,” Sen shoots him an amused glance. There is a red glow of frost on her cheeks, and a fringe of crystallized snow on her eyelashes. Her eyes are squinted against the bright whiteness. When the sun climbs higher in the sky, they will put on the masks of dark fabric with narrow slits to protect their eyes from the snow blindness while hunting. “This place is not too high. It revives quickly in the spring, especially the southern slope behind that rock. See those terraces under the snow? These are our paddies. But we don’t rely on rice alone. If we did, we would probably starve, since the weather was too unpredictable last year even here. Almost as it was back then…”

“Then?”

“I was eight… when this land began to prosper,” Sen says, with his exact words from that night. Heat flushes the back of Hyakkimaru’s neck to the memory. “But I looked older than the children of the land below, since here, we had always been eating well, while they were chewing on bugs and rotten roots. I hunted with my father from a very young age. The season of hunt was my favorite season. It was way more interesting than farming. Mamoru is like that, too. I have to hold him back a little, since he quickly grows overconfident, and this year wild animals are hungry and dangerous.”

“Is he eight, like you were?” Hyakkimaru asks.

“Yes, and Yukio is a couple of years younger.”

In his mind, Hyakkimaru calculates the numbers. So, she is twenty-five now. She was seventeen, just like he is, when she gave birth to her first son. How old was Hyakkimaru’s mother when she gave birth to him? Dororo will be seventeen when he will be twenty-four. Tahomaru will never be seventeen.

He didn’t seem much younger than Hyakkimaru; at least, he was of the same height. Could it be that he was born shortly after? Hyakkimaru realizes his painful lack of knowledge about childbirth: for some reason, Dororo never elaborated on the subject. In fact, he hardly knows anything, save that it is women who usually give birth, and that a man is somehow needed, too. Mother and Father. They make a family together.

“You said it is your family’s house,” Hyakkimaru recalls. “But where is your family?” 

“Died in a landslide in early November. Along with many other villagers. See that tongue of bare land?” Sen points in the direction of the terraced slope. “This is the trace. They were walking home, carrying the last loads of harvest. I only happened to stay inside because Yukio had a fever after his injury. Tell about luck,” she chuckles grimly.

Hyakkimaru bites on his lip. Again, he went on and stomped right on a fresh wound. Again, there is that deliberate lightness in her voice and a smile that does not reach the eyes.

“It’s not like we’re completely alone here. I still have cousins and other relatives, even though they will tease me “Her Ladyship” sometimes. Do you have a family, Hyakkimaru?”

“I—”

The image of Dororo as a glowing white shape appears in his mind. 'But if you kill them, you will never be able to be by their side again!'

'I’ll have you.'

His only family. The first in his life conscious feeling of bond. To discover it one day was an overwhelming sensation of warmth and worry mixed with the longing to find her and never part again. Hyakkimaru only ever thought of that bond as of the light that illuminated his existence. As of something unconditionally good.

'’ll get you back.' The taste of blood on his tongue. The raging fire in his veins, and on his steed’s mane. The red that obscures his vision as if emerging from the depths of his own soul. The voice coming out of his throat, distorted like an animal’s roar, 'Give her back!'

He shakes his head.

“I don’t have a family.”

I can’t have it.

~

The footprints are fresh, their small rims sharp and distinct, underlined with the light-purple shadows of a mild afternoon. Hyakkimaru recognizes the pattern of the steps: a rabbit, not too big but not small either. Gripping the bow in his left hand, he slides his right behind his back and takes out two arrows. His moves are slow and fluid. His breathing slows down, too. Rabbits are hard to hit, white against the snow, leaping fast and changing their course unpredictably. But in that direction, there were traps set all over the track. He just needs to ensure that the rabbit goes straight into one.

…Hyakkimaru sees the red before he notices anything else: it still is the most alarming, the most vivid color of all. It stains the snow where the rabbit’s trail meats another chain of footprints.

The second thing he perceives is Yukio’s green kimono and blue hakama. His back to Hyakkimaru, the boy stands still, only his shoulders rise and fall with each heavy breath. He clenches the tanto knife so tightly it trembles in his small fist. The white flash of the sun dances wildly on the untainted blade.

Before him, a rabbit writhes on the red snow, his hind leg caught in a trap.

Hyakkimaru puts his bow down.

Yukio flinches and turns around. His big eyes are full of trembling tears. There is a moment of silence, stirred only by the wounded rabbit struggling in the trap.

When the boy speaks, his voice is raw and unsteady. “Brother wants to avenge our father. He wants to be a great warrior. He is so strong… but I’m not.” He readjusts his fingers on the handle. The tanto looks almost like a proper sword in his little hand. “I’m afraid to kill. Don’t tell him, please… If he learns that I’m a coward, he will hate me. I’ve never killed a wolf, not even a rabbit. I tried… but I can’t. Will you teach me, please?” He looks up into Hyakkimaru’s eyes with desperation.

Hyakkimaru gulps on a dry lump in his throat.

“You don’t have to. Let’s just free this rabbit.”

Yukio gazes at him, stunned. “We can?”

“Of course. I won’t tell anybody.”

“Mother would have never allowed—”

“She cares for you to eat enough. But we’ve got food for today. And tomorrow, I’ll make up for it. You can release it. This rabbit has suffered enough.”

The boy drops the tanto and rushes to free the rabbit’s leg, big happy tears trickling down his cheeks. The wound is deep, but the bleeding has stopped already, and the bone seems intact: the rabbit quickly and nimbly leaps away. Hyakkimaru smiles with a sense of relief.

But Yukio remains crouched on the snow. He looks at the dagger by his feet as if it were a big dreadful spider. He doesn’t cry anymore, just sniffs occasionally, his head down in defeat. “How can I avenge our father if I can’t even avenge myself?” he whispers. His stump of an arm twitches in his sleeve.

“Hasn’t that wolf been killed?”

“It has. Inee-chan pierced it with her naginata right on the spot. She is tough, you know!” The spark of proud excitement fades from Yukio’s voice the very next moment as he says grimly, “Brother believes it was a demon. You know, that killed our father. But I think that Mother is right: there are no demons. Just very strong humans.” The boy sniffs harshly and finally picks up the knife. Securing it in his sash, he rises to his feet. His big child eyes are dark with trepidation as he looks up at Hyakkimaru. “You know it, right? How is it…to kill a human? What do you feel?”

They are standing here, mere steps apart, the killer and the one who has to kill, pure whiteness all around them, a trail of blood between them. Would that small hand waver if he told the truth now, Hyakkimaru wonders, or would it finally find its firmness? Would that spirit break or would it harden? He will have to find out eventually. But for now, he must answer the question.

“You feel nothing,” Hyakkimaru says, his voice coarse. “It doesn’t soothe your pain and anger. It doesn’t fill the hole of loss inside you. It changes nothing. You wake up the next day, and the world is still the same, and you are still discontent that there are only berries for the breakfast.”

Yukio draws back, gazing at him with sparks of terror in his eyes.

“And you continue just okay. Killing. But then the moment comes when something stops your hand.” Hyakkimaru stares into the emptiness and sees the familiar curves of light shaped into the figure of his most stubborn enemy, finally caught off guard, disoriented, finally exposed to the blow. One final blow. Just one blow—and it will dissipate. Get off his way and fade away forever. Just like they all did—those misty shapes of light, first growing thin; then pitted with holes like old, empty clothes; and finally—  

“What…stops you?”

Hyakkimaru draws in the air. He looks for the words, trying his hardest to put them together to convey what he went through at that endless moment.

“You feel so thin as if you were on the verge of dissipating, too. But not to fade away like the souls of those you killed. No. To be overtaken by the red flame completely. And you realize—maybe for the first time in your life actually realize it—that if you kill this enemy, you will become the sea of red yourself. And it’s not even the worst. The worst…is that you know: the next morning you’ll wake up and feel nothing.”

This boy has never seen the world of spirits. He can’t have the slightest idea what that 'red' is supposed to mean. But a shadow in his eyes tells Hyakkimaru otherwise.

“It is scary. I’d rather farm rice. But my brother won’t listen.”

“I didn’t listen either,” Hyakkimaru says. Images like flashes reappear in his memory. His mother stabbing the light of her heart. Saburota, caressing the glaring hole of his. Mio, her light fading away for good, turning into nothing in Dororo’s hands. Dororo’s bright, clear light of hands. The same light that fills his enemy’s—his brother’s—shape as he stands there, defenseless, ready to meet his death… “But it was the words I hadn’t listened to that stopped me. Because I still heard them.”

He extends his hand. Yukio’s small palm is soft and smooth but hot with the pulsing of life as the little fingers close around his.

“There is always a choice. You just have to tell your brother how you truly feel.”

The boy’s eyes brighten.

~

This afternoon, Mamoru gets another good scolding for having let his little brother wander off alone into the forest. Clearly confused, the older boy doesn’t try to defend himself, though. He just repeats “I am sorry, Mother”, his face hurt and betrayed as he bites his lip. Later, Hyakkimaru hears him whisper to Yukio:

“Why did you lie to me that you went to piss?”

“I’m sorry, Brother.”

“I would have never left you alone if I knew where you were going.”

This is exactly why he didn’t tell you, Hyakkimaru bites the words on his tongue.

“I know, Brother. I am sorry. You shouldn’t have defended my lie. I should have been the one being scolded.”

“Oh, come on. You know I will always defend you.”

The whole evening Yukio sends his brother lingering glances, heavy with guilt, gratitude, and desperation, but Mamoru averts his eyes, his cheeks still glowing red. He is deeply offended. More, he is hurt. Hyakkimaru can almost sense his pain as the boy helps Inee-san sew the washed kimonos back together—the punishment Sen has chosen for him this time.

The silence rings between the brothers like a pulled string of a bow.

“Why are you always harsh with Mamoru and soft with Yukio?” Hyakkimaru asks after the boys have fallen asleep on the attic, unusually fast and quiet. With all the heat from the hearth gathering above and no cold draft reaching from the outside, that is the warmest place in the house. “Is it because you love Yukio more?”

“Of course not,” Sen looks up, startled from trimming feathers for the arrow fletching. She seems surprised by his question. “I love them both dearly. I’m harsh on Mamoru because I know what a temper like that needs. I was just like him. Yukio is of another sort, though. He’s more like my sister, softhearted and complex.”

“He hates killing.”

“I know. I hope he won’t ever need it. In his heart, Mamoru likes to take care of Yukio; it comes naturally for him to be the strongest one, the decisive one. Fortunately, he is also the firstborn. A true little samurai.” Sen smiles. Her look is set on her work, but Hyakkimaru still notices the warmth and the pride in her eyes. Her voice is quiet and gentle. Her face is soft in the glow of the fire that gilds the loose strands of her hair.

Hyakkimaru’s fingers itch to brush them from her face. Are they really as soft to the touch as his eyes perceive them? The multitude of senses, each conveying its own kind of qualities, will not always add up in his head. He longs for the whole picture.

As if having sensed his gaze, Sen brushes her bangs away. Hyakkimaru drops his eyes abruptly, heat flushing to his face.

“Yukio, though… He is quiet and keeps everything inside,” Sen continues. “I try to be soft and attentive with him. But eventually, he will have to understand that he, too, must choose his path in this life. If he wants to eat meat, he must kill. If he wants to protect himself or someone, he must kill. Otherwise he will end up just passing the dirty job on others.”

“But if he doesn’t ever want to kill?” Hyakkimaru asks slowly and distinctly. He thinks of the blood on the snow. Of the sun trembling on the clear blade. And of the sea of red that was about to engulf him, too. There is always a choice.

'In this world, you either kill or be killed,' an uninvited voice resounds in his head brusquely. The back of Hyakkimaru’s neck prickles with cold frisson.

“Then, he must accept the world as it is,” Sen shrugs. “Without fear, without rage, without fighting the flow. Accept everything that comes his way as his karma. But full acceptance is not the path that many can walk.”

“Why?”

She pauses and looks up at him. Her eyes strike hard, a fire shot from the darkness. “Would you have rather let the wolf kill you?”

Hyakkimaru inhales sharply. Under her gaze, he feels naked, like when they were in the bath. He feels heat, too. There is no steam, but something strangles his chest.

“No,” he exhales.

~

Hyakkimaru curls up between the sheets, quickly losing all hope to fall asleep any soon. The buzzing of the thoughts is nothing compared to that heat in certain parts of his body. When did it become so excruciating to simply hold her gaze? Is it only the guilt? Then why does he sense what he senses? Is something wrong with his body? Is he ill? Must he be locked to not let his illness affect others?

No, Sen wouldn’t have let him stay here in such case. She has seen him turn like this, after all… Hot shame crawls all over his body to another memory of the bath. Hyakkimaru curls up tighter.

The noise of blood throbbing in his ears causes him to miss the sound.

It startles him only when it’s already near—a soft rustle just behind his back.

Hyakkimaru shifts and rolls over, slipping away from the deadly strike of paws, or teeth, or claws slashing at him from the darkness. He doesn’t have as much as a stick in this room, nothing except his bare hands, and no vision whatsoever. Never in his life has he been so vulnerable. He blindly reaches out to grip the ghoul and strangle it, pressing to the floor, his heart slamming in his chest and drowning out the faint sound of breathing, not his own.

“It’s just me,” comes a soothing voice from under him.

Hyakkimaru recoils, mortified.

Sen’s quiet chuckle reaches him like a strike that is impossible to dodge: “Must admit, I would’ve stood no chance in a fair fight.”

Now, Hyakkimaru can trace her silhouette. The faintest reflections of reflections of the fire glowing in the main room paint the darkness with different shades of black. Her shape is of the warmest hue.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was the intruder, after all.”

Hyakkimaru gulps heavily. His heart doesn’t slow down in his chest. “What did you want?”

Even before he finishes the question, the answer strikes him. She may know. Somehow, at some point, she might have learned the truth. Now, she wants to kill him. What is it in her hand reaching up to him through the darkness?

Nothing. Nothing…but it’s so hot. 

“No—”

“Hush, it’s okay. Trust me.”

So hot.

Hyakkimaru squeezes his eyes tightly, but it makes no difference. The blackness explodes with flashes of light at her gentle touch. He bites his tongue but a moan escapes from the back of his mouth anyway. His hands reach to grapple with something, anything, as the new sensation disorients him completely.

“Wait a moment. I’ll light a candle.” The heat is gone.

A faint glow fills the room and makes it suffocatingly-small at once, but at the same time more solid, real. Hyakkimaru’s panic is gone—and shortly back with new intensity.

Sen kneels beside him, a smile playing on her lips, condensed darkness in her eyes. “It must be painful to hold back for so long. Have you never touched yourself?”

“…No.”

Is it all right? Is it something people do?

“Let me show you, then.”

The wind whooshes against the shutter. An icy draft slides across his skin. Hyakkimaru shivers.

The light is dim and unsteady, yet his eyes perceive everything as Sen’s fingers caress him slowly, firmly. Hyakkimaru gulps for air. He feels bare and exposed. The sensations cut buzzing shiver down his spine. Fear fights with curiosity inside him, but both lose to the blinding haze that is impossible to control. It feels as if he has recovered another missing sense.

And this one, so agonizing at first, results in an actual bliss.

…and in him pressed against her afterward, nuzzling the crook of her neck, struggling to recover his breath. Sen’s strong body is warm and soft, so soft under his touch. He’d never have guessed.

He notices her breath catch for a moment, too.

Hyakkimaru reaches down, all groggy boldness and burning resolve to make her feel the same pleasure. But his hand meets nothing.

He gulps heavily, “Why do you…lack it?”

To his surprise, Sen bursts into a wild laughter. She muffles it against his shoulder. It tickles, and sends a wave of warm goosebumps down his body. “Because I’m a woman. Women don’t have it. But it’s okay, don’t feel sorry. We can feel good like this, too.”

“How?”

“Later,” she breathes out, a mysterious mirth in her eyes. “It’s enough for you now.”

“But I want to know.”

“Well…you can explore all you want,” she says, the low notes of her voice reverberating deep under his skin.

Hyakkimaru does. His fingers tingle, sensing up all the soft and hot textures of her body. Sometimes Sen giggles, sometimes just breathes deeply; sometimes her breath hitches, and she can’t help guiding his hands where she wants them most. Everything seems so strange and new to Hyakkimaru. He never noticed, never focused before on the differences between a man’s and a woman’s bodies, never would even think about why it is shaped that way or another, and of course would never have guessed what it implies.

His hands, his eyes, his ears, all of his senses flood him with new bits of knowledge. The whole picture he’s been longing for.

He still isn’t sure how exactly, but he does end up making her feel that way, too. Sen shudders in his arms, moaning quietly into his collarbone how she never expected him to catch on to it so fast, her body all hot and softened. Can it be considered fast, Hyakkimaru wonders, or terribly late?

“It’s okay if you don’t know some things,” she mutters as they are drifting into sleep, warm and weary. “I’ve seen children who grew up in the woods… Left early without parents, some of them couldn’t even speak. There was a lot of such things before this land began to prosper… What’s more important is love. I can sense it in you. I can say that you were raised with love and care. That love is what holds you strong and wholesome deep inside, despite all the confusion that may trouble your mind.”

Hyakkimaru can’t even answer anything, sleep heavy on his tongue, but he realizes she is right. He couldn’t sense it, but he still had it—his two mama’s deep love and care. Maybe his soul knew it all along…

~

He hasn’t just gained a new sense. Hyakkimaru feels like he has discovered a whole new dimension of the world. He starts to notice things he never paid attention to before. The way the village boys will look at the girls as they go to fetch water in the river, their eyes bright, their lips and cheeks glowing red from the frost. The way Mamoru and Yukio will whisper and giggle before falling asleep, discussing some “funny pictures” they’ve stolen from their grandfather’s box of scrolls. The way Sen’s breath will catch, ever so slightly, and her eyes fill up with sensual darkness whenever Hyakkimaru will hold his gaze locked with hers, no longer afraid to do so.

After the next hunt, they don’t return to the village. Instead, in the bright shining of the full moon, they go up the slope to the cave Hyakkimaru has spent a couple of weeks in. It is dark and cold, but they light the fire, and it revives the space in no time. The hard frost and the strong sake, that scary poisonous drink Hyakkimaru choked on back then, fill their bodies with glee and heat up their blood.

Here, Sen shows him other ways to the sensual bliss. A wild fire glows in the depth of her eyes as she guides him, with nobody but the ever-silent mountains to hear the sweet moans, and the cries of passion, and the stuttered gasps pouring from their lips. Hyakkimaru loses himself in the swirl of sensations he never even knew could exist. You learn fast, she says, too fast. In no time, it is already him who leads her. The winter weaves its silver laces outside, a remote choir of wolf howls floating on the streams of the whistling wind, as the boil of life rages in his veins with all the pent-up, raw force unleashed to the fullest.

At home, they try to be quiet and careful. Hyakkimaru learns about care, about decency, about purity the children must not be denied. He does not betray their “funny pictures.” But it turns out Sen is aware. She just chuckles, and says that the freedom to explore is important, too.

Piece by piece, the world continues to assemble before Hyakkimaru’s eyes into something more coherent, something that actually makes sense.

In the spree of his daily discoveries, he can almost forget about the days growing brighter and the nights growing shorter with the nearing of the spring.

~

It’s Mamoru who confronts him on one of the evenings. 

“You spend nights with Mother, right?” The boy’s cheeks are flushed deep red, but he continues bravely and very formally, “Yukio and I have decided that we shall not oppose that. It would be great if you stayed with us. Just—” he drops his gaze for a brief moment, his hands fiddling nervously with the fabric of his hakama, “—can we not call you ‘father’? It would be strange. You are more like our big brother.”

Hyakkimaru senses his own face heat up, too. Right now, he doesn’t feel much older than these boys.

“Of course. It would be strange for me, too.”

Mamoru breathes out, relieved. “I don’t think I could call anyone ‘Father’ ever again,” he confides as he sits down beside Hyakkimaru. “Father was only one Father.”

The heart gives a heavy thud in Hyakkimaru’s chest. Before his mind can stop him, words fall from his lips, “Tell me about him.”

The smile that lights up on Mamoru’s face is that of a pent-up excitement dimmed with sorrow. He begins to speak eagerly, words streaming like a flood: “He used to tell us many stories. He loved to read. He even insisted that Mother learned kanji, too, though women only learn hiragana. He wanted her to understand poems. They would often talk about the stories they read. Most of all, I loved when Father recited The Tale of Heike. You know, it’s about the Battle of the Dan-no-Ura, where the Minamoto defeated the Taira? It is said that their spirits still wander above the waves, and the crabs on that shore look like the fierce Heike samurai in their helmets,” he is speeding up impatiently, his eyes shimmering with emotion.

“No. I don’t know that tale.”

“Then I’ll ask Mother to recite it tonight! I only know some bits by heart. I carved an omamori for Father in the shape of that crab, you know! With Yukio, we burned some good luck kanji on it. He promised to always keep it. I believe he did. But it was not enough.” Mamoru squeezes his fists tightly, and his eyes flash with sudden angry tears. “It was so childish. How could a piece of wood help him, even if his two swords didn’t? If only I were older…stronger…” he clenches his teeth. The tears begin to flow down his cheeks.

Hyakkimaru freezes. The feeling cuts him abruptly, like a cold blade.

Among those hundreds or thousands that he killed there was one. The man who had been saved by this woman, just like him. Who had read her a beautiful poem about the burning fire plant and taught her to read, too. Who had been a father to these boys whom they loved dearly.

Hundreds, thousands are just numbers. They convey nothing. If he could meet each and every family that he had robbed of their father, brother, son; if he could spend a lifetime with hundreds of these families; maybe then he would have understood, just a little.

“You will be stronger,” Hyakkimaru says, in a voice that doesn’t feel his own. His lungs are so tight, he cannot breathe. “Someday…”

Suffocating, he rises to his feet and stumbles blindly into the night.

But instead of the blank snow under the night’s shadow, he sees a multitude of shapes.

You’ve killed my father!

They appear before his eyes, in front and all around him, small figures of clear light fluctuating with sorrow and rage.

And mine, too.

And mine!

And mine!

And mine…

Hyakkimaru grabs his chest, struggling to take breaths. The bitter smoke is squeezing his lungs. He crashes into the snow, but it’s glowing like fire, and his body drowns in it. Every inch of his flesh blazes with pain.

It’s caught up. Here, on the snow-buried heights, this fire has caught up with him, and he will never run away from it.

There’s nowhere to run.

“Hush, it’s alright,” he feels a touch of cool hands on his forehead. Sen’s commanding voice pierces through the fire: “Open your eyes. Look. There is no fog. There is no flame. It’s only darkness, and some white clouds floating above us, and a bunch of stars between them.”

Hyakkimaru flips his eyes open, panting heavily.

It is as she said. The night. The clouds. The stars. Stars are good: they are cool and clear, far away yet so near. They seem like bright distant souls—the closest resemblance to that glow he can see now, with these eyes.

“Are they the people who died?” Hyakkimaru asks, his breathing calming down gradually. “The stars.”

Sen lies down onto the snow beside him. For a while, they stare up in silence. The low clouds drift away, over the silver mountain ridge, and the sky opens up above them. There are so many stars it seems like snowing. Thousands? Tens of thousands? Thousands of thousands? Every inch of the black abyss is shining, sparkling, shimmering with tiny snowflakes, frozen in their eternal fall.

“I don’t think so,” Sen says at length, unfamiliar softness in her voice. “The stars are many, but still not enough. No heaven would have contained all the dead souls.”

A shiver spreads in Hyakkimaru’s bones and fills his entire being with the chill of the immeasurable void. Even thousands of thousands are but a speck before its immensity…

“Then, why priests say it?” he remembers the sutras he’s heard. “About Pure Land and such?”

“To console people, obviously,” Sen shrugs. “It is easier to believe that your loved ones are living now in bliss and comfort amongst all the nice people, and that someday you will join them, too.”

'Should I die, my soul shall reign together with my son Tahomaru as a demon protecting this land,' the voice grazes the insides of his skull. Hyakkimaru clenches his teeth. This voice is what he will also never run away from.

Tahomaru isn’t a demon, he didn’t reply back then. He has died as a human, clear of the demons’ flame. You will be all alone there.

Alone in the dark void.

He isn’t sure why he didn’t say it. He didn’t want to punch that miserable, defeated man crouched by the altar of his dead gods, covered in his own blood. Hyakkimaru felt disgusted at the mere thought of it. At the thought of rising his hand at someone in this world ever again, even as wicked and deserving. It occurred to him that people can harm themselves with their own hands worse than anyone wreaking vengeance upon them could have. No sword would cut sharper and no torment would be slower than that.

He didn’t say it…because in the end, he was no different himself.

And because he wanted to believe that there was still hope—after everything they had done.

'Don’t you become a demon either. Live on as a human.'

“What about Hell?” the words come out barely audible from his squeezed throat.

Hyakkimaru feels Sen’s shoulder shiver slightly. It is hot, pressed to his own. He could have never known it, that someone else’s heat in the middle of the cold darkness can feel so nice. Even if your whole being is torn apart, scorched, strangled with an inexpiable guilt...

Live on.

“Another fairy tale,” the usual sharp edges return to her voice, and they feel nice, too. “I don’t believe there is an afterlife. Death is just death. You die and you are no more. That’s all there is to it.” Sen rises from the snow and extends her hand, smiling down at him, her eyes bright from all the snow reflecting the celestial light. “We’re alive, though. Let’s go home now.”

~

This night, she finally tells him.

“I know that burning. That ghostly flame that bites you and chokes your throat with each breath. It haunts me, too, ever since that day I met you by the hut.”

His chest hurts and his mouth is dry as he asks, “Who was in that hut?”

~

The deer sprang up and dove into the shadows of the forest, startled by the appearance of something invisible to her human eyes. No matter how long she had been hunting—and sometimes Sen felt more at ease in the wild woods filled with wolf howls than in the center of the castle town buzzing with human voices—she would never achieve the same natural clarity that allowed animals to perceive the smallest disturbances in the surrounding landscape.

Sen thought about it with a certain sense of regret.

What use in many thoughts and memories? In a sharp mind loaded with knowledge of sciences, and arts, and sentiments attached to those? Animals were much freer, living in the moment, simply struggling to survive. Soon, the winter will come, the severe winter she had been anticipating, and she will turn much like them. There would be no time nor strength left to spare on pointless reminiscence. Soon.

Sen closed her eyes and strained her other senses, slowly lowering her bow. Now, she felt something, too. A presence.

She turned right, to the slope descending into the valley where the village her sister had married into was visible on the rare bright days. Then, she lifted her eyelids.

The silhouette appearing from the haze of the late autumn mists seemed that of a wraith. Pale and uncertain, moving in series of twitching steps, legs hidden in the high colorless grass—

“Mai?”

Her beautiful younger sister’s face was pale like that of a Noh mask, with dark circles under her eyes and lines of grief cut deeply into her skin. Her clothes had turned into rags.

“They’ve burned it, Sen!” short of breath, Mai cried out as she ran, stumbling on her way. “They’ve burned our village… Everyone… And those who tried to escape…they just shot them down!” Finally, she reached the flat top of the hill Sen was standing on and stopped, gulping the air. “Ichiro was shot…too… I saw it from the mountains on my way from the shrine. Seiko has died. My little girl… Everyone. Everyone.”

Cold sweat drenched Sen’s back in a heartbeat. She peeled her fingers off the bow for a moment, as they turned numb.

“Why did you come here?”

Mai gulped nervously, all the remaining color washed away from her face in a single heartbeat. All—except one tiny red stain on her jaw. “I…have nowhere else to go. Everyone’s gone, Sister, do you not understand…!”

“You’ve always been selfish like this, Mai. Step no further!” She fitted an arrow to the string.

“S-sister…”

Sen set her teeth, so tightly it was painful to utter the words. “Step. No. Further.”

~

“Did you shoot?” Hyakkimaru’s question stirs the lingering silence.

“No. The bow made her come to her senses. She was staying in that abandoned hut for a couple of weeks, and I was bringing her food and water. I never came close to her, leaving everything outside the door. Sometimes we talked like that, separated by the door, reminiscing our childhood days… Until one day, no answer came.” Sen gulps down, the little convulsive twitch betraying her inner pain. “I returned home for the oil, but right after that, a huge snowstorm came and buried all the paths. I couldn’t get there for another couple of weeks. That’s how we met that day, after the snowfall ceased.”

Hyakkimaru holds her tighter. She seemed so calm back then and ever since. He would have never guessed that in that fire, she was burning the body of her sister.

“You have lost someone to the fire, too,” Sen says, resting her head on his shoulder, her arm embracing his chest.

“I have.”

Hundreds. Thousands.

One.

He asks, “What if she hadn’t stopped then? Would you have shot her?”

“Of course, I would have.”

“Even though she was your sister?”

“Even though.”

~

He didn’t get to see his face, but he still remembers the patterns of his soul. Hyakkimaru hated him, the hate burning painfully in his chest like only betrayal could hurt. Tahomaru was his brother. The only one in this world, save for the parents, whose soul was the same as his. Hyakkimaru remembers being drawn to that soul, the feeling so new and so overwhelming he couldn’t think of anything else for a while after their first encounter. But why did Tahomaru discard him easily like that? 'The demon, bane of our land!'

Somewhere along the way, Hyakkimaru began to understand, why. But he didn’t want that understanding. He wanted his body. He wanted his life in a full sense. Even though the ones who had been supposed to be the closest to him didn’t want him alive. They wanted him dead.

As if he were the one who carried plague to their home.

In a sense, he was.

Hyakkimaru puts the bucket down and bends over the water, regarding his reflection in the depth of the well. It reminds him of his mother’s face which is still carved deeply into his memory. Were his brother’s features alike, too?

Sen didn’t hate her sister. She was hurting. Maybe Tahomaru didn’t hate him for real, too? Was it really easy for him? He returned him the eyes and called him “Brother” in the end… But Sen never opened the door that separated them, never embraced her sister. She stood firm till the end—and she won her battle with herself.

Tahomaru chose to lose his.

They could have been together now, like these boys, helping each other on their way, arguing, having fun, learning to live in this world. Why did it have to end like this? Why did his brother have to die, not even from Hyakkimaru’s sword but from a random chance? Or was it the exchange of the eyes that didn’t leave him a chance? Was Tahomaru’s life tied too firmly to the Deal, and he couldn’t have lived on either way? Who can tell now?

His eyes sting, oozing a drop that disrupts the reflection. Tears are such an inconvenient addition to the real eyeballs. They don’t ease the pain in the heart, only leave it drained and empty until that pain will gather again, like water in a well. Hyakkimaru doesn’t get the point of tears at all. He grits his teeth. But well, this is what he was fighting for. Killing for. Human.

He fought and he got his body back.

It is stained in blood, yet it is his. It allows him to be alive. To carry on. To learn and to grow. To maybe someday right the wrong that he has done. Life is not a bliss; it’s a chance that was given to him.

A chance that Tahomaru has no more.

Staring into the cold dark depth, Hyakkimaru wonders whether there is a demon in the entirety of the depths of Hell which he could defeat to get his brother back.

~

It dawns on him in a flash. They boil water in a pot over the fire, camping in a small cavern. Outside, the harsh wind wails under the clear dusky sky. Some hot rabbit stew and a shared warmth will help them wait it out tonight.

“Can fire devour metal completely?” Hyakkimaru asks as he watches the flames licking the metal pot. His heart fails a beat. He recalls the men rummaging the ashes of the burned village, perhaps the very village Sen’s sister had escaped from. Arrowheads. Horseshoes. Knives, hooks, buckles, plenty of various utensils. All their loot was basically things made of metal.

“Not an ordinary fire.” Sen rises her eyebrows. “Metal can be melted only in the special ovens. Why?”

“I was just wondering,” he shakes his head.

Hyakkimaru tries his hardest to recall how many metal things Tahomaru had on that day. His two swords and a tanto knife. His armor. The metal pads on his legs and on his arms. Hyakkimaru could perceive metal only when he was focusing on it, as a bluish haze different from the light of the souls. Most of the time, he only perceived the soul itself. But he is positive that his brother was wearing full armor that day.   

And yet, nobody has found his body among the ruins of the castle.

~

Hyakkimaru spends the following days between the haze of memories and dry reasoning, contemplating the possibilities.

Until one day, the snow starts to melt.

He doesn’t notice it at once. The white hats of the houses just thin a little. The sky enlivens with bright azure. The stream begins to run faster, overflowed with new rippling water.

And with it, Hyakkimaru feels the time unfreeze and begin to run away.

'Until spring.'

~

“Mamoru, Yukio,” Hyakkimaru calls when the long morning shadows are still deep-blue, and the snow is touched with the rosy blush of the dawn. He hands the boys two sticks by the size of a short sword. He carved and polished them in the evening. “A lesson.”

“I thought you would never teach us!” Mamoru’s eyes go wide in surprise.

The boys follow him to the backyard with excited agitation.

“What’s the name of your technic? Will you show us that move you used to kill the wolves? I already know the basic posture and a couple of strokes…” Mamoru, of course, is the happiest of the two. But Yukio’s eyes glow with interest as well: now, it’s just a training; something like a game, not even a hunt. 

Hyakkimaru recalls his own lessons. It was barely a training, because at first, he didn’t understand a thing. It took him very long to realize what The Soul even wanted from him, why was they pushing him with that long green object again and again. Hyakkimaru couldn’t feel any pain. He would just lose his balance and fall. The Soul continued to hit him, putting the similar long green object into his prosthetic hands as if they wanted Hyakkimaru to do the same. But he didn’t want to do the same. Why would he? Was it something good? It didn’t seem good. How could losing the balance and falling all the time be good? What’s the point?

But soon, it became clear. It was a challenge. To remain vertical, to dodge, to hit the stick back. To make The Soul lose their balance and fall, too! It became fun. He got very good at it. And when the next glimmering red shape appeared, his body knew what to do.

It took him years to grasp the basics, to instinctively develop the essentials that would work against any kind of beast he could face. Now, he only has several days to teach it.

But he also has a myriad words to help him.

“Don’t think of technics and postures, just hit the shortest way there is.”

“If you practice all the time, your bodies will know what to do without you thinking of it.”

“Move not to block or to injure, move to kill. Aim at the head or the neck. Aim precisely.”

'…Would you have rather let the wolf kill you?'

No, Hyakkimaru reaffirms, thoughts flowing faster, sharper in his mind, like the moves of his wooden staff. I would not.

He will always fight for this life that he has wrested from the demons.

“Rise up. Again! One, two, three!”

He will not give it up to these boys, no matter how big, how irredeemable his guilt is.

“Grip firmer! Don’t fix your position, be ready to shift any moment!”

If they want it, they will have to wrest it from him in the same way.

But now, this fight will not be a fair one. They have a long way to go.

“Again!”

~

Sen’s eyes follow his moves closely as Hyakkimaru puts on his old robe, washed and fixed by Inee-san. The fabric is way thinner than that of the kimono he has been wearing the whole winter, and his bare legs get cold in an instant. The long fur coat made of the wolves he killed and skinned, though, feels almost too warm for the mild late-February day. Hyakkimaru secures it with a sash. Down in the lowlands, the spring must have already come into bloom. He won’t be needing it for long.

Hyakkimaru fastens the final knot. He breathes in, then breathes out. Finally, he raises his eyes.

Sen says nothing.

Outside, the sun shines bright and the water drips from the eaves, a rain of glowing diamonds. The boys are practicing with their wooden swords, with Inee-san watching over them. She doesn’t fuss over the occasional bruises and scratches, her old eyes keen and firm, like those of a warrior. Yukio can’t fight on par with his older, and most importantly, two-handed brother, but the innate agility allows him to dodge most of the strokes. He frowns stubbornly and demands that Mamoru do not go easy on him. Mamoru assures him he wouldn’t.

They both halt as they see Hyakkimaru, his old robe on, his long wooden staff for snow walking in his hand.

It is the time. He takes a deep breath—

But Sen prevents him.

“You’re leaving. It’s fine. I won’t lie—I would like you to stay. But I know you have some place to return to. Some…one.”

Hyakkimaru gulps down. It’s not the reason, he wants to deny. I’m not going to return. Not yet.

The reason is…

There is a word on his lips, but the sound does not escape.

Stopping him now is not the same fear as before. Another kind of it.

If he does confess, she will forever be cursing those nights they’ve spent together. She will curse her own body that knew his caresses. She will want to peel off the skin that felt his touch. This pain will burn her forever, leaving scars deeper than the Ibuki’s fire plant.

Is the ease of his soul worth it?

Sen’s eyes are bottomless pools of water, dark and cold and hard like mirror surface as she looks at him, waiting. He knows these eyes different. He has seen them unclose, fill up with the heat of life, come aglow with its thousands of colors.

Hyakkimaru unclenches his teeth. He takes a step and wraps his arms around her tightly.

“I don’t know any poems. But I want to be the only one of us who carries the scars of these burns.”

He feels Sen’s shoulder twitch sharply under his arms.

~

“…Him? This lost and confused boy? Are you certain, Inee-san?”

“Yes, my lady. The name…”

“Name means nothing. There are thousands of Sens across this land and hundreds of Inees.”

“But not hundreds of Hyakkimarus, my lady.”

“You didn't see him with your own eyes on that horse.”

“No. But I heard rumors that depicted the rider in detail: his appearance, his strength, even the patterns of his kimono. Your husband saw him back then, by the Banmon. Those rumors match his description precisely.”

“Enough. I heard you.”

“What will you do, my lady?”

“I’ll decide. When the spring comes…”

~

Sen unclenches her fingers rather with difficulty. The handle of the dagger is hot against her bosom.

“So, this is your decision,” Inee says.

Sen shakes her head slowly, her eyes following the lonely figure walking away down the white slope. “No. The decision was his.” Had Hyakkimaru confessed his guilt with her sons witnessing it, she would have had no choice but to kill him before one of them would try it, their hearts forever broken. But Hyakkimaru did not, despite his obvious urge to do so. And for that, she was grateful. “He has softened his heart. Look: his stride is gentle now, and he carefully chooses where to fight his way and where not to step. He has truly abandoned his sword.”

“Yes, my lady. And so have you.”

Sen flinches.

Suddenly, she remembers the words they exchanged at the beginning.

'Confess? What did he confess to you?'

'His love, obviously.'

Sen’s body begins to tremble, all over. She feels the children’s tight embraces as the sharp mountain ridges blur before her eyes, dissolved by the hot tears. Tears that are flowing down her cheeks freely.

The spring has finally come.

Chapter Text

A cold gleam of dawn spills over the narrow gorge as three riders halt their horses on an uncertain winding track above the road. Thick tsuga trees hide them from the sight of those below yet allow them to peek out between the branches freely. This is how Tahomaru used to trick Mutsu and Hyogo a couple of times: he would hold back the laughter, watching them fuss below, having lost a track of him. Not for too long, though. They would always find him, their eyes dark with tension Tahomaru didn’t quite understand back then. It was never a game for them.

It is no game now. Appearing before their eyes out of the fading blackness of the night is an endless dark river of the enemy’s army, its head hidden beyond the bend of the road and its tail lost in the deep shadows of the mountains. The mass is swarming slowly, resembling a giant stream of ants in its monotony. It doesn’t seem to move forward, though, as if just making or breaking camp. Except that no orders can be heard, and no torches are lit.

“It is as they said,” Otani gapes, erratically counting the rows with his eyes. “Ten thousand at the very least. No banners, no clan crests…”

“What the hell does it mean?” his younger cousin Ando frowns.

Hell indeed, Tahomaru thinks, narrowing his eye. A blunt pain swells in his forehead, or more like a memory of the pain. An ice-cold touch of an alien presence. “It is a demonic army.”

Otani gulps, “Are you certain, lord?”

“Yes. I can feel it.”

“But what is hindering them?” the younger samurai wonders, his voice agitated but unshaken. Good, Tahomaru notes. He will need men like this. “Do demons need a rest, too?”

“Lord, look at their rear!” Otani exclaims. “Seems like they are being attacked from the mountains!”

There is a commotion in the last of the units visible from their spot. It is lined up to face a small ravine on its left, but no attacking troops can be seen. Tahomaru strains his eye—and gasps.

Fighting them is but one man, clad in black, two long swords in his hands. His movements are sharp, erratic and painfully familiar, although slowed down twice at the very least as if by a terrible exhaustion.

'…he’s left in November, without even taking a sword…'

Can’t be.

“They are disappearing,” Otani drops his jaw. “The corpses are just disappearing!”

Ando exhales, “So, it’s all an illusion! Sure, there can’t be so many demons—”

“No, look: is it blood covering the warrior’s body? Those wounds look real!”

“Get him out of there!” Tahomaru shouts and spurs forward, outstripping the sound of his own cry.

They gallop wildly along the track, passing the enemy’s columns without caring about the hoof beats giving them out. The demonic army pays them no attention anyway: it is realigning, drawing another unit to the rear to replace the one that is slowly disappearing into thin air.

Soon, they reach the place of the fight. Ando shouts “Lord, stay back!” and plunges down at the enemy’s flank at full speed. Otani sends an arrow and pulls his bow anew: two soldiers that were about to encircle the exhausted warrior fall dead.

A hazy mist thickens over their bodies and leaves naught on the ground as it dissipates.

Ando fearlessly fights his way to the center of the battle while his cousin’s arrows hit the demons around the lone warrior, only for the new ones to take their places. Two swords slowly rise again, no trace of blood on the blades, and hardly hit back another flurry of blows. The one who holds them seems on the verge of passing out.

“Lord! Don’t—”

Tahomaru, ignoring Otani’s outcry, sends his horse down the slope.

“Hold on!” He cleaves through the enemies at full gallop, wards off a spear, blocks a sword, another one, and another. Finally, he grabs the shoulder slick with blood and pulls the warrior up across his saddle, paying no attention to the arrows thickly charged at him. Illusive or not, not a single one hits him, or so it seems for now as blood rushes fiercely in his veins, allowing his body to act on its own, oblivious to any pain. “Please, hold on, Brother!”

~ The story of two paths ~

There is no wound on him, yet he is drenched in his brother’s blood by the time they find this cavern and stop. No pursue can be heard, but Ando and Otani stay outside to keep watch. The day, though misty, grows bright, and a great care is needed to hide in its light so close to the enemy’s forces.

Hyakkimaru moans faintly. His eyelashes flutter. They are long and dark against his pale skin, like their mother’s.

There are several cuts on his limbs and body, none of them too deep or dangerous. It didn’t take long for Tahomaru to stop the bleeding, but his brother still hasn’t come to his senses. The main issue must be the blood loss. Slowing down his racing heart, ignoring the tremble of agitation still sensible in his very bones, Tahomaru concentrates on the things Jukai-sensei taught him about the human body.

“The first thing you must do is to ensure that the heart doesn’t stop empty: restore the fluid balance in the body as fast as possible. On the battlefield, the only option would be to get the wounded to drink.”

His flask is nearly empty after rinsing the wounds, but for now, it will have to do.

Carefully, Tahomaru lifts his brother’s head and gives him some water. Hyakkimaru gulps it down on an instinct, half-conscious, and lets out a pained moan. His breath is shallow, and cold sweat is covering his forehead. Another bad sign.

How much blood has he lost? There is no way to know. Tahomaru recalls Maeda’s words about that warlock who offered his father the transfusion of blood. Jukai-sensei mentioned it when telling about the outlanders’ medicine. The Dutch were trying to do it, but most of the time those attempts resulted in death. As if the blood itself was wrong, even if it belonged to the closest relatives. There was something about blood that could not be understood. It looked the same, behaved the same, yet one could save, and other could kill.

Tahomaru wonders which of the two his blood would have been for his brother.

Father was too quick to banish that doctor. They should search for that man. His and Jukai-sensei’s knowledge combined can make a change in medicine.

The water seems to have done its job, though: Hyakkimaru’s breathing calms and deepens, and he relaxes, falling into something less disturbing and more like a normal sleep.

Tahomaru exits the cave to refill his flask. There was a spring nearby if his memory serves him right...

He finds an already filled flask by the cave entrance. Tahomaru looks around, wondering who of his samurai was as considerate as to leave it here. They seem busy with their own injuries, though: Otani, his neck scratched, but thankfully not too deep, is helping Ando to bandage the wound on his shoulder left by an arrow that found its way between the armor pads. His horse was shot to death in the heat of the fight. It is good each of them had taken a spare one.

Tahomaru thinks of the cloud of arrows released at him. It was a sheer luck to make it out of there completely untouched.

Or not just luck…?

“One of you must rush back to the camp to deliver the news, though it cost you your life,” he says, his voice firm. “We can afford no delay.”

“I am good, lord,” Otani says strictly, “I will do it. This is a mere scratch.”

Tahomaru nods. “Take my spare horse. Describe everything that we saw. Tell Lord Masahiro he is to follow the initial plan: retreat once the enemy is in sight. We shall catch up as soon as we can afford moving.”

“Yes, lord. Should I also tell—” he shifts his look reluctantly in the direction of the cave, unsure how to address now the man whom his lord was dead set on killing not so long ago, “—about him?”

“Yes. Tell him we have found my brother.”

“Will be done, lord.”

Wasting not a minute, Otani mounts his horse and gallops away.

Tahomaru looks at the other samurai: his face is pale from a mild blood loss, but other than that, he seems to be holding up well. “Ando, keep watch for now. I shall change you in a few hours.”

“You don’t have to, lord. You must rest as much as—”

“I didn't ask advice. Obey.”

“Lord,” Ando exhales and drops to his knees, pressing his head to the ground in apology.

Tahomaru picks up the flask and returns to the cave. It is small but pretty level, with a thick layer of fallen leaves and pine needles covering the floor. They used to camp here sometimes on their trips to the mountains when the days were still calm. On the spot where now his brother lies, Tahomaru tried to feign sleep that night when the moon was bright, and Hyogo asked Mutsu that question—

Tahomaru shakes up his head, stifling the memory. Teeth clenched tightly, he lies down on the ground beside his brother. His chest feels heavy. He wonders if this is how it will always be for him now.

Shutting down his most precious memories in order to go on.

Imagining the shadows helping and protecting him.

Snapping at his retainers for expressing a genuine care—simply because they are not them…

Tahomaru closes his eye and orders his body to relax. All things considered, Ando is right. With the battle upon them, who knows when another chance for him to rest will come…

~

…if the familiar nightmare he immediately falls into could be considered a rest.

“Bro, but he is your little brother!”

Hyakkimaru’s fierce expression is exactly what Tahomaru pictured it to be. A demon. His voice is more like a low growl, too, as he says:

“No. It called me a demon.”

It, Tahomaru notes. It. A thing that needs to be crushed—that is what he is to his enemy. See? something cold inside him begins to laugh. I’ve told you he won’t stop. Won’t think about the thousands he is condemning. He knows no compassion and no duty of a samurai. You should have listened to me closer right from the start.

His chest grows lighter, and his hand firmer. “Mutsu!” he commands.

The world is black and grey, and a cloud of arrows disappears in the air, hitting the void.

You should have learned to shoot harquebus, stupid. Bow is useless against the demon.

Blood is dyeing the colorless world around him in deep red.

What is harquebus, waka?

Doesn’t matter anymore. But you would have been good at it. Most certainly.

That is, if he couldn’t hit the bullets down as fine as arrows…

~

Tahomaru wakes up before his turn comes up, startled by a rustle.

His hand grips the hilt of his sword faster than his eyelid blinks open.

In the twilight of the cave, he sees the figure of Hyakkimaru, half-raised on his spot. His eyes shimmer in the dim light, staring at him without blinking. It is eerie, to say the least. Not at once Tahomaru realizes, why.

This is the first time they look into each other’s eyes.

Tahomaru exhales slowly, unclenching his fingers. He sits up. There is one endless moment of silence, in which Tahomaru ponders that he probably has to explain to his brother, who has never even seen him, who he is.

But it turns out that he doesn’t. Hyakkimaru jolts, his jaw dropped open. His face is distorted in a silent scream as if he has lost his voice cords once again. A fit of coughing comes out of his throat instead.

Startled, Tahomaru remembers to offer him the flask.

“Am I dead?” Hyakkimaru finally manages to utter, in a voice coarse but painfully familiar.

“No. You are just wounded, exhausted, and still weak after having suffered a severe blood loss,” Tahomaru explains. “For how long were you fighting that army of demons?”

“I don’t know. It was getting dark…”

“And when we found you, the dawn was breaking. Of course, you would pass out. Your bleeding has stopped, but you should lay and rest for a while.”

But Hyakkimaru sits up, grabbing Tahomaru’s elbows with the desperation of every bit of strength he can muster. His eyes are glowing feverishly, set on Tahomaru’s face. “No. I am dead. Sen was wrong: there is an afterlife.”

“You are very much alive, Brother, just as I am,” Tahomaru reassures him with a calming smile—and feels a sudden quiver in his lips.

He rises abruptly to his feet, setting his mouth tight. His stomach tightens, too. He turns away. Away from those bright, warm brown eyes that burn through his body, through his very core and into the depths of his soul. Eyes that fit so nicely to Hyakkimaru’s face that it is already difficult to recall him with the artificial ones. For a split second, a weird, illogical desire to rush away—or to grip his sword—clouds his vision.  

'…The demon, bane of our land…'

“Who is Sen, by the way?” Tahomaru asks, struggling to tame his mind.

“A woman. We spent the winter together,” Hyakkimaru answers matter-of-factly.

Tahomaru hums, “You weren’t wasting time, huh.”

In his head, thoughts are racing.

'…I am probably the one who knows him the best. I can tell that you will get along.'

'…I will kill you, even if it’s the last thing I do!'

“Tahomaru.” The fingers grip his hand at the quiet exhale of his name.

Tahomaru freezes. It is as soft as that time. It sends shivers down his spine. He swallows, dazed, as the hand he already once felt in his, only attached to another person’s body, squeezes his fingers desperately.

Hyakkimaru reaches out and hooks him around the chest, hard. “I haven’t defeated all that army yet.” 

Tahomaru inhales sharply. His head swims. His thoughts are in a complete disarray. “Yeah? You were going— The whole army? Why?” is the most coherency that he can manage.

“To get you back,” Hyakkimaru explains. His voice comes out muffled. His face is pressed to Tahomaru’s back. “I thought I had to defeat all that demonic army. But you’re already back. How? If I defeat all the rest, will I get them back, too?”

Tahomaru carefully places his hands on Hyakkimaru’s fists. They crackle, squeezing the fabric on his chest. He gulps down, “Brother, they are—”

He breaks off as he hears a muffled sob, then another one.

Tahomaru’s knees give up and hit the ground. He sits like this, staring into the emptiness, his hands holding the clenched, trembling fingers, as his brother cries into his shoulder hot tears of relief.

~

…Relief, not fury, is what he feels when his sword is cut in two in his hands, and the endless fight is finished. Finished with his defeat.

The weakness in his knees, as if the cords that had been holding him all this time were cut with this one stroke, crushes him down to his enemy’s feet.

The defeat is bitter. Devastating. But in the core of this pain, bliss gets born. No more struggles. No more efforts to outpace the fate. He’s been losing this battle his whole life. At last, he has no choice but to accept that—and give up.

A weakening, crushing relief.

…Because the one whom he lost to, the one whom he leaves his land to, is not a demon. He is a human who has defeated the demon within himself. The strongest human of all.

There is only one demon here. Within Tahomaru himself.

And all he is left to do is to pull it out.

~

“…Yes, they are alive and fine, too. Our mother and Jukai-sensei.”

They sit side by side afterward. The dim light of the cave allows them to trace each other’s features, yet their eyes are set ahead, fixed on the bright hole of the entrance. Tahomaru’s shoulders are tensed. His voice sounds strange to his ears, too young and ringing.

Hyakkimaru gives him a confused look. His eyelids are still red. “Ju…kai?”

His voice is a deeper, lower version of that of Tahomaru.

“Your adoptive father. Oh,” Tahomaru realizes. “You didn’t even know his name until now?”

“Jukai,” Hyakkimaru whispers, a little smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“They are staying in Nagaimachi village down the river. I’ve sent Dororo to them, too. It will be safer for now,” Tahomaru explains. “I’ve promised to bring you there once I find you.”

A short twitch of the lips, as if an unborn smile, is Hyakkimaru’s only reaction to the mention of Dororo’s name. He replies nothing.

'I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all.'

Tahomaru isn’t so sure anymore that he gets it either. He adds to change the tricky subject, “But first, that army of demons must be stopped, of course.”

To that, Hyakkimaru nods, his jaw muscles tensing. Grim decisiveness narrows his eyes.

They spend the afternoon following the steep and uncertain mountain trails, careful not to come close to the main road where the impossible army is marching steadily. No words are exchanged. Tahomaru opens his mouth time and time again to tell his brother about their father’s last will, yet no sound comes out. There is a frail bridge that has begun to form between them, a bridge that can be destroyed by a hasty step.

Tahomaru pushes the matter to later. First, they must reach the camp, which is a task hard enough in their circumstances. To gain an advantage against the enemy, they dive into the wilderness of wooded slopes and narrow ravines. Sometimes, they have to dismount to climb up and down especially steep inclines. Hyakkimaru insists he is fine to do so on his own, yet by the dusk, when they finally reach the mouth of the gorge not far to the north from the Hall of Hell, he looks horribly pale.

Tahomaru calls a halt.

They find a small shrine, more like an altar in a tiny cave built by some hermit, hidden among the trees of the western slope. For now, they outpace the enemy, who has to follow all the bends of the road, by a few hours. Tomorrow, before noon, they must reach the Two Pines.

“By the way, how did you recognize what they were?” Tahomaru asks as they settle in the cave for the night. Once again, Ando stays outside to keep the first watch. “Haven’t you lost your soul vision?”

“I have. I don’t know how,” Hyakkimaru says, his voice a bit shaky from the exhaustion. He lies down with a faint sigh. Never before has Tahomaru seen him so vulnerable. Never before did he look so much human. “I didn’t think I would. But when I saw them, I just knew in an instant. And you?”

“It was the same for me.”

The look they exchange is that of understanding. They share something beyond blood that none of the living can know. The scars of the Deal.

Hyakkimaru frowns. “Somebody must have made another deal.”

“Yes, but how?” Tahomaru wonders. “The Hall of Hell is destroyed and abandoned, all the statues broken. We’ve checked it on our way here.”

“Maybe it’s another demon,” Hyakkimaru suggests.

“No. It is their doing. I know. I was one with Asura, after all.”

He feels his brother’s eyes on him. Tahomaru stands up and turns away, setting his gaze on the darkness thickening outside.

He was Asura.

This darkness is not the same. Even if pitch-black, it still is filled with warmth and movements of life. But if he closes his eyes, if he reaches down to the deepest depths of his soul—maybe there he may still meet that cold, hard blackness impossible within the realms of this world, which he summoned so desperately back then. The blackness of the other side of existence…

“Tahomaru,” the soft voice reaches him like a careful touch, breaking the chill that has begun to spread in his bones.

He shakes up. “What is it?”

“I’m cold.”

Tahomaru turns around. The night is chilly, but not so much, so the cause must be the blood loss. The body would narrow the veins in the limbs to keep as much blood as possible by the vital organs, he recalls Jukai’s teachings once again. Weakened blood circulation requires an excessive external heat. But they can’t light a proper fire, and he’s left his jinbaori on Dororo’s shoulders. Wearing it was indeed a matter of status for Tahomaru rather than comfort, as his harsh training allowed him to stay immune to the mild Ishikawa’s lowlands winter. He had just a two-layered shitagi shirt under his armor, which was fairly sufficient.

“Sorry, I have nothing more except my under shirt. But at least it is warm. Wait a minute, I'll ask Ando to help me out of the armor—”

“No,” Hyakkimaru stops him. “Come here, lie down. Press your body to mine and wrap your arms around me. This is how the children in the mountains slept to keep themselves warm. Cats and dogs, too.”

“There were children?” Tahomaru asks to distract his thoughts from the oddity of the situation. However odd, he can’t deny it makes sense. Nothing in the cold mountain night is as warm as a human body.

“Yes. Sen has two sons.”

Tahomaru takes off his cuirass and settles himself by Hyakkimaru’s side. He reaches out, putting his arm around his brother’s tensed shoulders. He feels the waves of shiver rolling up and down under the cold skin. Awkwardly, he shifts closer.

Tahomaru tries not to think beyond the mechanics of his actions, but he does anyway. The body in his arms is almost the same as his own. He knows the curves of the muscles and the sharp cuts of the bones. The broadness of the shoulders, like their father’s. The elegant bend of the neck is that of their mother.

“Is it warm now?” Tahomaru knows it is: his heart is beating violently as if for both of them. He tries to steady it, invoking his most austere samurai training. 

“Yes. You are very warm.”

Hyakkimaru’s body begins to relax.

Tahomaru recalls Dororo pacing the stables in worry. Maybe she wasn’t so unreasonable, after all.

“It was way too reckless to attack that army on your own,” he can’t help but remark.

“I didn’t expect my body to be so weak in battle. I have fought only animals…since then,” Hyakkimaru confesses. “At first, it was going well, especially after I managed to capture a pair of swords. But then something happened, and my strength began to evaporate.”

“That something is called ‘exhaustion’,” Tahomaru chuckles at the confusion in his tone. “Quite a natural thing for a human body.”

He also notes how fluent Hyakkimaru’s speech has become. His brother truly wasn’t wasting time.

“I had my legs and my arms and never felt like that,” Hyakkimaru argues. “It started only after I got my eyes.”

“Which means, after the Deal was broken completely.” Indeed, a part of that unnatural strength wasn’t his own. Tahomaru pushes back a sigh of relief that tried to escape his chest. He swallows hard on it. “Now, you must get used to the limits of your body and be more careful.”

Hyakkimaru doesn’t reply to this, only frowns and sets his jaw stubbornly, like their father would do upon hearing something that wasn’t to his liking. The resemblance is striking. It raises the hairs on the back of Tahomaru’s neck. The next moment, the feeling is gone.

“How did you even survive the winter in the mountains without warm clothes?” Tahomaru feels his face heat up but he can’t stop the next question, “Was it that lady who kept you warm?”

“Yes…” A hint of embarrassment in Hyakkimaru’s voice proves that he’s caught the double meaning. He seems an ordinary guy of his age now, his speech and his manners almost perfectly normal, except maybe for a slightly confusing mix of those of a commoner and a samurai. Somebody must have taught him a more proper speech than Dororo had. “But she gave me warm clothes, too. The fur coat, I lost in the fight. The kimono and hakama… I left them behind when leaving.”

“Why?”

“It was her husband’s clothes. I killed him.”

Tahomaru’s heart skips a beat. “You...did? Why?”

“Because I didn’t care, back then, by the Two Pines. He was in that army that I slaughtered.”

Hyakkimaru’s body tenses up again. His breath hitches, and he inhales deeply, as if there were a noose around his neck.

A strike of pain echoes in Tahomaru’s own chest. He knows the feeling very well. Guilt. Incurable, eternal, inescapable.

Maybe Hyakkimaru didn’t care back then, but he certainly does now.

He thinks of the battle they will have to fight. Of the ice in Setsuna’s eyes, and of her father’s guilelessness. 'He shall not enter this castle for as long as I live.'

Hyakkimaru must not know about Imagawa’s reasons for this rebellion. If it was indeed him who made the new deal, who summoned the whole army of demons into this land, driven mad by the death of all his sons by the Two Pines—

His fingers tense on his brother’s shoulder. Hyakkimaru must not know about it. His load is hardly bearable as it is.

“Tell me about her…keeping you warm,” Tahomaru asks, partly to change the subject, partly out of the genuine curiosity.

“You…want to know?” Hyakkimaru asks reluctantly.

“Well, of course I do. I have an older brother now. Who else can I discuss such things with?” Tahomaru chuckles to lighten the mood, and hears Hyakkimaru’s quiet laughter interweave in his. Though deliberate, it still feels nice.

His face heats up when Hyakkimaru describes their first night together rather explicitly. Tahomaru almost regrets asking it but there is no way he isn’t curious for more. Hyakkimaru elaborates. It seems like it is easier for him to speak about all the various things they did at night than about the guilt that tormented him in the light of the day. Tahomaru feels so young and inexperienced as he struggles to control the heat in his body. Some things, he used to dream of, others he would never even dare to imagine.  

“You've never done it?” Hyakkimaru asks, surprise in his voice. As if it was strange to him that he, of all people, could outdo someone in the bodily experiences.

Tahomaru clenches his teeth, the lightness in his heart evaporating in a moment.

“I have… Once. But it was nothing like you describe.”

~

A high-ranking maid’s clothing wasn’t of the most complex kind, like junihitoe, a twelve-layered kimono the court ladies wore, or a fewer-layered one of the daimyo’s wives, but it still consisted of several pieces: an outer robe kosode with a simple repeating pattern, a mobakama skirt over it, a nagajuban underkimono of white silk, and a hadajuban underwear of thin cotton. All of those were secured with different ties and cords. There were enough openings, however, to allow intimacy without undoing the complex attire. Yet what he did was stripping her naked, half conscious, half lunatic, shuddering from the raging heat that had risen from the dark depths of his soul and flooded his mind. The flame and the wailings of the creatures burning alive were also a part of it.

'Mutsu, Hyogo. Never again will I let my feelings blunt my sword.'

…Once that raging heat had been released and gone, the first thing Tahomaru saw clearly was the white silk of the underkimono crumpled on the floor. It was no longer white but tainted with vivid red. Upon it, her body was of the sweetest color of peach blushed from the warm rays of summer. Furi was seated with her knees pressed to her breast, curled up in fear or in shame, or perhaps in both, clenching the silk but not daring to pull it over herself. Instead, her loose hair, curling wildly, covered her small figure like a fluffy cloak of shadows. Her face, finest porcelain with delicate features yet the eyes too big and the lips too plump to be called simply pretty, made her seem even younger than she was.

So beautiful. So fragile. Tahomaru felt something warm, like a gentle melody of a flute, tugging at his chest.

He cut the feeling abruptly. This was not what he needed.

“You may leave now,” his voice trembled.

Furi flinched. Her lips parted slightly, and her blush intensified. Mad at himself, Tahomaru squeezed his eye shut. The other half of his world sank into blackness.

There, beyond a thin line, was an immeasurable reservoir of power.

He reached out. He touched it, the blackness he had just let overtake his mind. The blackness that could make him strong. He was no longer afraid of it.

Tahomaru took a breath and felt his heart steadying, his chest hardening, felt something in him irrevocably fading away. The next time he spoke, his voice sounded perfectly cold and detached, like a lord’s voice should:

“Leave.”

She disappeared. He would never be tormented by her mere presence again.

Tomorrow, he would fight the demon, and he would eliminate it. There was no other option.

And no other way.

No other way but to eliminate his own weak self first.

~

Tahomaru changes Ando in the black stillness of the hour of the Rat. The sky grows dim, disappearing completely behind the clouds. It perfectly completes the image of that night still lingering in his mind.

Can something once broken be restored? He walks, he talks, he breathes, calm and rational, but is there really a soul inside his body? The soul he did his best to eliminate…

Tahomaru flinches, remembering Jukai-sensei’s big, warm hands on his shoulders. The clear tears in his eyes. '…I don’t care about my soul anymore. I just don’t want people to suffer and die.'

That man did his best to rise from the deepest abyss, deeper than Tahomaru can even imagine, and doing so, he realized the absolute vanity of the thing called “remorse”. Lamenting your own soul won’t right the wrong you’ve done. Only your actions will.

Blindly staring ahead, Tahomaru repeats once again his silent prayer in the shrine, or rather a pledge. It doesn’t matter if his body is but a mechanism with no soul. What does matter is the essence of his actions.

Having achieved the clarity, he stands up to stretch his legs.

And sees an arrow appear from the dark.

~

“How much can the world change
Between the moment an arrow is let loose
And when it strikes its target?
Can lives be saved? Evil redeemed?
Fate changed? Paths split or entwine?”

Tell me, Mutsu.

“Mutsu… Can you help me with a verse? I need advice on a metaphor that would fit a 7-syllable line.” Tahomaru tried to make his voice sound dry and cool, yet there was a warmth in his face, he could only guess of which shade of red exactly.

“I regret to admit I struggle to understand poetic metaphors, waka,” Mutsu said with a slight apologetic incline of her head. “Intricate words conveying nuances of the feelings…sadly, they are completely beyond my comprehension.”

“But you were good at it in studying.”

She bowed. “Only because it was required. As a warrior, I took it as a part of my training. As a warrior still, I am more used to the words straight and short, like a flight of an arrow.”

He smiled. “Wasn’t that a perfect poetic metaphor just now?” 

~

…Later, he will wonder whether it is even possible to notice an arrow shot straight at your head from the shadows of the moonless night. To watch it nearing impossibly slow but be unable to move a finger.

To witness it being hit down only a few steps away.

Yet Tahomaru sees it all.

The only thing he doesn’t see is the weapon that has stopped it.

The time unfreezes and lets him drop into the grass. A few more arrows whizz through the air, but none reaches him. Tahomaru hears a distant rustle of something heavy crushing down onto the thick foliage. The sound repeats from another direction. After that, there is only silence.

Slowly, controlling his breathing, Tahomaru reaches down and grips his sword. He waits like this, unmoving, erratically counting the possibilities.

The arrows were charged at him at least from two sides. There was no second attempt, and so far, nobody came to check if he’s dead, either. The sounds of two bodies fall down might mean that the attackers have been killed on the spot.

Yet no one had left the cave. His brother and Ando, soundly asleep, probably didn’t even hear anything.

An icy chill crawls over Tahomaru’s body. There is only one possibility. The possibility that could explain all the inexplicable that has happened ever since he left on this journey. Why no arrow did as much as graze him in the fight earlier, for one.

Are you two really watching over me? 

Tahomaru bites on his lip. It is never too late to go nuts. There must be another explanation, a sane one. Think.

The arrow he saw was hit down by something swift, small. Practically invisible. A shuriken.

Ninja.

Tahomaru slowly rises up, his back to the rock, his hand on the hilt of the sword. He isn’t positive that he can draw it fast enough. The fact that he had been winning all the iaido duels he took part in since his teens means nothing against a ninja in the night.

But none attacks. Surrounding him is the same still, opaque blackness. Only the open spot he is standing on is somewhat greyish thanks to the adjustment of his vision and the faint starlight seeping through the clouds.

A ninja that protected him?

He had no ninja on his service. Father used to keep them, but even he was extremely cautious in using them, for there was no such thing as allegiance for a ninja. They served those who paid better and could betray out of fear or for benefit. The only ninja Father really trusted was Yamaburo, that unfortunate fellow who once was captured and drugged by Mutsu, questioned by Tahomaru himself, and who later intervened in his fight with Hyakkimaru and captured Dororo. But he perished by the Two Pines.

Why would a ninja protect him? A backup by Maeda? Hardly possible, unless some ninja had been assigned to watch over him already back in the castle—

The heart gives a thud in Tahomaru’s chest as suddenly it all dawns to him.

…Allow me to stay by your side as a silent shadow—

He hasn’t been imagining the shadows following his steps.

—and serve you, in whatever way…

Nor has he been going nuts.

Impossible?

There is only one way to find out.

“Show yourself already…Furi,” Tahomaru says into the night, feeling utterly stupid about this assumption.

The boundary of darkness shifts.

A small silhouette, clad in black and grey, appears from the shadows and kneels before him.

“So, you really are a ninja,” Tahomaru exhales. “Did my father know?”

It would explain a lot. Why she was assigned as his personal servant, for one.

But Furi denies, “No, my lord. Nobody knew.”

Her clothes are a simple dark kimono and hakama tightened at the ankles, her hair is tied in a high knot, but she is kneeled like a maid in the castle chamber before her lord—a humble and elegant bow to the tips of her joined fingers.

“What about your family?”

“My real family was murdered when I was seven, my lord. Those kind people adopted me and raised me as their own child. I never told them either.”

“Then, your real parents were ninja? Was it them who taught you?”

“Yes. But my teachings have not been completed. I only know some tricks, that is all. I am not a real ninja, my lord.”

“True. You failed to fool me, after all.”

There is a quick rustle behind his back—his brother and Ando have at last been awakened by the voices.

“I am sorry, my lord. But fooling you has never been my intention. I only tried not to bother you with my presence,” Furi says flatly, her eyes downcast. She seems the same, yet there is something new about her. Some detached restraint he never noticed before—real, not feigned one. At the same time, it seems weirdly familiar, but in what way exactly, Tahomaru cannot tell. The feeling is there, tantalizing yet escaping his mind.

“I still felt it. From the very moment we crossed the western bridge. I thought I was going insane.”

She deepens her bow, but her voice stays toneless, “My profound apologies, my lord.”

“Quit apologizing. I just never thought that you would turn into a shadow almost literally.”

“I would never dare play with words when speaking to you, my lord.”

Tahomaru hums. “I shall take everything you say more seriously from now on. Now, go inside and catch some rest. We’ll head back before dawn.”

~

Ando, his bow pulled, covers the brothers as they look around the woods and shortly discover two corpses, those of samurai with bows and sheathed swords but no identifying crests on their simple armor, lying a hundred steps apart. Their hearts are pierced through as if by arrows, but no arrows, nor any other weapon are stuck in the wounds. They find nothing on the ground either. The killed samurai’s quivers contain but a few arrows of their own. The same long arrows with a simple white fletching the brothers picked up in the thickets near their resting-place earlier.

All five have been hit to the ground by something that has disappeared without a trace, too.

Once more, Hyakkimaru examines the halves in perplexity. These arrows haven’t been cut by a sword nor by a shuriken, the weapon Tahomaru described as small stars of steel. They’ve been cloven in two all along the shafts.

This is a skill he couldn’t possibly pull off even in the times when he possessed a part of the demons’ strength himself. He hit arrows in dozens, but he couldn’t imagine hitting them head on with such strength and precision so as to slice even the heads of steel through.

And that girl’s hands were empty. She didn’t even have a sword on her waist or her back.

What is ninja, Hyakkimaru wonders. Is it another kind of demon?

~

Tahomaru examines the second body, which is quite challenging in the darkness, but still finds no clan symbols. The body doesn’t fade away, though, and otherwise looks like a proper human corpse. But once he takes a closer look at the face, he freezes.

He recognizes him. Iwamoto.

Tahomaru has only seen the man once but remembers being surprised by the fact that his plain face bore no resemblance whatsoever to the dazzling features of his daughter. Now it is clear, why. No blood relation. The face is blue and distorted in pain, but there is no doubt it’s him.

“Bring her here,” Tahomaru commands, cold metal in his voice.

Ando rushes back to the cave. He returns shortly, out of breath:

“I couldn’t find her, lord. She’s gone and left no visible marks. There’s no chance to trace her.”

“The horses?”

“All there, lord. She hasn’t taken one.”

Hyakkimaru rejoins them, broken arrows in his hands.

“He was our soldier and her stepfather,” Tahomaru explains. “But there’s no doubt these assassins have come from the enemy’s positions. Probably, he was a spy, maybe even all this time. Perhaps a ninja as well. There is one thing we now know for sure, though: there are not only demonic phantoms in that army. Living humans, too.”

“No,” Hyakkimaru objects, quickly checking the body. “Not living. Look: there was no blood in their bodies.”

It is hard to tell in the darkness, but Tahomaru realizes his brother’s split-second observation is accurate. The corpse is too pale, and the wounds are dry with no trace of the fresh blood.

“The demons must have used the corpses of our own warriors,” Ando suggests, not without a touch of an investigator's zeal in his voice. “The ones who had fallen defending Tatesuki Pass in the autumn campaign. The winter in the mountains was harsh, it preserved the bodies intact.”

Tahomaru gulps heavily. He never even asked Furi of her parents’ whereabouts. He spoke general promises of generosity but never made an effort to as much as ascertain whether they were still alive.

She had lost her adoptive father back in the autumn. And tonight, she had to kill him again with her own hand.

~

“Who is she to you?” Hyakkimaru asks.

“My maid.”

“Not only that,” he says, his eyes keen and sharp. “You’ve been together.”

“W-what are you—”

“I can tell. Your voice was so unsteady when you talked to her. She uttered 'my lord' with a soft lisp of intimacy. You were slightly blushing. She struggled not to look at you.”

His brother’s mad observation skills at their best, Tahomaru sighs internally. He himself didn’t even notice any of that.

“Neat; but has anybody ever told you that you are not supposed to voice everything you see?” he says, irritated.

Hyakkimaru immediately subsides. He drops his gaze and strains his jaw. “Sorry. You’re right. Thanks for reminding me that.”

Tahomaru looks at him, baffled. He didn’t expect a reaction like this. Probably, he touched on some sore spot as well…

“Well, you are right, too,” he admits, softening his voice. “It was her I mentioned earlier.”

Hyakkimaru raises his eyes to him.

“But you never told me why it was ‘nothing like I described’”, he says somewhat cautiously.

“You are not the only one to have it complicated.”

“Tell me.”

“There is nothing to tell. I just took her,” Tahomaru says, his voice even. Or so it seems to his ears, at least. “I used her to eliminate my own weakness, my cowardice, everything that was holding me back. To cross that line and unleash the darkness I had been afraid to even look at. I ruined that girl in order to ruin my own soul.”

His brother’s eyes are sharp, like that of an archer, and again he says a thing that catches Tahomaru off guard: “But you did want her.”

…From the moment Furi was appointed as his personal servant, Tahomaru couldn’t stand her. It was hard for him to even look at her. He didn’t know why, but whenever she was near, his thoughts were in disorder. Her every action, every mundane gesture stirred him to the point of being unbearable. It was like you watch something ugly and you are about to throw up but can’t tear your look away. Only she wasn’t ugly. She was anything but ugly.

It was his own ugliness he looked at, Tahomaru realized before long. His own darkness. He didn’t know himself who desired her like that, carnally, surreptitiously.

That realization was followed by another one: he still was a weakling afraid to even face his own self. No wonder he had lost so miserably by the Banmon…

He asks, “What does it matter?”

“There is nothing dark about wanting someone,” Hyakkimaru says.

“There is,” Tahomaru retorts. “I know, because at the same time… I felt a very different kind of affection toward someone else, and it was only light.”

~

“You may leave us,” Tahomaru snapped, irritation in his voice causing the girl to flinch. It was a miracle that the tray in her hands maintained a perfect balance. She bowed down and retreated with tiny rapid steps without producing a sound, her head held low.

Maids don’t walk like that. Ninja do. Tahomaru twitched, shaking off that old and nonsensical childish suspicion this girl had arisen in him when he had first met her on the castle courtyard. Was it five years ago? Or maybe seven? He should have insisted that she be dismissed already back then. He wouldn’t have been in this ridiculous situation right now.

“You have a new maid, waka?” Hyogo noticed, a hint of sympathy for the girl in his voice making Tahomaru even angrier.

“Father has assigned that girl to serve me and ‘educate’ me, as he said,” Tahomaru cringed, his face hot. “I don’t really get it. I mean, what is she even supposed to be, a concubine? She is barely older than me! And I never asked for that! Shouldn’t I be the one choosing? Anyway, I don’t want to do it with her.”

“You sure? She seems nice,” Hyogo said somewhat cautiously.

“I’m not saying she isn’t. It’s not the point, Hyogo! It just…doesn’t feel right, okay. I barely know her and all—” Tahomaru took a few breaths to calm himself, then narrowed his eyes and glanced at his attendant: “By the way, Hyogo, who do you do it with?”

The guy reddened, then paled, then rubbed his nape, and at last uttered awkwardly, “I don’t really do it, waka, for my duty is to always be by your side and protect you.”

“So, you’ve never done it? Don’t you have someone you’d like to do it with?”

“Well… There was a girl, at the inn where we used to stay often when traveling around. But I can’t go off to visit her.”

“You will die of abstinence if you don’t. It’s not supposed to be held back forever.”

“I won’t die, waka, for I can’t protect you in such a case.”

“You’re at it again,” Tahomaru let out an exasperated sigh. “Go to that girl. This is my will. If anyone questions it, say I gave you the order, come up with something.”

“Waka, you are too generous.” There was a glint of close tears in Hyogo’s eyes.

Tahomaru felt content. He enjoyed being generous. What reason is there to be a lord’s heir other than to make your subordinates happy?

“By the way, does she like you back?” he asked, failing to hold back the curiosity. He had never been interested in such things, but recently a lot of weird thoughts were stirring his mind, rising out of nowhere.

“I don’t know, but she seemed like she does.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well…she gave me those looks…”

“Mutsu never gives me looks, only glares,” Tahomaru sighed.

“Mutsu, waka?”

Tahomaru stiffened. He felt the heat in his cheeks so intense they must have been glowing like freaking festive lanterns. “Oh, just forget it,” he muttered, palming his face.

There was a long silence. Hyogo broke it awkwardly, even more red then before, “You can always ask her, you know. She is your servant and is supposed to follow your will.”

“I don’t want her to follow my will!” Tahomaru flared up. He found himself pacing the room. When had he even jumped to his feet? His heart was pumping so madly that his whole body began to throb. “I want her to want it…but she only sees me as a child. And lately, she always distances herself. She won’t even talk to me normally when we’re alone, it’s always ‘waka’ and ‘I’m your humble guard’ nonsense…”

“She must be thinking that it is not proper for her to act around you like we used to as children,” Hyogo said softly. “But she loves you, waka. She won’t get mad at you for asking that.”

“Because I am her master. But this is exactly what I don’t want. I wonder how can I ever get to know what’s really on her mind…”

“I can ask her for you.”

“You can?” Tahomaru halted, holding his breath.

“Of course. Any time. It is easy.”

“But what if she doesn’t say the truth to you?”

“I believe she will, waka.”

“I believe she won’t. This is Mutsu we are talking about. And you, you can’t recognize a lie for the life of you, Hyogo. You always believed it when she told those stories in the dark about the ghostly eyes and creeping hands with that deadpan expression of hers.”

“Then, what if you hide somewhere and listen for yourself?”

“Are you suggesting me to eavesdrop?” Tahomaru frowned with indignation.

“Isn’t it what you always do on your parents?” Hyogo shrugged. “She’s just a servant.”

If there was anything in which Hyogo resembled his big sister, it would be the ability to expose his young master’s bad habits in such a routine way there was no point to even get mad at him, Tahomaru thought with a sigh.

~

Hyogo decided to actually proceed with it when they camped in that small cave on their way to the mountain hunt. He seemed to be asleep, snoring quietly, but it was part of the plan. Tahomaru kept his body still and his breathing even, too, as he lied on his left side, slightly curled up (which was how he would usually sleep, according to Hyogo’s words.) Mutsu was sitting outside, keeping watch. Not that such a precaution was even needed here, in the safe part of the domain that hadn’t seen an enemy for a dozen years, yet she would still insist on doing it, each time. This was simply the way she was.

The night dragged, the measured sounds of the owls and the crickets counting the passing moments. Soon, Tahomaru gave up on watching the moon that seemed not to be moving at all, and let his gaze drop. Mutsu’s posture was perfectly still in the bright silver light, except for the loose strands of her hair blowing faintly in the soft breeze, and her fingers sliding up and down the fletching of the arrow that was lying on her knees. Up and down they went, in a slow caress, so slow it matched the meditative sway of the treetops. So gentle it raised a buzzing sensation deep within Tahomaru’s bones and made his skin crawl with shivers.

He shifted, pressing his burning face to the ground. His shoulders were so tense the muscles twitched. Things had been so easy just a year ago… Where had this impatience, this burning desperation even come from? Was it what growing up brought? Wasn’t it supposed to make him stronger, calmer? To shape him into a man who would be finally allowed to command his samurai in a battle?

He just needs to forget about this stupid stuff. Hyogo had probably fallen asleep, after all—

“Hyogo?” Mutsu’s question caught Tahomaru completely off guard: he hadn’t even registered Hyogo rise up and get out of the cavern. If he wanted, this ridiculously big guy could be as soundless as a ninja spy. “Why you’re up? It’s not your turn yet, go back to sleep.”

“No, sis, I’ll change you since I’ve already woken up. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You know, I’ve been wondering lately—”

—Or maybe he hadn’t heard anything because of the pulse thundering in his ears, Tahomaru thought, holding his breath.

“What’s it?”

“You always seem to be only focused on your duty. But…it can’t be that you’ve never thought about other things.”

Tahomaru couldn’t remember to breathe.

“What other things?” Mutsu sounded perplexed. Slowly, Tahomaru turned his head to look at them. By the slight change in her profile he could tell that Mutsu was frowning.

Taking a deep breath, Hyogo jumped in: “Sis, is there anyone you love?”

“What question is this even?” she said without the slightest of pauses. “There is only one I will ever love.”

Tahomaru’s heart gave a start. It pounded so loud that it almost drowned out Hyogo’s next question:

“But do you really love him?”

“You’re questioning my love for my master?” Mutsu narrowed her eyes, glints of her dark irises sharp like daggers.

“This is not what I mean,” Hyogo stuttered, waving his hands defensively. They shifted slightly, so Tahomaru couldn’t see Mutsu’s face anymore. “What if, say, he wishes that you become…ehm…become, say, his concubine?”

A short pause. Tahomaru could only imagine the glare she was sending her brother right now.

“You must be sick from too much eating in that inn, Hyogo. Go and rest. I’ll keep watch.”

Hyogo flinched as if having missed a sharp blow in the guts. She never went easy on her poor little brother, Tahomaru thought with a touch of sympathy.

But Hyogo was not the one to give up. With the last bold determination that he could muster he asked, “Still, sis… Have you ever thought about that?”

“Of course, I have not. Who would even think about such nonsense? I’m not some maid,” Mutsu uttered with disgust, “nor am I a highborn woman. I am a samurai. My only purpose is to serve Young Master and protect him to the last drop of my blood.”

~

“Where is Hyogo?” Mutsu’s question reached Tahomaru along with the sound of hooves.

She caught up with him and kept slightly behind.

“I dismissed him for today.”

“You are being too soft with him, waka. He slacks off too much recently.”

Stop lecturing me! Tahomaru pulled the reins, barely suppressing his outrage.

He jumped from his horse and walked to the edge of the field where the big lonely tree stood by the steep drop-off. He heard Mutsu do the same a few steps behind him. The high autumn grass was rustling ever so slightly about her feet. Their horses were puffing heavily from the fast ride. Other than that, there was no sound. The clear sky was stroked with the shadows of the clouds and the birds flying so high that his eyes hurt to look into that sharp blue infinity.

“Why are we here, waka?”

“Because I want to be here; do I need a specific reason to be where I want to be?” Tahomaru snapped, unable to calm down. His mind raced. His head was spinning as if he were about to fall into the sky.

“My apologies, waka,” Mutsu said formally with a deep bow.

Tahomaru tried to remember the words he had intended to say. He closed his eyes and took one long breath, then another. Mutsu waited patiently, watching him in silence. He knew she was watching him, probably with worry, her body relaxed but ready to react in a fraction of a second; her right arm ready to snatch an arrow and place it on the string of the light hankyu bow that her left hand would get off her horse’s back the same instant. She never let her guard down, not even here, on this serene field, where Tahomaru used to run away as a child to hide among the high grass from the world that was so unfair. She would always find him and reach out with a smile, and her hand would be gentle yet there would be a strain in it, and her eyes would glance all over the field and to the faraway forest, calculating any possible danger. She would never let her guard down.

“Something isn’t right. I have always felt it,” Tahomaru finally uttered, and those were not the words he had been preparing. His gaze was wandering over the horizon where the hills were glowing scarlet with the vivid colors of autumn. Somehow, it was not pretty. It seemed as if blood had been spilled all over the land. “Things are not as they are supposed to be. Something is off and has always been. Have you ever felt the same, Mutsu?”

There was a long silence behind him. She would never waver when answering his questions. She would never make him wait. But now, she did, and it could mean a lot of things.

“I have, waka,” Mutsu replied at length.

What exactly? Tahomaru wanted to demand but held himself back. It was his time to speak. “Yes. A lot isn’t right. My parents holding secrets from me. My mother’s indifference. The sadness in her eyes. The fact that I am being protected by you, too.”

“Have I not proved myself, waka?” Mutsu’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but there was steel in it, cold and razor-sharp.

“You have. And it is not right either.” Tahomaru took a deep breath and turned around to face her. His heart was racing as if he was about to step from the cliff and let himself be blown into the blue height. “I want to be the one to protect you, Mutsu. Always wanted to be. Even before I could understand what it means.”

Mutsu gasped, her eyes fixed on his, wide and almost black with…fear? Did it frighten her, him laying his heart bare before her like this?

'…the words straight and short, like a flight of an arrow.'

“Waka…” her lips shifted without producing a sound. 

Tahomaru took another deep breath, but no air was enough. His heart was palpitating violently. He stepped forward. She flinched, backing off.

“You could never think of me like this, could you?” He smiled bitterly. A blunt pain was swelling in his chest. He should not have come here, to this meadow. The place of his weakness and defeat. It’s like he was being weak again, unconsciously seeking her comfort. This is not what he wanted to be. He clenched his fingers. “Am I still that crying little boy for you?”

“No, waka. You are not,” there was a distinct tremor in Mutsu’s voice. She dropped her gaze. “Please, forgive me.”

“For what?”

“For being so stupid. I never realized. Never could imagine…that I have been the one tormenting you. But you should not have kept silent. I am here to serve you. You just had to say a word and—”

Tahomaru felt himself blushing violently. “I would never order you that!”

“Then what is it you want from me?”

“Do you not understand?”

“I’m afraid I do not, waka.”

He bit his lip, looking away. Obviously, she did. Others would think she was just like this, dry and unfeeling, but he knew her enough to notice a little strain in her voice, a slight unevenness of her breathing, the way her fingers twitched as if to reach for an arrow—a subconscious reflex when facing an enemy. He was the enemy now.

Tahomaru stretched out his hand, but stopped inches away from her palm. It was so small and narrow that it was easy to fall for the illusion of its weakness. “I shall never touch you without you wishing it. I swear.”

He stayed like this, waiting. He was willing to wait however long it took for her to recognize him, to see a man in him, to embrace the idea of them being something more.

Mutsu watched his hand—and suddenly gave a start. Her palm twitched as if on its own—

Tahomaru’s heart jumped in his chest. But the very next moment, she halted midway, never reaching him.

No. He is not the enemy, Tahomaru realized with surprise. She is, herself. He looked up—and caught disturbance in her eyes. She was four years older than him, but what was written in her gaze was not the pity for a boy nor the indulgence of an older sister. 

“You…feel it, too.”

Mutsu squeezed her eyes shut, gulping heavily. When she spoke, her voice was hollow like the windless infinity above the clouds.

“I am dead, waka. I should have been dead for more than eight years now. This is what’s off. I have always felt it.”

Tahomaru inhaled sharply, his eyes wide. “No.”

“I am only existing by Lord Kagemitsu’s generosity. I am only existing as your right hand. I have no desires of my own.”

“I do not believe you.”

“You better do, waka.”

“Nonsense!” he burst out, with all the pent-up frustration breaking into his voice. “You exist because of your own strength and the will to live. You fought till the end. You survived through hell while all the others had died, and now you are telling me that you don’t feel alive?”

“I am being honest with you, waka,” Mutsu said in a flat voice. “I wondered, too, why we were still breathing as all the people around us were dying of starvation, illness, and wounds. I decided it was for avenging our parents; for the moment when another guard would come in to take out the corpses, and I would plunge the bone under his jaw. I had torn that rib out of the nearest corpse’s chest with my bare hands, I had smashed it with a stone to split it, I had sharpened it till it was smooth like a blade, all the time picturing that single moment. It never came. Instead, I was made to live on. To play, to train, to study, to take care of you. I continued to flow with the current, not knowing what to picture now.”

Tahomaru could only look at her, overwhelmed. He never knew this was how she had felt back then. He thought she was just happy to have a nice life after everything they had been through.

As he was saying nothing, Mutsu continued, not without hesitation. “But then I realized that maybe there was another reason why death had not taken us like all the others. After I told you about our past, and our captivity, and what the war truly was, you changed. I still remember that evening when you vowed to us to stop the wars and bring peace to our land when the time would come for you to stand alongside your father. Even if I would have to oppose him, you added. I remember the young September moon, and the whisper of the wind in the trees about the terrace, and the distant thud, thud of the peasants pounding mochi in the town below. Your eyes were filled with moonlight, looking far ahead, and in an instant, I knew it: you would achieve anything. You gave me a new image. An image of the future I wanted to strive for. A new purpose to live on. I could never see you as a child anymore. You were my lord, the one whom—I knew—I would follow to whatever end. But more than that, you were the treasure that I wanted to protect; not only because by protecting you I would protect that beautiful future, but because that was what my whole being demanded. Not at once I understood.”

Tahomaru’s breath caught. His head was swaying. “So take my hand,” he exhaled, and only now realized that her back was pressed to the trunk of the tree, and there was nowhere for him to step further. The rays of the sun were breaking through the crown, filling the air between them with light and shadows. They flickered in her eyes, interchangeably, and the vacant look of before turned into something vulnerable, something more like desperation.

They were so close it was hard to breathe, yet so far it was hard to even hear each other. Maybe his racing heart was to blame. Tahomaru squeezed his eyes shut, feeling young and stupid. What he wanted was to not feel young and stupid. He wanted to feel confident. He wanted—not the embarrassing and filthy stuff the depths of his mind were offering—but for her to take his hand and say “I will be yours forever.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?” Tahomaru exhaled.

“I cannot walk both paths at once. Like one cannot be a monk and a killer, a mother and a warrior, a life and a death at the same time. Trying to tread two paths simultaneously means failing at both. I was left alive only to protect you. If I’m not strong enough to cut off my sentiments, I will eventually fail to do my duty. And once I failed, I shall no longer exist. Not a minute.” Her voice dropped almost to a whisper, became soft and gentle like the rustling of the leaves above them. He never knew it could be this soft. “Tahomaru… Don’t you ever doubt my love for you. Loving you means guarding you, and for me, it is the only definition of being alive. But I cannot be a woman for you, even though I wish I could.”

He closed his eyes tightly, relishing the raw sound of his name. He knew she was never going to utter it again.

It stung underneath his eyelids. He was still weaker than her. How conceited he had been to believe the opposite.

“So be it.”

Tahomaru stepped back, clenching his empty hand into a fist. There was something he could never achieve with his own hands, no matter how strongly he desired it. There would always be something out of his grasp.

He jumped in his saddle and rode off.

~

“...After that, we went back to how the things had been before. No one would mention it ever again. She became even more distant and formal with me. And I did, too. I tried. But sometimes, I would still find myself nourishing the hope that someday, somehow, she would change her mind. Despite that vague feeling that something was wrong with the world, we would still dream of everlasting peace. And in that peace, I could picture her eventually breaking out of those chains of duty and accepting our feelings. How naïve I was…”

Hyakkimaru says nothing, just shifts to sit a bit closer. Tahomaru realizes he probably must stop this talk, must have never even started it. But it feels like he’s not in control of himself anymore.

“Turns out she was right. She felt it all along. They should have died there, imprisoned, never being rescued by our father. They had only gotten the chance to live a bit longer thanks to his deal. It’s only because of you, Brother, that we could meet each other. But we could never have a future.”

Only now, Tahomaru fully understands Maeda’s words on the night of the feast. We all have been living on the borrowed time. His brother’s terrible fate was the only thing that made the life Tahomaru has had even possible. He never had the right to desire for more.

He feels a gentle touch of fingers on his cheek. They are wiping his tear, sliding up his scar, then another one, tracing the lines of the healed wounds and somehow awakening the long-forgotten pain once again. It burns his skin, and his chest, too.

“So many scars. So many scars I’ve left you, my little brother.”

Tahomaru chokes on his breath and collapses into his arms. Face pressed against his brother’s shoulder, he desperately muffles the hot, heavy sound swelling in his throat like a tide. He feels small and bared. His whole body throbs with pain as hot tears begin to gush out of his eye uncontrollably. Maybe it is blood, not tears, he isn’t sure.

“Bro…ther… I should not…exist either… Why am I still here…while they’re in hell? I must’ve never…been born… Brother…”

Hyakkimaru squeezes him tightly as if to hold him from falling apart, a hug solid like a father’s and gentle like a mother’s, both at once.

“No one can know it for sure. You are existing now. You are alive, Tahomaru,” he says.

“…I wanted to protect her. And I did it, twice: against that ghoul rat and then against you… But the third time I failed… I failed…" Tahomaru clings to the broad shoulders, struggling to take breaths. “When I close my eye, I still see the horse biting off Hyogo’s head…tearing Mutsu’s body apart… Why did they have to die such terrible deaths? Was it the payback for the years they shouldn’t have lived??” His voice grows stronger, more anger than desperation, “Why, brother, why did you try to finish her after just cutting off her arm? She was lying on the ground, senseless… Why didn’t you turn at me instead? I hated you that moment! I hated you for real, not just because I had to—”

“You still hate me.”

“No,” Tahomaru exhales, all of his anger gone at once. He unclenches his fingers from his brother’s collar, his knuckles white from tension. His eye is wide.

“Yes, you do,” Hyakkimaru says, calmly.

“I’ve said that I don’t!” Tahomaru denies desperately. Now, he knows it for certain. Now that he has unclenched his grip on his heart and let out everything he was holding locked inside, the tears breaking the dam, Tahomaru realizes there truly is no hatred. But how can he make his brother believe it, if that bundle of emotions tearing him apart is confusing even for himself? Is it even believable, after everything that happened between them? “I do not…and this is the worst. It would have been much easier to fight myself if I did. I don’t understand what it is I feel…except that it’s painful. After you spared me, after you said those words… I just couldn’t hate you anymore. Why did you do that, Brother?”

~

'Why haven’t you sliced through me? You could have severed my head just now. Why?'

The moment Tahomaru lost his cool and started to yell at him, blaming him for all his misfortunes like an angry younger brother he was, something finally shifted in Hyakkimaru. He saw the human who was in front of him. The human with his feelings, reasons, insecurities. He couldn’t block the feeling anymore. And he looked: deep into that boy’s soul, lonely, raging, gaping with a huge hole but still glowing with that clear white light.

The moment he saw Tahomaru’s face with his own eyes he was struck with the same feeling.

So strongly resembling their father’s, but softer, their mother’s gentleness also present in his features.

Tahomaru was very young. His face was bright and smooth like that of a boy, regardless of all the scars. Even the childishly plump cheeks were not yet completely gone.

That was what struck Hyakkimaru the most. Somehow, he never thought about that. Never realized how young his brother actually was.

The scars reassured him he wasn’t imagining things. He would recognize these scars anytime, even though he never actually saw them. He was the one who had left them.

Before his face was mutilated like that, his brother must have been a handsome boy. But even now, he was beautiful. There was something in his face, in his gestures, in his whole appearance that drew Hyakkimaru’s eyes and made him want to look again and again. It filled him with comfort and warmth. Was it how blood relation felt? A certain sense of hurt was a companion, too, just like the shadow that was always present in his brother’s only eye. A stern streak of furrow never completely left his brow.

'Father gave me that desk. Horses, too!'

Why is this hole in your chest, then?

You were right, I took her from you. Our mother. There, in the fire, I had my two moms holding me, telling me the most important words, helping me to survive. You had no one. Lying there alone, wounded, dying, you were left by those who were supposed to take care of you.

Your mother and your older brother.

“Why did you do that?” Tahomaru repeats faintly but insistently, his cheek glistening from tears. His missing eye will be dry forever.

'What…stops you?'

Hyakkimaru remembers the blood on the snow, and Yukio’s big eyes full of questions. He remembers his own answer. It was full enough. But now, to his brother, he can say so much more.

“I realized that if I killed you, your dead body would be the first thing I see. And I would never want to see with those eyes again. I would never want to live like that. It was the first time in my life that I felt it. This feeling… As if we were one. As if by killing you I would kill myself.”

Tahomaru watches him in astonishment.

Hyakkimaru cups his wet cheek. “I saw your soul, the same as mine. You were incomplete, just like me. We grew apart but we were so alike. I wanted to understand you. I wanted you to understand me. I wanted us to be alive, together.”

“So many things you've managed to think in that short moment,” Tahomaru murmurs, too drained to really joke.

“I didn’t think all of it back then. I didn’t even know all these words. I just felt it.”

“Brother… I am so glad that I have met you. Despite everything… I am glad.”

There is a big, heavy lump filling Hyakkimaru’s throat, but he feels warm. So very warm.

“Me, too. Sleep now, Tahomaru. Sleep,” Hyakkimaru pushes him onto the ground, and wraps his arm around his shoulders tightly, just like Tahomaru did earlier.

Tahomaru closes his eye and lets himself fall into the soft, warm darkness.

But Hyakkimaru stays awake for a long time, despite the weakness in his body. He feels no pain from his wounds anymore, but too many things buzz in his head. If there was a demon he had to defeat in order to get his brother back, that demon was his own blind selfishness. This was what he sliced through instead of Tahomaru’s neck that day. Now, he holds in his arms a real consequence of that choice. They still can be like Mamoru and Yukio, walking in this world side by side. Learning side by side. Fighting side by side. And that new army of demons—they will crush it together.

Hyakkimaru watches his brother sleep till the first cold ray of morning touches the head of the dead mountain, bringing it forth from the flat darkness.

But before he has fallen asleep—only for a short span of time until they will have to continue their way—another thought flits through his mind. For him, it was easy to change the hatred in his heart for the love to his younger brother, since Tahomaru had failed to do him much harm. But for Tahomaru, who has lost both his closest friends and his beloved, it must take all his resolve to even call him “Brother.” 

Could he, too, have forgiven Tahomaru and called him so, Hyakkimaru wonders, if he had caused Dororo’s death?

~

The camp is abuzz when they reach the forward position. The samurai’s faces are grim and resolute, no one looks scared by the approaching of the whole army of demons. It is Otani who meets them outside the cordons. He greets cheerfully his younger cousin and kneels before Tahomaru to report:

“As you ordered, I have told Lord Masahiro everything. We are positioned down the slope and ready to take off. The lookouts are ready to warn us when the enemy draws near. There still has been no move from Imagawa on the west.”

Tahomaru frowns. Maybe they have misjudged, and Imagawa has no relation to the demons, after all. Or maybe he just intends to wait till the end, to take what will fall into his hands once the demons handled all the dirty job.

“What is the mood in the camp?” he asks.

To his surprise, the ever strict Otani smiles with Ando’s bold and open smile. “Your men can’t wait to send the spawns of hell back to where they belong, lord.”

“Where is your wound?” Ando gasps.

Tahomaru realizes it only now, too: there is but a thin scar on Otani’s neck, where the enemy’s arrow grazed him yesterday.

Ando reaches for his shoulder, and Hyakkimaru quickly jerks up the sleeve of his robe. The wounds on his arm are barely visible lines of new skin. “That’s why they stopped hurting,” he says, exchanging glances with Tahomaru.

“I feel no pain!” Ando, too, touches up the place of his injury with bewilderment.

“No samurai will fear a bunch of rotting corpses, my lord, much less the kind that can’t even strike a real blow,” Otani cracks a smug smile.

“But what if we were killed?” Ando wonders with his pure curiosity. “Would we have resurrected?”

Otani, his usual serious expression back on his face, smacks him lightly on the head. “Soon, you may have a chance to find out.”

Tahomaru picks the reins. The news is good but he doesn’t let himself be swayed by it. It may be very well just a trap by Asura. “Let’s proceed to the headquarters. Ando, Otani, thank you for your service. You can return to your usual duties." The two cousins bow down low. Tahomaru turns to the samurai commanding the cordon. He remembers the man from the meetings his father held during the autumn campaign. “Takagi,” the name obediently springs to his mind, “I doubt you will, but if you notice a ninja girl—you may recognize her as one of the castle maids—let her pass unobstructed. She is at my service.”

The samurai just nods shortly without questions, “Yes, lord.”

“…Is she, though?” Tahomaru wonders under his breath for only his brother to hear as they ride off. “Can I be certain about her real intentions?”

“She won’t harm you,” Hyakkimaru says. “She loves you.”

Tahomaru recalls the gentle blush and the humble smile. The vulnerable nudity and the stain of blood. 'I am only here to be what you want me to be.' Turns out it was all just pretense. Pretense. Even her name has been speaking it straight into his face. But someone as strong and cunning didn’t need to be that humble. Unless it was her own choice...

“It means nothing,” Tahomaru purses his lips. “She may love me but still be on a mission. She is a ninja, after all.”

“I don’t know what ‘ninja’ is,” Hyakkimaru says. “But can ninja run with the speed of a horse without a horse?”

There is a thud in Tahomaru’s chest. “No.”

“Then ninja is not what she is.”

Tahomaru pushes back the urge to slap himself on the head. He planned battles and commanded a territory of 50,000 koku, but sometimes, he could be completely blind to the things near at hand. Anybody could have missed a ninja in the night, but it would have been impossible not to notice a rider following them from the very castle. How come he didn’t realize the lie at once, listening like an idiot to her explanations? What a lord could he have been?

It is good that Father decided to leave the domain to his brother…

“I don’t know what she is,” Tahomaru admits. “But I sensed something vaguely familiar in her, too.”

Hyakkimaru looks at him, frowning. “You mean, demonic?”

“Probably. I don’t know.”

“I didn’t sense it.”

Tahomaru does not insist. Maybe he is mistaken again. “But she certainly has unhuman abilities.”

To that, Hyakkimaru nods. “She does.”

They ride down the slope to the valley where the main forces are visible in the morning haze, lined up into marching order. Belatedly, Tahomaru feels a relief: they don’t have to return to the Two Pines. That might have been too much to ask from his brother. If he recognized the place he's probably never even seen with his real eyes, that is…

Hyakkimaru turns to look over at the crooked silhouettes on top of the rock. Maybe they just look peculiar for his new hungry eyes.

Maybe he recognizes something.

He keeps silent for the rest of the ride.

Chapter Text

She was summoning the shadows. The moonless night surrounded her, the light of the distant stars piercing through its black robe and casting millions of shadows thin like silk. “Come,” she was chanting, slowly, the words of the language long dead on this land, which only the stones under her feet still remembered. “Ahkas en-kore… ahun en-kore… Come and fill me… become my eyes… become my body… guide me… I reject my own will and accept you, the Spirit that dwells in the shadows!”

A blade flashed, absorbing every last drop of the starlight. The hot blood trickled onto the ground, seeping through the fingers of her joined hands. They were becoming one again, her blood and the very bones of this land. Black steam arose from the stones, and a shadow began to form, the thick blackness curling, winding, shaping into a pair of legs, then a body lean but strong, arms and a head, completing the embodiment. Hazy and uncertain, yet tangible, it stood before her, waiting.

“Who are you?” she asked, and she could not hear but felt the answer inside her head:

“I am a shadow.”

“Who were you?”

“It matters not. I am a shadow.”

For a moment they stood, facing each other, separated by a thin invisible barrier. Then, the Shadow stepped forward.

A cold, not that of the February night but deeper, like a breath from beyond, flushed through her bones. Teacher had warned her not to fear the coalescence, but the fear paralyzed her like that day when she was seven. When, hiding under the floorboards, she had heard a heavy thud above: that had been a thud of her mother’s head falling to the floor.

Her knees gave up and hit the rock. From nowhere came a sharp, terrible pain, blazing her right arm and the left shoulder all through to the very heart. She cried out, rolling on the ground in wild agony.

But the pain in the invisible wounds ceased soon, dissipating like a wave that hits the shore. After a moment, no trace of it was left in her body. A new urge and a new strength came in its stead. She rose and took a step without thinking of it: her body knew what to do.

She became a Shadow.

~

“What is that Shadow, Teacher?”

“A very powerful weapon. Only our kin know it, but few of the living can master it. I believe you will, when the time comes.”

“What time?”

“Time to destroy your Enemy.”

~ The story of Shadow ~

~Part 1~

That morning, heavy fog descended from the mountains and brought to the shore a hollow chill of the inland. The sea lay low—a waveless, motionless silver, quiet as if afraid to take a breath. Instead, the air resounded with a low alarming blast of a conch shell horn.

“Furi, quickly!” Before being shoved down to the crawl space, she had caught a glance of her sister taking a bow and her mother gripping a naginata. She knew those weren’t the deadliest of their weapons. Just a diversion. “You know what to do.”

She knew.

Lie low. Be still and quiet. Regulate your breathing. Concentrate on nothingness. Take in everything and release nothing.

Pretend not to exist.

And then wait.

She didn’t know why, she didn’t know how, she had never been allowed to ask questions—but she knew that this moment would come someday. The moment when the Enemy would find them. And when it came, she would know what to do.

She would know because she had started her training before she could even walk. 

…She knew, yet she couldn’t do that! Not when there came a sound of many footsteps, too many to count, followed by a sharp whoosh of steel, then a clank, a short and angry outcry—her mother’s or sister’s?—and then a heavy, horrible thud right above her head. After that, there was only the thundering of footsteps. The floorboards creaked above her, the door slammed—and silence fell, deep and dead and inescapable.

It wasn’t how she had been imagining this day. She had never been told that the Enemy would be so numerous.

Something hot, seeping through the floorboards, trickled on her brow and ran down her face.

“No!” a yell emerged from the very depths of her being—

but froze inside as a sudden flash of light burst inside the thick blackness of her hideout.

A tiny silver speck floated out of nowhere and stopped right in front of the girl’s eyes. It was slowly dancing in the air, like a magical firefly. Or a star that descended from the eternal skies… And a voice whispered to her ear: “Don’t move yet, Furi. Be quiet. Stay still! Don’t move!”

It was her mother’s voice. She hadn’t been killed! It wasn’t her head on the floor! Furi pressed her hands to her mouth tightly, becoming the silence itself. So, it was all pretense. Her mother was feigning death so as to make the enemies leave! She must stay silent, too, and wait for the signal.

She waited and waited, watching the mesmerizing dance of the silver speck. All the noises ceased. For a while, the silence was complete.

Then, everything began to shift and rattle above her again.

Her mother moved, too. Or rather crawled on the floor. It wasn’t until Furi heard the coarse voices shouting commands that she realized: her mother wasn’t moving on her own. She was being dragged.

Pretense. It all is just pretense.

The light seeping through the chinks grew warmer, more intense shade of red. They were burning their home. No signal came.

The silver speck jumped away, out of her grasp and into the chilly darkness of the secret passage. Furi desperately rushed after it. Everything blurred before her eyes from the bitter smoke in which the firefly disappeared. Had it ascended back to the sky? Would she never see her mother again? Was everyone gone? Her body knew all the ways underground and found the right one. Her mind was stuck in a dead end.

Just pretense…

~

She saw her again: her eyes glassy and her mouth distorted in terror like that of a Noh mask. Under her chin, there was no body. There was a long pole stabbed into a black hump of ash, like a grotesque and hideous neck over what had been left of the body. The others’ heads were there, too. All of them.

All of them.

“Furi,” the same gentle voice whispered from behind. “Don't cry, Furi. I'm not there. I'm not dead.”

…The girl stood frozen, eyes closed, not daring to turn around, relishing in the comfort of the familiar presence. Somehow, she knew that once she looked back, it would dissipate. Yet she wanted to see them once again, even if for the tiniest speck of a moment…

She turned, and she saw: Mother, Sister, Uncle… Standing right before her were all the beloved, familiar figures, faces smiling tenderly at her, eyes brighter than ever. But the moment she focused her gaze on the dear features, they were gone as if blown by a gust of wind. And along with them, Furi felt herself dissolve into the wind. The Enemy came and took away everything. She had never been taught what to do afterward.

She crushed on the ground and finally stopped to feel.

…Was it hours or days that had passed? An unfamiliar voice, rough and dry like the ash she was lying in, summoned her back to her senses.

“What is your name, child?”

The question seemed odd to her. A name? Does it matter what was her name? Had she even had one?

“Fu…ri.” Pretense.

“Furi?” the voice sounded amused for whatever reason. “Furin would have suited you better. A lonely wind chime, ringing aimlessly. Here, get some water. Drink slowly.”

At first, all she could see in the fog was a huge dark shape, barely human. A bear, maybe. A walking and speaking bear. Or rather a ghoul-bear. That’s where she was now, right? In the ghouls’ realm. Everything was dark and grey as if someone had stabbed the sky with a needle, and all the colors had leaked out.

The bear figure rose to its hind legs and made a few steps away, then bent down and picked something from the sand.

“Daigo samurai,” it said, examining the object. “I thought so. After all, his domain is near, and from what I heard he had some issues with ninja. The carnage in Takigahara must have been your kin’s doing. On behalf of Asakura, I reckon… Daigo never lets such things go unpunished, not even after all these years.”

Furi caught reflectively the object thrown at her. A jinkai, big seashell horn, broken but still held together by a cord woven into a net pattern. On the pearly side, there was a black crest that resembled a three-pointed shuriken.

The word clinked like metal on her tongue: “Daigo?” 

“Yes. I guess that is the name of your enemy.”

She lifted her eyes. It was the first definite answer in her life. The bear-man gave it to her like it was nothing; just tossed, like this shell. Now, he was appraising her, his eyes narrowed, the head of shaggy black hair tilted sideways, his hands resting on his large belly with his fingers tucked in the sash. He wasn’t fat, just big. Immense. Never once Furi had seen someone so immense.

“I’ve been searching your mother for ages,” the man said. “But only recently it occurred to me to look among those who excels in hiding. Shinobi. But just as I’ve finally found her, she is gone… Life truly is an irony.” He overlooked the heads on the poles with a sour expression.

“What did you search her for?”

“I knew your maternal grandfather. I promised him something before he died, some ten years ago.”

Furi pursed her dry lips. She never knew her maternal grandfather. Mother said he had been living somewhere in the mountains, all alone. Probably he was some kind of a monk. She had never elaborated, and Furi had never asked. Asking questions beyond what had already been told had always been a taboo in her family. So, her grandfather is long gone, too… She is completely alone in this world. And she can’t even shed a tear anymore. She is empty like that broken horn with the wind hissing through it vainly.

“Oh no, he is not gone, not completely,” the man said, having caught her thought like a bear catches fish. “His knowledge remained. He was my teacher.”

Furi raised her head, something like a shadow of hope stirring the emptiness inside her. “Teacher? Are you a ninja, too?”

“No, I’m not,” the man chuckled, his long beard shaking with his coarse laughter like dry seaweed on the coastal wind. “But neither was your grandfather. He wasn’t that kind of a teacher,” he added.

“What did he teach you, then?”

“Various things. Things I shall now pass to you.”

“Me?” Some vague resistance weakened Furi’s voice. Why me? What for?

“You,” he confirmed, his gaze cold, but something in his broad features rather comforting. “To avenge your family, you are going to need every bit of knowledge he possessed. So, are you ready to take that path?”

“Will you help me? Why?”

“There is no point in having knowledge if you do not teach it.” The man bent down and leaned close to her, his eyes, black like glistening obsidian, fixed on hers. “You were never allowed to ask questions, were you? I can see as much. You have been training all your childhood, always ready to dodge or to hit back, but was never able to ask ‘why?’ ‘What for?’ You were raised as a ninja, but it’s not who you are. I see a raging wind inside you. Someday, it will tear your soul apart, much like these ashes. It is so easy to let it, right? To scatter all around and just disappear into the void.”

Furi stared at him, shaken. Whatever lore Grandfather had taught this man, he must be able to look deep into souls—not just see them floating around as silver specks after the body’s death…

The man straightened, a massive dark figure against the blank sheet of the desolated shore. “This raging wind is your strength, Furi. It only needs a spark of knowledge to burst with fire. From now on, you can ask me as many questions as you want.”

~

It wasn’t the choice between knowledge and ignorance. It was the choice between something unknown—and the end of existence. Her life, everything she knew and held dear, was over. But her path could still lead somewhere… She didn’t know yet, where. But it was her curiosity that kept her going.

“Very few people can see the light of the soul,” Teacher was explaining to her on the long autumn evenings they were spending in the mountains, warming themselves by the fire. Animals’ paths in the thick woods and caves in the rocky labyrinths had become their home for now. “Some are born with this talent. Others need something to trigger it. That’s what happened with you.”

“And you?”

“Me? Oh, I’ve been travelling the third path. A long path of continuous learning and training. Ever since I have met your grandfather…”

“You can actually train to see souls?” she gasped.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “And the easiest way to start is by watching death. It is at that moment that you can perceive a thin silver thread connecting the body and the spirit. The moment before it breaks it glows brighter than ever…”

“And then a silver speck rises?”

“Yes. Your grandfather called it a grain of soul, for it is the eternal spirit that continues its way beyond this life. What stays here is but a shell peeled off, a shaped memory—like those phantoms you perceived standing behind you on the shore.”

“But where does a grain of soul go after it fades away?”

“It depends. Most get reborn; some can ascend beyond the cycle of time; and some get stuck on the Underside…”

“The Underside?”

…The right to freely ask questions proved to be as excruciating as having no such right whatsoever. Furi was never enough. Answering her questions, Teacher would spill new things now and then, things that needed answers, too. It resembled climbing an endless rock. The more she learned, the more undiscovered heights appeared before her eyes, and she felt even smaller than before.

That’s how he mentioned it once, dropping another crust of knowledge casually during one of their talks. An ultimate weapon. Shadow.

And Furi clung to that crust, persuading him day and night to elaborate.

“…It is a very, very powerful weapon. Only our kin know it, but few of the living can master it. I believe you will, when the time comes.”

“What time?”

“Time to destroy your Enemy.”

Furi dropped her eyes with a sigh. When would she even get near that Daigo, and how? All they had been doing this past year was roaming around the mountain forests, hunting rabbits and birds. Teacher had been teaching her many things, telling her many stories, but somehow, Furi felt there was still much more that he wasn’t telling her. As if she were a child who was better off not knowing some things…

“But still, what kind of a weapon is that Shadow?” she pressed, irritated. “A style of wielding a sword? A dagger? A bow? By the way, when will you teach me to shoot a bow?” Furi was long fed up hunting with only a dagger. She hated stabbing fluffy cute little animals with a blade, even after a whole year of doing so. Maybe it would be easier to shoot them from afar… “Or is it that loud Outlanders’ stuff you mentioned the other day?”

“None of these. These all are but tools of wood and steel, and a bit of gunpowder, too. They hold no power. Stop guessing and think sharper.”

“I don’t know,” she whined. “‘A powerful weapon that few can master…’ Why do you think that I will?”

“Because you possess keen senses. You can hear voices and perceive the spiritual light—”

“I know then!” Furi interrupted him. “It’s some magic!”

Teacher burst into laughter. “You trapped me, and I spilled it to you, little rascal!”

Furi stuck her tongue. She wasn’t afraid of drawing his anger. She knew Teacher liked it when she acted bold and cheeky.

“But no more questions! I shall teach you it later,” he said with finality. “For now, just remember one thing. A lot of weapons exist in this world: the deadliest swords created and perfected by the Japanese, the brutal explosives and guns of the cunning Outlanders, poisons of different kinds and so on… There is a lot of ways to kill; but nothing is more powerful than you becoming a weapon yourself.”

“Myself?”

“Yes. Even when your hands are bare and empty, you can turn yourself into any kind of weapon. This is what becoming a Shadow means.”

Again, it was something beyond her current comprehension, Furi thought in frustration. She needed something real and definite to start with. “Still, isn’t it handy to learn to shoot bow, at least?”

Teacher sighed with exasperation. “There is no point in teaching you to use weapon. No weapon of this world can harm your Enemy.”

Furi halted on her tracks, stunned. “Why?”

“You would have understood it immediately if you only took a glance at his soul.”

“I’ve told you I can’t really see souls, Teacher,” she grumbled. “I tried so many times, but still the most I can see is that silver thread and a speck after death...”

“It’s harder with animals. But that’s exactly why you should keep practicing it. Of course, you won’t reach it on a whim. You want everything and fast, Furin,” he chuckled. That’s how he would call her whenever she let her Wind take over. “This impatience is a sign of too much Air in your soul. Remember: you must learn how to ignite the Fire, only then all that Air will amount to something.”

“I know,” she sighed, irritated.

“Anyway, Daigo,” Teacher went back to the talk as they resumed their way down the wooded hillside. The wild mountain forests gave way to the light greenery of the bamboo groves as they descended northward. Ahead of them, beyond the geometric pattern of paddies and canals, beyond the glistening snakes of rivers and the small anthills of villages and towns, Furi could discern the pale-blue haze of the ocean. She hadn’t seen it since that day, she never looked back. Quickly, she dropped her eyes and set her gaze on the prosperous land instead. The land of her Enemy. “Daigo. That man is gaining ridiculous power at the moment. Right now, having achieved alliance with the Sakai clan, he might be even more powerful than Asakura. Some strong magic protects him. Rumors say it comes from the Buddhist Goddess of Mercy, but I believe it has the opposite nature. The lords of the Underside must have lent him that power. I wonder what he had sacrificed for it.”

“Sacrificed?”

“Every act of magic requires a sacrifice, even if it’s just a drop of blood or a small measure of money.”

“Why? To pay to the gods?”

Teacher burst into laughter. “It has nothing to do with gods, although the analogy is amusing. To bribe the gods so that they closed their eyes on the violation of the law? You may have a point here.”

“Is magic against the laws of the gods?”

“Of course. An act of magic changes the world directly, disregarding the natural flow of cause and effect. It creates an event that has no cause to it. Daigo hadn’t achieved this prosperity, yet he still got it. You can say that magic defies the very fundamental laws of nature, and this is exactly why it’s called supernatural. But the world can’t stay unbalanced. If you want to get something that is unattainable within the natural flow of events, you must first make a space for it. Create a void. You give something of yourself. That is your sacrifice.”

“I understand, Teacher,” Furi said impatiently. She wasn’t that dumb for him to elaborate so thoroughly, but he was prone to long speeches. Maybe he trained her patience that way, or maybe he was just enjoying himself.

“Good. But that’s not all. The second, and maybe even more important thing you must do is to redirect the consequences, lest they crush you and those close to you. Often it is children and other most vulnerable family members who get hit first. Your grandfather called it a blowback. Now come here.” He halted by a tall and thin young bamboo. “Bend it away from you. Harder.”

Furi did as he said. Once she released the springy shaft, it bounced back, so she had to step aside.

“This is the difference between the visible world and the hidden,” Teacher said. “Disturbed balance results in a blowback: it kicks you with the same force. Here, you could simply step away. But on the karmic level, you can only avoid being hit if you put another person on your place. Somebody must take the blow instead of you and your bloodline. This is a dark and a deep knowledge. Daigo should have sacrificed something more than a handful of his blood for such a power, but did he divert the consequences? If he knows what he’s dealing with, he must have done it, and then it will be quite a challenging task to find his weak spot. But if he’s just a fool who’s made a deal without the slightest understanding of the mechanics of karma, his power will crumble someday, and his domain will collapse in on itself.”

“You mean…it is even possible to divert karma?” Holding her breath, Furi gazed at her Teacher, struck once again by the bottomless abyss of his black eyes set on the far away horizon. His massive figure, that had once reminded her of a bear, now seemed a majestic carved statue of some ancient god, an embodiment of wisdom and power far exceeding the measures of this world.

She had been granted the right to ask questions, but somehow, she had always felt it: she had no right yet to ask him who he truly was.

“Yes. It is possible,” Teacher nodded slowly. “But it requires a sophisticated knowledge and an intelligence very few possess. And Daigo Kagemitsu doesn’t strike me as such a man.”

Furi wanted to ask when and how Teacher had even met that man, but all of a sudden, a jab in the ankle made her stumble and trip over.

The world darkening before her eyes, she heard Teacher’s calm chuckle: “My, my. You should pay attention where you step, Furin, instead of goggling at me all the time. Where did your ninja training go? A yamakagashi snake. Well, don’t worry, your blood is strong so you will survive.”

She barely sensed herself being laid down on the ground as her body turned hard and cold, as if not her own. It was difficult to take breaths. Teacher’s voice grew fainter in her ears, too, as if he were moving away…or she were.

“…Anyway, this is what I will investigate. Your task for now will be to make your way as close to him as you can and watch. Wait patiently for the time to act. If we play it right, we can bring down not just one man who ordered to murder your family but his whole demonic domain.” Drifting into oblivion, Furi wasn’t sure she was still perceiving reality, but Teacher didn’t even seem to care. His voice was growing nearly indiscernible yet totally unaffected. “That family is a perfect opportunity.”

“What…family?” she whispered, or maybe only thought. Teacher was able to hear her either way.

But no answer came. She could feel nobody by her side anymore.

…Until a loud and unfamiliar voice shouted right into her ear: “Hang in there, girl! I’ll take you to the doctor!”  

~

She was outraged. Recovering from the bite, she was spending days in a small, unfamiliar town house, watching passers-by scurry to and fro behind the paper-screened window, and wondered whether Teacher had been carrying that snake in his travel bag all along for it to bite her at the only right moment in the prearranged string of events—or had he just foreseen everything in his inscrutable wisdom?

In either case, the result must have satisfied him: Furi happened to be taken by her savior to the castle town, the very heart of Daigo’s prosperity. Now, all she had to do was to play an orphan (that she was) and let the flow carry her.

Not at once Furi understood, what a “perfect opportunity” Iwamoto’s family was supposed to be. It could hardly even be called a family, consisting of two people: an old, dry and quiet man who had found her, a low-ranking samurai Iwamoto Shinichi; and his ever-absent sister, old and dry in the same way, but less quiet and prone to nervous fussing Shiori-san. Sometimes, she would show up and startle Furi with her high and creaky voice, complaining about some mundane nonsense. Most of the time, she was nowhere in sight.

She served at the castle kitchen, Furi learned after a while.

The Castle. 

And before she knew it, Furi found herself helping her.

The way into her Enemy’s den turned out to be the easiest part of the plot.

~

‘Make your way as close to him as you can and watch. Wait patiently for the time to act.’

She missed Teacher. She replayed his last words in her head over and over again, searching for the signs…of something. Finding none, Furi would think angrily about how he had never given her a clear promise to return soon, or how he had never hugged her or patted her cheek like grown-ups would do. How he had never truly became her family, always distant, always out of her reach. Paying little attention to the boring and quiet man that was taking care of her now, she would gulp her tears at nights, cursing that big figure with a shaggy beard and sharp black eyes, praying for him to come and take her back soon.

She all but ceased to think about her Enemy. Until one day she bumped into him.

Literally.

The rain was falling the whole day, and the courtyard cobbles were slippery. Not for Furi, of course—but some other maid slipped, and Furi had to jump away to keep the water in the pot she was carrying from spilling. Away happened to be right on her Enemy’s way.

“Watch where you’re going!” a boy who accompanied him threw shortly, without sparing her a glance.

But the Enemy stopped. His narrow eyes, his face, all sharp edges and hard lines, his tall figure loomed over Furi all too near and sudden. Maybe that’s why she didn’t feel anything she had been anticipating. She felt nothing at all.

“Who are you?” Lord Daigo asked.

“I am Iwamoto’s niece. I’m helping in the kitchen today.”

“Ah, that’s why the soup this morning was so salty,” the boy by the Lord’s side scoffed. All about him was arrogant: the curve of the eyebrows, the raise of the chin, the voice, high and confident, and the fancy garments of red and gold. The Enemy’s spoilt heir, of course. “When did we run out of normal cooks?”

“Tahomaru,” Lord Daigo chided him sternly.

“Sorry, Fath—”

“It wasn’t salty!” Furi snapped simultaneously, forgetting at once all about her role. “I tried it and it was okay. Don’t talk nonsense!”

There was one frozen moment of silence. The boy raised his eyebrows, eyeing her with a perplexity of someone witnessing a rain falling upward. Furi tensed. She decided to strike at once if they were to execute her on the spot. She won’t give up so easily. No weapon could harm him? Well, let’s see! First, reach for the throat (make sure to aim precisely at that spot) and then—

And then her aunt came rushing in, grabbed her shoulders and made her fall to her knees. She pressed both their heads hard to the pavement, all the while apologizing desperately.

When Furi was released and could raise her head again, the boy was already gone and his father leaving, too. But she caught a slight curve of Enemy’s lips.

Her heart was thumping for the rest of the day. Belatedly, the realization hit her: she had been about to do it. To attack her Enemy. Her Enemy. That one moment, a raging fire had filled her body and sharpened her mind, leaving nothing but resolve. She had been ready to do something she had only been imagining.

And now she knew that she would be able to do it. 

She didn’t need Teacher by her side. She was strong enough on her own.

~

“…Strong enough?”

She hits down an arrow and runs over to another boulder. Crouched behind it, she takes a breath, then another one. The pause is only enough for two breaths of air and a dozen beats of her racing heart. Her mouth is dry. Her left shoulder hurts. Her eyes sting from the salty sweat. The white sun is everywhere: above her head, in the million sparks of the churning tide, on the blade of her short sword. Each white grain of sand reflects the sun, too. The only other color is red: it burns on top of the coastal rock, an almost-dark dot of fire against the blinding whiteness.

Her eyes are set on it as she dashes forward and throws her hand in a sharp curve to hit back another arrow.

Not an arrow. This time, a shuriken. It bounces off in an awkward angle and hits her right foot.

If it were sharpened, her training would have been over for good. Now, it only means that she’s failed, yet again. Will she ever reach that fire on top of the rock?

“Strong enough, you said?” Mother yells at Hina, her voice trembling from anger. Then she turns back to Furi. “Should I get real arrows and blades to make you try seriously? Or should I put your kitten over the fire next time?”

“She does well, Mother,” her sister tries to calm the storm once again. “Quite well for a five-year-old. She’ll become better in no time, right, Furi?”

She purses her lips. Her fingers crackle on the handle of the sword. “Yes, Mother. I will be better.”

“Better!” Mother’s voice drops low, becomes a hiss of the gale over the sand dunes when the storm is near, and the horizon is shadowed with heavy clouds. “You don’t understand who our enemy is. No ‘better’ is enough! What I’m teaching you now is but a children’s play with toys of wood and steel that won’t save you, and you can’t even do that…!”

She crouches down and takes Furi’s shoulders so tightly the girl’s arms quickly get numb. Her deep, dark eyes are like windows opening into the night. “Listen, Furi. The Enemy will come. His gaze and his heart are black. His sword is the unseen darkness of the darkest night. His soul is a demon’s flame. He is coming for revenge. He will never stop coming. Never stop searching. You will never be safe. The Enemy comes.”

Furi can only stare, frozen by those wide round eyes, by the black dreadful figure her mother’s desperation is burning into her very heart, word by word, like a tattoo. When she pulls Furi to her chest, her hug is so tight it’s almost suffocating.

Hina pats her head tenderly. Later in the evening, she reassures Furi that Mother didn’t mean it about her kitten. But Furi, gulping down the tears, asks her to give Gingertail away to those Haru and Natsu siblings, relatives of Uncle Goro. She knows she isn’t strong enough to protect him. Hina slides her warm hand over Furi’s disheveled waves of a hair and says she will do it. She is six years older than Furi, and her own hair is straight and heavy, unlike Furi’s and Mother’s. Probably, she took after their father. Furi doesn’t know it for sure.

She doesn’t even know their father’s name.

The only thing she knows is that Enemy killed him shortly after her birth. They somehow managed to escape. And ever since then, they had been hiding, until they met some kind man who happened to be Uncle Goro. He took them in, to his house, but Mother never married him, always calling him “Brother” with respect.

Uncle and Mother were training Hina to fight with different weapons, but they never trained Furi like that. She was only taught to run, to hide and to dodge. Was it because she was too young—or because Mother didn’t want her to even think of fighting that frightening Enemy head on?

~

Only that man turned out to be not frightening at all.

Maybe he would have been, if Furi could see his soul, like Teacher had said. And…her mother, too, many years ago. “His soul is a demon’s flame.” Had she been taught to see souls by her father, the Teacher’s teacher, too? Or was that gift supposed to flow in their blood?

But Furi still could not break through the limits of her perception. She remained blind to the souls of the living. Even looking straight into her Enemy’s eyes, she saw a mere human: that with a stern bony face, harsh lines of the wrinkles outlining his tight mouth and gathering between his ever-frowning eyebrows. Sometimes, his lip would curl and twitch slightly—which meant he was amused, like now.

“Why didn’t you punish me? Weren’t you supposed to execute me?” Furi asked, probing, her tone demanding, as she placed a cup of tea on the table before him.

…Aunt Shiori, her face as pale as the white rice they served in the Castle, had been so frightened by this sudden request that she had gone nuts, or so it had seemed to Furi.

What should I do? she had asked.

Apologize and bow, bow and apologize! Aunt had said, her voice jumping hysterically.

But how do I pour the tea while I’m bowed?

You stupid creature! Apologize and bow, bow and apologize, maybe then we will live through this day!

Umeko, a beautiful maid of high rank and the heir’s wet nurse, had sighed and pulled Furi away. Just serve the tea, bow slightly and leave, that’s all, she had said softly while putting the tray into her hands.

Furi did as she had been told. But the impatience to make him reveal his true self—why couldn’t she see through this Daigo?—took the best of her. The question slipped from her tongue before she could think twice.

“Oh, now you are teaching me how I am supposed to treat my servants,” Enemy raised his eyebrow. “Interesting. And what punishment should I have imposed on you?”

“How would I know?” Furi asked, a wild boldness rushing in her veins. There was no fear. “You make laws here, not I.”

She glanced at the cross mark on Enemy’s forehead, thinking that it looked rather ridiculous and not scary at all. As if he was proudly telling everyone: Look, I am that fool who struck a deal with the demons, here’s the prove! They marked me like their cattle, which means I’m under their protection, so don’t mess with me!

Enemy scowled at her gaze, cold darkness gathering in his eyes. A chuckle died somewhere in Furi’s chest.

“Fine. If you want it that much, I shall think of it.”

“I don’t!”

Enemy burst into laughter, so suddenly Furi flinched. His face twitched and winced as it produced cackling sounds, like a stone mask that tried to come to life, risking breaking and falling apart. Furi stood tensed, ready for anything.

The laughter halted as suddenly as it had started. “Now go.”

The tension would not leave Furi’s body for days after that. What was so amusing to him? Had the demons told him all about her intentions long ago, and now he was just playing with her, like a cat with a mouse?

Furi’s hand faltered, shaping up a rice ball with a piece of fermented plum inside. Was he so confident that no harm could go his way, so much so that he drank the tea she served and ate the food she helped cook? What if she really put poison into it? Would he sense it and refuse to eat, or would he gulp it down with the same calm confidence—and suffer no damage whatsoever? Should she find this out?

Teacher was sure that no weapon, no poison could harm him. Nothing but one ultimate weapon. The weapon Furi was yet to be taught to use.

Her only token of hope that he would come back.

“Kitchen is not a place for you, Furi,” a soft voice came from behind her shoulder.

The girl’s heart gave a thud. “Umeko-san…”

The woman was looking at her with keen eyes, a little smile frozen on her lips. How long had she been here? Had she suspected her intentions somehow?

“Come with me, Furi.”

...She didn’t take her to a dungeon for questioning. Instead, Umeko brought the girl to her own room in the maid quarters, where she took out a large box of clothes and started rummaging inside, muttering something under her breath. Then, she nodded to herself, unfolded a silver-grey kimono with tiny pattern, and told Furi to change into it.

For whatever reason, Umeko decided to redo her hair next—and gasped the moment she undid Furi’s tight bun. The curls scattered over her shoulders like a bundle of snakes.

“Oh, this hair is such a bother to deal with,” Umeko sighed as she did her best to go through the locks with a wet comb. “Is it my karma to deal with the children with such wild locks? I can’t imagine straightening it every morning…”

“Why can’t we just let them be?” Furi asked.

“Because we can’t. Hair should be straight to make a proper hairstyle.”

“Why?”

“Stop with your whys. It’s a tradition, and traditions can’t be bent whatever way we desire. They are what keeps the land in order.”

“Isn’t it people inventing traditions who keep the land in order?” Furi said.

Why were they here, doing this?

Umeko hummed. “You are beautiful, fearless, and smart. Being a maid in the inner chambers would suit you more. Which is why you will be studying from now on.”

“Studying what?”

“All the things a woman must know. Hiragana, poetry, tea ceremony, and so on.”

“What? No!” Furi jolted, but Umeko’s hands kept her in her place. “Will I be sent away to some shrine?”

“No, you will be attending lessons for the noble girls here. On your free time, you will continue to help your aunt in the kitchen.”

“But why?”

“This is Lord Kagemitsu’s will. He took notice of you,” Umeko’s voice rose up, solemn notes accentuating the words. “In time, you may even become a lady of high rank, like the legendary Tokiwa Gozen, who rose from the common folk to the highest destiny.”

Furi frowned, perplexed.

“You mean, Tomoe Gozen? She was a legendary lady warrior who wielded a mighty bow and a naginata, and as a swordswoman she was a warrior worth a thousand. I know no Tokiwa lady.”

“Every girl heard about Tokiwa Gozen.” Furi felt Umeko’s hands freeze in her hair. But then, she relaxed. “Ah, but you were raised by your father. I guess it’s no surprise you know more about Heian warriors than about Heian court ladies. Tokiwa was one of the ten most beautiful women chosen as the Empress’ maids from among a thousand women of Kyoto, and she was the most beautiful of those ten. She became the second wife of Minamoto no Yoshitomo, the father of the first Shogun. During the Heiji Rebellion in which her husband was defeated, she fled barefoot in the snow to the mountains with her three little children, to save them from being captured by the enemy. The youngest of them was to become Japan’s greatest hero, Yoshitsune.”

“Why didn’t she stay to fight alongside her husband instead?” Furi said, unimpressed. That’s what Tomoe Gozen, the lady who commanded three hundred samurai in a battle against two thousand warriors, would have done.

“The words of a father’s daughter,” Umeko chuckled. Furi heard a smile soften her voice. “Sometimes women must fight their own battles, Furi. Anyway, you have been chosen, too. Now, your fate will change. Be strong and work hard from now on.”

Was she supposed to feel happy? Proud? Agitated? Furi couldn’t decide at once which to feign, so she said nothing.

Everything was fine as long as she stayed as close as she could to her Enemy.

~

She felt no agitation. She felt no hatred. She felt no fear. Since that day, nothing in the world could evoke even a shadow of those feelings in her. Nothing seemed vivid enough. Even in the rich chambers of her Enemy’s castle, Furi remained the girl on the desolated shore, with the eyes dry and dim. It was Teacher’s promise that kept her going, Teacher’s voice that filled the world with sounds, Teacher’s trust in her that guided her.  

Not her desire of revenge.

Beautiful, fearless and smart? She was just hollow.

All she wanted was to become someone worthy of the knowledge Teacher had passed to her. To become strong enough.

“And I will.”

Her own voice startled her, like a sudden ring of a bell.

Iwamoto-san asked, distracted from his meal, “What?”

But Furi could not hear him. The way she was now, she was worth nothing. Just a lonely windchime, ringing aimlessly, seeking his attention. But Teacher must have had other tasks. Maybe he had other apprentices. Or even children of his own. She had only spent a year with him—what was that year in his long life?

Furi put down her chopsticks. A wave of nausea arose from the emptiness of her stomach. “Why do you live alone, Iwamoto-san?”

The man looked at her, stunned, his hooded eyes for once open wide enough to give out the greenish brown of his irises. “Why…?”

“Yes, this is what I asked.”

“My wife and daughter died eight years ago from the disease that took many lives. I don’t know why it was me who was left alive. They would have been so happy to see the land prospering now. They would enjoy shopping for silk and fruits on the streets and watch theater plays with excitement. Why me? I can’t even relish all these things. I am hollow.”

Furi stared at him, stunned no less. Somehow, she had never thought this man could even talk this much. Maybe he had been gathering those words all these years, waiting for someone to hear him out one day?

“Can I call you ‘Father’?” Furi asked, causing the samurai to flinch. “You don’t have to consider me your daughter. But I’ve never had a father, so it would be easy for me to call you so.”

“Furi…” Iwamoto-san gulped heavily. “Yes, you can.”

She smiled. 'Now, your fate will change.' Her fate had already been changed by her Enemy—shortly after her birth. The next change she would make with her own hands.

She wouldn’t cry at nights anymore. She wouldn’t reminisce Teacher’s laughter and the mirth in his eyes. And when (if) he finally returned and met her, she would be calm and strong—an apprentice she should be, with nothing but the fire of resolve in her eyes.

~Part 2~

“Now come, Furi. It is time I taught you what I have promised.”

He stands before her in flesh, not as perfectly wild and imposing as he appeared in her memory but clad in some ordinary clothes to walk in the city streets without drawing attention. His beard is trimmed a bit shorter. His eyes are the same black obsidian, though. They are smiling at her with that mocking smile of his. She can’t tear her gaze away.

“Will you really teach me it?” Furi asks under her breath. Her heart skips a beat.

Finally, she will be able to complete her task.

“This is what I am here for. But don’t be impatient to use it,” Teacher, of course, still reads her mind like an open book. “It is not the time yet.”

“Why? Did you find out something?”

Teacher nods. “All this time I have been travelling around, looking for clues, until finally, I came across something. It is even better than I expected. That fool hasn’t redirected the consequences; what’s more, he hasn’t as much as ensured his sacrifice. Now, it is only a matter of time. I shall make sure everything goes smoothly. Be patient, watch the fate unfold. I believe that soon the time will come for you to deliver the final blow.”

“But what did you find out, Teacher?”

“That his ‘sacrifice’ is still pretty much alive and strong enough to reclaim what’s been taken from him.”

“Who is it?”

“His firstborn son.”

Furi drops her jaw. So, Daigo’s proud heir is not really the heir?

Teacher chuckles, “Now, it all makes sense: to sacrifice his son, his land’s very future, for a fleeting prosperity. This is what a fool would do.”

“But how did you find that son?”

“Oh, simply by chance. I once knew the one who saved him.”

He does not elaborate, and Furi does not ask further questions.

For whatever reason, she recalls a broken horn in her hands held together by an interwoven cord but unable to produce a sound anymore. A horn with her Enemy’s crest on it.

~

'…His power will crumble someday, and his domain will collapse in on itself.'

Will it all disappear one day? Furi slices the sashimi of fresh eel that was delivered from the shore several minutes ago, and arranges it on the plates of Ming blue porcelain painted with white birds and flowers. It is hard to imagine. There is so much food it seems they will never run out of it. White rice, red beans, sweet potato, chestnuts, and mushrooms. Abalone, shrimps, oysters, carps, and all the various seafood that is rare inland. Sweets and fruits of all kinds. There is everything, except only for the red meat, since the imperial laws restrict the consumption of mammals. Why Teacher never told her that the eating of meat is considered to be unclean, Furi wonders, when they hunted rabbits in the mountains? But maybe he didn’t even believe in Buddha. He believed in his own strength, his own knowledge alone.

'Now, it is only a matter of time.'

And his knowledge permitted no other outcome.

“You, there!” calls a voice, high and harsh, startling her.

Furi turns around. Standing at the entrance to the kitchen, her hands on her hips, is a tall girl clad in narrow samurai hakama. On her head, she wears a cap, meaning she has already been through her genpuku ceremony and probably considers herself a proper onna-bugeisha, a warrior lady like Tomoe Gozen no less, if a haughty raise of her chin is something to judge from.

Furi recognizes the girl, though it’s been months since she last caught a glimpse of her. Mutsu, that tough eldest one of the Yasue siblings, personal attendants of Young Master.

“Yes?” she raises her eyebrow.

“Go for Iwamoto-san, say Young Master wishes to cook the pheasant he’s hunted for Her Ladyship. Bring everything that’s needed and stay to attend on him.”

Suppressing her irritation, Furi nods silently and proceeds with the order. What does a thirteen-year-old girl do, ordering her around like this? She’s only three years older and nothing like Lady Tomoe at all…

Well, she does have something to be proud of, Furi has to admit. She shoots arrows like no one else. Young Master must be upset, losing constantly to a girl. Or does she let him win sometimes? Furi recalls the stubborn chin and the sharp eyes. No. That boy would never allow such a thing.

She hasn’t seen him up close for a couple of years, and when she does, it’s like nothing has even changed since their first encounter. The same spoilt attitude and the arrogant features, much like his father’s. The same voice, clear and confident. Maybe some more excited agitation, since he is in a hurry now to present to his mother his trophy—a rare golden pheasant. Furi captured them often in the mountains…

Tahomaru insists on doing most of the work on his own, though. Furi only has to go back and forth to her aunt’s commands for water, salt and various utensils, but she can tell the boy doesn’t recognize her, as he probably doesn’t even remember their first encounter. He is overly excited, focused wholly on the task of making his mother happy. She never is. Perhaps it’s because she still mourns her firstborn. No pheasant will make her happy. Furi wants to laugh at the boy’s vain efforts but somehow, the chuckle gets stuck in her throat.

It’s not his fault, after all. Their eyes meet, only for a speck of a moment, until she remembers to drop her gaze as a maid is supposed to do. But a moment is enough for her to see the boy’s whole destiny laid out before her as clear as the bright light glowing in his eyes:

He will continue to try his best but will never succeed.

~

Indeed, Tahomaru never does. Years pass, and Furi replaces Umeko, whose health has been failing recently, in taking care of him. It is Lord Kagemitsu’s direct order, Umeko says, even more proud of her. Is it the lord’s favor, Furi wonders, or is it the punishment she once suggested that he impose on her?

“You don’t know about it?” Umeko asks, frowning, as she helps Furi into her new kimono. Still colored in humble, pale shades of grey and blue, this one goes with a proper underkimono of pure white silk and a larger obi. “Doesn’t Iwamoto-san bring women to spend nights?”

“No.”

“And your mother and sister died when you were little...” Furi tenses, but then realizes Umeko talks about Iwamoto’s wife and daughter. What a coincidence... “Ugh. This might be a little troublesome.”

“Why? I’m not stupid. Just tell me, and I'll understand.”

“It is not about stupidity, but rather about your purity. It is expected of a maid to be savvy in providing this kind of care to a lord. But you are as clueless as Young Master himself...”

Furi purses her lips. How would she know? Mother would never do such things: they lived with Uncle Goro like brother and sister. There was never another man in her life after Father’s death, as all her life was dedicated to training and providing Uncle with meals for letting them stay in. That man would never bring women either. Maybe he visited them elsewhere, but to Furi, he seemed too calm, serene and unbothered by carnal desires, like a Zen master. All he did was training and meditating.

“I don’t think he would even need those things,” Furi says, recalling the same dedication in Tahomaru’s demeanor. “All he’s interested in are wars and his sword practice.”

“So he makes it seem, right?” There are streaks of sadness in the corners of Umeko’s smile. “But of course, it is not the case. This boy’s heart craves for love just like everyone’s. He is not a child anymore, and you are too pretty. No man will stay immune to his desires for too long.”

Furi just shrugs. Umeko brings her to the older maids’ room, where she listens to the experienced women’s lore, the tips and tricks and laws of the art of love. The younger maids who happen around blush and giggle, exchanging flustered glances with her. Furi doesn’t even try to feign these blushes.

Umeko watches her with attentive eyes, but Furi isn’t disturbed. She’s not even interested, as she knows a fifteen-year-old girl must be. She remembers the fire on top of the coastal rock. Yet another part of her training, yet another way of using her body to achieve the goal, no more difficult than hitting down arrows and dodging shuriken.

She knows it won’t be the most challenging part.

~

To watch his struggles up close, day after day, knowing the truth—that’s what is.

Sometimes, it becomes hard for Furi to keep her mouth shut as everything shouts inside her: Stop it already! She only thinks about your brother, and nothing you do will ever change that! You may practice your sword till your hands bleed, and it won’t touch her heart. You may go and win a battle, and it will only make you less visible in her eyes. You may die there, and then, maybe then she will finally shed some tears over your cold body, but what good will it do you? Just a fleeting moment of the obligatory expression of love and regret that your spirit will witness before it fades from this world, and everything that mattered loses its meaning…

She keeps silent. She says nothing, undoing his attire in the evening, as she looks at the purplish bruise on his arm left by one missed blow in a training fight against a dozen opponents. She keeps her mouth shut when he strides back after a talk with his father, infuriated, his plea to allow him to war rejected once again, and shouts at her to leave him alone, dammit! She keeps silent when he returns that day from a ride without Mutsu and casts a look through her as if she were a ghost to him, too, proceeding to the bath. He will never allow her to attend on him in the bath, always preferring to do everything on his own.

Furi keeps silent. There is nothing she could say to make him stop trying. She doesn’t want him to stop trying. She doesn’t want him to give up. She wants him to stay undefeated…at least until the final blow is hit.

It is painful yet incredibly beautiful, as beautiful as the bright light that is fading in his eyes with each day.

~

“All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.”

Morning after morning, doing her daily cleaning, she will find notes and excerpts of The Art of War on Tahomaru’s desk, written in Chinese kanji in his neat handwriting. He will study hard late into the night, the sciences of tactics, and strategy, and economics of war, with the same desperate determination with which he practices his sword. She will read his notes without intending to do so: the characters a woman isn’t even supposed to know were burned into her memory as a part of her own training at the age of three. By the time she turned seven and her life was crushed, she knew enough of them to read a classic text without much difficulty.

“Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.”

Her girls school lessons were almost a joke, in contrast. Hiragana, simple poems, basic counting. Furi tried her best to feign proper struggles. Only one other girl, Setsuna, seemed as bored as Furi; but she didn’t bother to hide it. She would often write something unrelated to the lessons on small pieces of paper, completely engrossed in her own world. Once, Furi caught her attaching a tiny scroll with an unfamiliar boy’s name on it to a dove’s leg and releasing it into the sky…

Furi stops as she notices some torn papers among the neat sheets she has been arranging. Dozens of words are scribbled erratically in different directions, many of them crossed out in frustration, and these are not military terms. They speak about sakura, and the crimson lilies, and the pale moon of dawn hidden among the clouds. The endless strings of poetic metaphors, mostly cliched, intertwine to give birth to a few brilliant, subtle ones, created by a delicate and soulful mind and shaped into 5-7-5-7-7 syllables of tanka.

“The pure whiteness of the falling snow
Would disappear if it knew warmth.
This dream that I want to protect—
Is it better to stay
Untouched forever?”

Furi isn’t surprised. It didn’t take her long, after all, to recognize behind his father’s double quite a different soul.

“Like the prayers that she sends
Into the void of the ever-silent sky,
The arrow is aimed
At a far-away enemy,
And I wish it was my chest instead.”

Tahomaru has left the torn drafts here, assured no maid could read them. She could.

“Tell me how much can the world change
Between the moment an arrow is let loose
And when it strikes its target?”

She drops the papers, a sudden blunt pain shaking her fingertips.

…Isn’t it handy to learn to shoot bow, at least?

She steps away.

Why, Teacher, why?

Why the path of revenge is so long and tormenting?

Why can’t she just send an arrow flying at her Enemy’s heart—and put an end to all this?

~

She loves him, hopelessly and irrevocably. Furi understands it the day it all finally begins to crumble down.

It is the day when Tahomaru returns from the battlefield, his right eye missing, all covered in his blood yet clinging to his mother’s unmoving body as he yells to bring here the damn doctor. But of course, everyone is already moving, rushing in and out to Lord Daigo’s orders—that man alone is as calm as his usual self. As if he still doesn’t understand that he isn’t the one ruling the flow of fate anymore.

The Lady is not dead, though, Furi realizes with relief. The grain of soul is floating above her pale forehead, but the silver string connecting it to her body is still strong. Furi wants to explain it to Tahomaru as she tries to treat his wound, while the doctor is busy with his mother, but how could she even explain it? Her hands aren’t trembling. Her movements are firm and precise: the fruits of her training have not been lost. Calm and detached, she proceeds to quickly disinfect his wound, until Tahomaru pushes her away like a nuisance. He doesn’t feel his own pain right now, frightened for his mother’s fate. What can she do to reassure him?

Furi backs into shadows. The blood-soaked bandages fall from her hands as a wave of sudden weakness shakes her. To reassure him…in what? His brother is on his way to bring it all down. There is no turning back now. The blowback has come.

The time to complete her task is now right at hand.

She backs, step after step, heart speeding up in her chest. Soon, this boy’s life will be over, for it is children, those most innocent and vulnerable ones, who take the first blow. Soon, his pain and his vain struggles will end, having amounted to nothing. Soon, that beautiful light will fade away for good.

Soon.

Furi crushes to her knees in the shadows. Racking sobs rise from the depths of the void, choking her. Until the void explodes with fire. No! It must not happen!

She must do something. She must find Teacher. She must learn how to divert karma, maybe it’s not too late still! He will understand. He is kind and wise. Mother, will you forgive me, Mother? Or will you curse me to all eternity?

“Furi,” the gentle voice pulls her back to her senses. “Come on, child, get some rest. The doctor will take care of them now.”

“Umeko-san,” she lets the woman hold her tightly as she presses her face to her warm chest, unable to choke out those painful words of realization.

I can’t do it.

I can’t.

I love him.

The woman lulls her as she says, tears filling her voice, “I know, Furi. I know.”

~

Enemy’s face is the same calm confidence incarnated as she puts the bowl before him with a heavy thud. The late September heat is pressing against her temples. The blood is throbbing in her ears. Her every movement is sharp, too sharp and fast for a maid attending on her lord.

Furi wonders what would happen if she entered the shadows and killed him now. But... 'It kicks you back with the same force.' He bent the karma of this land too much to simply take the whole blowback on himself. Thousands of people were affected; so, thousands will die.

There is no way out of this. It doesn’t matter whether she kills the Lord, or Hyakkimaru succeeds in his quest. Either way, the Deal will be broken, and everything she sees around will be swept away.

Everything, including him.

“You want to ask me,” Lord Daigo lifts an eyebrow. “Stop boiling and just ask.”

“Why are you sending him in command of the army to that cape, even though you refused to allow him to war so many times?” she explodes. Her eyes are set on his. “Don’t you have ninja to handle this matter?”

“Ninja will never fight for a cause where they may die,” Enemy narrows his eyes with a scorn. “They are only worthy as spies, that’s what I’m using them for.”

She doesn’t let her gaze waver. Whether he knew her background all along, or has no idea still, doesn’t matter anymore.

“But surely you have more experienced generals to appoint than someone so young.”

Enemy is looking pensively at the surface of his tea. “He showed by the Banmon that he is ready to make hard decisions. He was beaten, though, and now he is filled with insecurity. He doubts his strength. He needs to step over it and prove to himself that he is strong enough. Or else, he will rot away in his self-doubt.”

With that, Furi cannot argue. “He is strong enough. I do not doubt.”

“Neither do I.”

~

“Serve us dinner here,” Mutsu orders as the three settle in Tahomaru’s room, exhausted, without even taking off their riding boots. There are traces of soot on their clothes. Mutsu’s quiver is nearly empty. Hyogo’s face is grim; Mutsu’s and Tahomaru’s are unnaturally calm, devoid of any emotions. “And quickly.”

Furi doesn’t even has to play a humble bow. There is something in Mutsu’s gaze that makes her drop her eyes. For whatever reason, she remembers the torn poems on this very desk that Mutsu will never see. Has chosen to never see.

She is the fire that must turn herself into a void.

Furi is the opposite.

“…I was such a fool there, by the Banmon, to fight him one on one.” She returns to witness a small council, a tray full of bowls in her hands. There could have been a sword instead, or a bow. Furi grits her teeth, and sees Tahomaru do the same. “Vanity took the best of me. Now, we must take as many men as it requires to ensure the success. You shall stick with me all the time. There must be no mistakes anymore. I’d rather sacrifice my pride than my people and land.”

“Formerly I would think it ridiculous to bring five ships there, but now, having witnessed his unhuman abilities…” Hyogo shakes his head. “You are right, waka.”

“I agree,” Mutsu says. “No personal sentiments are relevant when the life of the domain is at stake.”

“Just as you said back then, Mutsu,” Tahomaru’s voice drops a tone lower. There is a brief exchange of glances. “I see now.”

Mutsu bows her torso slightly, like a samurai on a battlefield. Putting the bowls onto the table, utterly invisible to their eyes, Furi realizes that this is where they are now.

~

His only eye is as black as starless sky the night he takes her.

“Stay,” he says after the improvised ‘council’ is over, his voice low and quiet, thick from the pent-up desire that has never been for her. He is giving up on his own feelings; no, he crashes them like a worm under his foot.

Furi understands she shouldn’t be, but she is happy. To feel his body upon hers; to sense him filling her, his lips leaving burning marks on her skin, his gaze heavy with darkness… It burns through her, the darkness of the other side of existence. And somewhere in the middle of the hazy storm Furi realizes it: she is witnessing the moment she foresaw all these years ago, helping that cheerful boy cook the meal for his mother whom he has chosen not to even see now, as she came to her senses for the first time.

She is witnessing the last sparks of light die in his eye.

'If you want to get something unattainable, you must first make a space for it. Create a void.'

He wants the unattainable. He tries to step beyond his own fate, beyond the blowback. He proceeds to turn into a void his very soul.

Maybe he leaves it all to her. She feels fuller than ever. She feels as if a warm, steady fire has been lit inside her.

~

“Quit, Furi,” Umeko says, combing her hair, her fingers gentle like the wind rustling in the crimson foliage outside. “Don’t worry about anything, I’ll think of what to say to Kagemitsu-sama.”

Furi scrambles to her feet abruptly, her heart giving a scared thud. She stares at the woman in an angry bewilderment. “No! Why? I must stay by his side!”

Umeko’s voice is calm, chanting, like that of a nurse who is trying to soothe a crying child, “If you do, you will not be safe. War is a cruel thing. And this is what he is now: a warrior in a battle. You are too young to bear that burden.”

Furi knits her eyebrows. This is ridiculous! To leave him now, when he’s entrusted her his very soul? When she’s firmer, steadier than she’s ever been in her life? When he needs her the most, balancing on the verge of the darkness only she knows how to deal with?

“Isn’t he too young, too? Yet he bears it,” Furi retorts, her chin raised stubbornly.

Umeko cracks a sad smile, “Because he is the heir.”

No, he’s not, Furi shakes her head but utters no word. He’s not.

He bears it because he is strong enough to become one.

~

She understands it a few days later, even though no bodily signs can show it yet. Glowing deep within her, warming up her very being is a radiant fire of another soul that has come from beyond, invited into this world by the joining of their bodies and spirits.

Furi keeps silent, afraid to stir and spill that liquid light flooding her. No shadow, no doubt, no evil and no hatred can touch her now. She is stronger than ever. She is the Fire.

But the brighter the light within her glows, the darker the world outside becomes. Gloomy clouds thicken over the Banmon on the west, and swarms of locust obscure the rising sun on the east. Along the north road, fires glow like a lurid constellation, marking the footsteps of the plague. The evening breeze brings not the salty freshness of the ocean but a greasy, sweetish odor of many bodies burned alive.

A lonely cricket chirps, mourning the last evenings of the bloody autumn. Furi steps into her tiny room—

—and suddenly, she sees a blooming spring.

The silk is like a window into another time. One where the purple shadows are colored with the vivid pink of the sunlit plum flowers, some just budding, others already scattering their gentle petals to the silver strings of the wind curling among the branches. She can almost feel its fresh breath touching her skin. She can almost smell the sweet fragrance, too. It’s another kind of magic.

“Kagemitsu-sama has sent this kimono to you,” Umeko explains, her voice catching.

“The lord himself?” she gasps.

“Yes. He demanded that you attend him immediately once you return.”

Furi rushes out without as much as adjusting her hair.

“The doctor has said that you are pregnant. You did well. Your patience has been paid off.” Enemy’s thin lips are curved in a tiny smile that fails to soften his grim face yet does lighten his eyes. “Does my son know?”

“No, my lord.”

“Don’t tell him. He must stay focused on his task.”

“Yes, my lord. I understand.”

“Now go and rest well. Umeko will take care of you. As for Tahomaru, I shall assign him another maid.”

Furi flares up. “But I—”

“Dare oppose me again,” he finishes with a scoff.

“My apologies, lord.”

“You are no longer a maid. Now, your task is to bear the child, the future heir. Stay focused on it, too.”

Furi smiles. “It is a girl, my lord.”

“What? How do you know?”

“I feel it. A mother’s instinct.”

“You can still be wrong.”

“And if I’m not?” She looks straight into his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter.” Opposite to his words, something cold appears on Enemy’s face. Furi regrets once again that she can’t read intentions written in the patterns of the soul. “This child still has Daigo’s blood in its veins.”

~

“It doesn’t matter.”

The sky shuts down over the Castle with the same dark hardness that Enemy had in his eyes.

What does he want to do with their girl? To use her as another offering to the demons? To try to strike a new deal as everything is falling apart? As if she’d let him!

Furi can see her light. She can hear her voice. Or rather a beautiful, outworldly singing—their girl doesn’t know any words yet.

Should she act now? Now, that the war has begun, and the Lord is rounding up soldiers from peasants to plug the breaches in his worn-out army? As the epidemics and clouds of locust are spreading across the land, and Tahomaru barely shows up home, trying to do something to help people, all the while trailing his brother…

Should she kill the Lord now—and drop this all on Tahomaru’s shoulders? Is he really strong enough?

It won’t stop him anymore, she realizes. Nothing will stop him until he clashes with his brother to decide which one of them must stay on this earth.

If she has to kill someone…it is not Daigo Kagemitsu. Not her Enemy.

Lost in her worries and doubts, Furi almost misses the day of that final clash.

~

'If you only took a glance at his soul, you would understand it immediately.'

Furi has never seen her Enemy’s soul. She has never seen any living person’s soul at all. But now, she does.

She stares into the radiant light of that dear soul—and she understands it immediately.

The first thing she perceives is an alien, alarming red on Tahomaru’s head which has nothing to do with him and has everything to do with the Deal. He’s been dragged into it, by his will or against, but now he’s a part of it, too. And it means—

Umeko catches her, holding tightly around the waist, as Furi’s knees weaken.

The second thing she perceives is a hole, a terrible hole of loss. Tahomaru is alone now, and he is not completely himself. Even his voice sounds alien and distorted as he commands, “Everyone, vacate the castle! The demon will come any minute now.”

It’s already here, she wants to scream, right inside you, stupid! How could you allow it? This is not how it was supposed to go…!

The next moment, she understands, the memory of Teacher’s words flashing through her mind. That’s what happens when you succeed in turning into a void your very soul. When you become one with your task. What comes and fills you is the embodiment of your resolve, an unhuman power from the depths of the Underside.

You become a weapon yourself.

A weapon with only one purpose.

~

“So, this weapon is not really magic?” Furi asked, a bit disappointed. She waited more than a year for his return—to learn this?

“What is magic?” Teacher asked back. And immediately answered himself, “Magic is knowledge. Knowledge is magic—for those ignorant. What they call ‘magic’ is just another level of knowledge.”

Furi understood he was right. Did it simply mean she knew so much already that she couldn’t perceive things like this as something supernatural?

“What they call Hell, we call the Underside, the shadow side of existence,” Teacher continued. “Or non-existence, since there are no light and no life on the Underside, only hungry disembodied spirits. They can’t penetrate here. They can only be invited by a living human’s free will. And this is what they crave the most: to be invited. The barrier between our worlds is like a dam, with the dark water pressing against it continuously. Once you have opened the sluice, it is quite a challenging task to hold it, let alone to shut it down. That is why I called it the ultimate weapon. For it may very well destroy yourself along with your target.”

She frowned. “But how is it different from what Daigo did?” 

“He simply let the demons into this world for them to feast here uncontrollably. What I am going to teach you is entering the shadows. It is about control. But you can’t really control a demon, so never deal with them. There are many lesser spirits dwelling in the shadows...”

~

“No! I won’t leave!” She fiercely fights her way out of Umeko’s hold, her voice more like an animal growl, “He doesn’t know how to— he can’t—"

“You must believe in him, Furi!” A slap across her face makes her snap out of it. “This is his battle! Stay focused on your own and protect his child!”

'Sometimes, women must fight their own battles.'

And at that, she subsides.

~

She shouldn’t have. She is no Tokiwa Gozen and will never be.

She should have stayed and protected them both.

Because without one, there can’t be the other.

The moment she learns the news, Furi feels as if giant dark waves closed over her, extinguishing every spark of fire, engulfing her in the cold darkness. She’s thrown almost a decade back, she’s a little girl again, paralyzed by anguish and pain, desperately trying to catch the tiny firefly slowly ascending before her eyes.

The ringing of the broken silver thread fills her ears as the radiant grain of soul floats away, fading from this world. 

She reaches after it, desperately, through the invisible barrier of the Underside and beyond, to the unknown spaces of light that blinds her eyes and burns her hands to the bones. But it’s no use. She can’t catch it.

She isn’t strong enough.

She is left alone, in the darkness, crying out into the void to let her pass. The barrier closes before her, and all the fires fade away.

~

She isn’t certain how long she stays like this, between the two worlds, unwilling to come back yet unable to leave, while Umeko takes care of her body in some unfamiliar hut. Sometimes, she dreams of the endless way on the white sand, from boulder to boulder through the rain of flying blades, to the unreachable fire on top of the rock. Sometimes, the sand turns to snow under her bare feet. Two women are watching her, but they are not her mother and sister. Clad in their splendid Heian garments, the legendary Lady Warrior and the legendary Mother are both sighing in disappointment. Sometimes, Furi hears Umeko’s soft voice break in, and at those moments, the dreams stop for a while. But the first words that really make her come back to her senses are not Umeko’s.  

“Where is she?!” Lord Daigo bursts in, a dark mess of broken armor and smeared blood, covered in ash and soot. “Is the child all right?!”

Furi stares at the symbol on his chest that resembles a three-pointed shuriken. She hears the wind hissing in the void.

“My lord…”

My Enemy.

“There was a miscarriage, my lord,” Umeko says in her warm, soothing voice. “It was a girl.” Not heir.

But Lord Daigo crushes to his knees, as if the last knot that was holding this broken shell together has just been cut.

“She could’ve had his smile,” his voice comes out barely audible through his clenched teeth. Completely unrecognizable. “He smiled so rarely. I shouldn’t have told you to keep it secret from him. If he knew... Maybe he wouldn’t have gone that far... wouldn’t have been that desperate...”

He doesn’t cry, only his scar begins to bleed stronger. The blood runs down his brow and gathers in the corners of his eyelids, flowing down his cheeks like tears. Two horrible streams of red. The whites of his eyes are red, too. Other than that, his face is as pale as death itself.

Daigo Kagemitsu rises to his feet and hobbles out, a wrecked shadow of the man who was her Enemy.

Furi closes her eyes and thinks that her quest is finally over.

She has delivered the final blow.

~Part 3~

“So, you have witnessed the inevitability of a blowback. What knowledge have you taken out from it?”

Teacher handed her a bowl of hot tea. The scent of mountain herbs filled her nose and warmed her chest. But her insides remained frozen even when she took a gulp.

“That I didn’t even have to kill him. I didn’t have to do anything with my own hands.”

“Exactly. You did nothing wrong or malicious. The opposite—you were kind to your enemies. You have managed to keep yourself clean of any negative consequences, which would not have been the case, had you taken the revenge with your own hands.”

…He had shown up in the northern castle, where they had escaped from the desolated land, in January. He had asked nothing, just held out his hand and said, Come. She had followed him into the winter night.

“Clean?” Furi put the bowl on the ground. Her fingers were slightly shaking. “But I was nurturing the thoughts of killing, of revenge all that time—”

“Your thoughts and intentions do not matter. What does matter is your actions. Your thoughts can only change you, but not the world. They do not bring any direct consequences into it.”

A lonely windchime, ringing aimlessly…

She could have made something. Possibilities were numerous. Kill Lord Kagemitsu. Tell him all the truth about the workings of karma. Reveal everything to Tahomaru. Kill Hyakkimaru. Confide in Teacher and ask his guidance. The outcome would have been unpredictable in either case, not necessarily better. But at least she would have known that she had done what she could. 

But she had done nothing. She had only been contemplating the possibilities.

“You were wise not to act, Furi,” Teacher argued with her thoughts. “If you had killed him before his time, he wouldn’t have suffered through the loss of everything he ever held dear. He would have simply died, and you would have been tainted with human blood on your hands. Trust karma to bring justice. Not to meddle in, but just watch and maybe gently push is an ideal way to ensure the karmic rebound. To let your enemies destroy each other while destroying themselves. Daigo’s heir has gotten his hands drenched in blood, too, having killed hundreds on his way, and now, he will get his own retaliation, sooner or later. We are witnessing the final collapse of your Enemy’s bloodline and domain.”

“His own retaliation…even though Hyakkimaru was the bringer of karma, the one protected by the gods?”

“Does it justify his doings? Does it make an act of killing any less evil?” Teacher raised an eyebrow. “No, no one has an exclusive right to kill, regardless of the reasons. Being a tool of karma only pulls you deeper into that bottomless whirlpool of consequences.”

He looked over at the mountains looming on the darkened east, their tops still red from the sun that had already set behind the sea. Furi could never tell what thoughts were occupying his mind at such moments of silent contemplation.

“But... What about his second son?” Furi tried her hardest not to let her voice shake, but to no avail. “He was completely innocent in all this, yet he was put between two fires and got hit first. You mentioned it, but I don’t really understand this mechanics, Teacher. Why on earth would the blowback hit those who are innocent?”

“Because no one in this world is truly innocent. If he suffered in this life without an evident cause, it just means the cause lies in his previous lives. He was born in that family, in that time, because he had to suffer through all of that. No one could have saved him from his own karma.”

Furi clenched her fists in a rush of denial, yet the strength left in her body was only enough for her fingers to close in faintly. She still felt the burns from the otherworldly light on her palms, the burns that were not really there.

Teacher turned to face her. “You wanted to save him. I see. You fell in love…and not only that.” His gaze dropped and stopped at her empty belly.

“Teacher…”

Her breath hitched.

“Of course, I knew at once,” he said, his voice warm, warmer than she had ever heard it. “It’s all right, I’m not blaming you, child. You are young and kind, and you have a soft heart. Don’t blame yourself for it either. After all, I never really expected you to harm your Enemy, or his son, in any way.”

“You…didn’t? And still gave me the knowledge of the Shadow?”

He knew she would fail… He knew it all along, right from the start. Then…why?

“I sent you there to watch and to study, Furi. Not just the mechanics of karma. First of all, to study yourself. I gave you the knowledge, but you didn’t use it to do evil. It proves your resilience and wisdom. You are a true daughter of your people.”

“My people? What do you mean?”

Once again, like when she was seven, his every sentence aroused questions in her. Only the sparkles of curiosity were absent.

“Everything I’ve been teaching you up to this point was only the basics. The real lessons can only begin now. Raise your head. Look at what’s above you, not below.”

She did. 

The last glow of the sunset had died from the mountaintops, and the thinning sky revealed a spray of stars. It had been years since Furi last saw this rich starry sky of the wilds. Pitch-black night was thickening about them, undisturbed by the artificial lights, filled with distant howls, and the silent breathing of the hills, and disembodied steps crackling in the woods; and at that moment, all the villages and castles seemed no more than a dream. A future dream of the pristine earth that had been created just a while ago…

“Do not mourn this child. It could have never been born. After all, what happened only proves the obvious: you can’t produce a life with one of the Aliens. You are too pure for that. Your body has ejected it from itself.”

“Aliens?”

“You never knew who your mother really was. She kept it secret even from you.”

“I always thought she was a ninja.”

“Ninja is not what she was, it is what she did. But why did she choose to become a ninja? Because there was no other place for her in their society. She was an outcast. Yes, a filthy, wild barbarian in their eyes, worse even than eta—undertakers, butchers, and other people of low works. So, she had chosen the path where her roots had no importance. Ninja is just ninja. A perfect cover. But what she was, what you are is defined by your blood.”

“My blood?”

“Yes, your blood. The very essence of this land. Our people had been living on these islands long before the Aliens came from the western mainland. Your hair is wavy, and your eyes are round and deep, which is so strange to them. You are the last Shaman’s granddaughter and you possess the power that has been kept in your bloodline for countless generations. The knowledge I have been teaching you is yours by right, the right of your blood, Furi. I only preserved it and passed it down to you, for it had been the Shaman’s deepest wish.”

“The…Shaman?”

“And what did you think he was, a monk?” Teacher smiled.

Furi was looking at Teacher without blinking as he went on, his dark eyes shining in the starlight. Before her, the images of the young world were unfolding. She saw green hills and ancient shrines, sacred groves and stones, and peaceful villages of hunters and fishers. She saw people dancing and singing on the meadows, free and cheerful. Ancient magic and mysteries of the stars, legends of heroes and gods that created the land and the sea, and the firmament above for their children, were their religion. They knew the world had been created for life, for beauty, for happiness, not for begging and suffering. They were young and strong, their eyes were shining bright. They didn’t know yet about the alien people that would invade their land, fierce and bloodthirsty, and sweep off the peaceful villages in their insatiable greed…

“We had no swords because we never slew each other. We had only bows for hunting. That is what they named us—'those who shoot bow', Emishi. We knew no other weapons, no fortifications, no battle arrangements. We still resisted as we could, becoming stronger and fiercer ourselves. Some of us gave up and bowed down to the Aliens. Some of us left far to the north. Others decided to make treaties with them, to join forces with one or another clan in their constant battling with each other for land and power. Foolish. They would never consider us allies. For them, we are all animals, not even humans.”

“The incantations you’ve taught me…” Furi’s eyes widened.

“…Are not really incantations,” Teacher nodded. “Just the words of our language. I shall teach you to speak it.”

“Why have you never told me about it? Why only now?”

“If I had told you this when you were a child, you wouldn’t have kept the flame of this knowledge glowing. Once adopted by the Aliens, you wouldn’t help but grow attached to them. In time, the truth would have been clouded in your memory, just like the face of your own mother was.”

“She— I—”

“I know; you don’t have to explain it. First, you were sure you would never forget. But day after day, it was harder and harder for you to recall her features clearly. And in time, you could not tell anymore how much of that image was a memory, and how much your own imagination.”

Furi dropped her head. “You are right.”

“I know. And so it would have happened to that bigger truth. In time, replaced by the routine of your present life, it would have turned in your mind into a bright, nostalgic fairytale, nothing more. You wouldn’t fight for it. You wouldn’t live for it. You would have eventually thrown it away, like an old faded clothing. I’ve already seen that happen.” His look turned inward, his voice growing bitter.

“Fight for it? Can we still fight if that world is long gone, Teacher?”

“But our people are still there. We are still numerous, even though our memory is erased. They use us for the lowest works; they drive us into the mountains and to the far north of the islands, where the winters are harsh, too harsh for their liking. They want to erase not just our blood, but our very name from this land. But we can still fight. And we can win. If we play it right…”

The mountains loomed ever nearer as they went south, passing the wreckages and the ashes of the opulent life that was gone. The news of Lord Daigo’s passing reached them in a small village inn in the Awazu clan’s hilly territory, on their way to the place where, by Teacher's words, she would start her real training. He had found and hidden something peculiar there, by the Laughing Rocks of Nata, he had said. But Furi did not ask him what it was. She was not persuading him day and night to elaborate. Her usual curiosity was not there anymore. She was following him because there was no will of her own left in her body. Yet time and time again she found herself glancing back at the brown pattern of dead paddies and scorched remains of the villages, as if there was still something left on that desolated land that she had to do. But what? Even her Enemy was dead now, in all senses of this word…

An irony. Years ago, left by Teacher in her Enemy’s den, all she had dreamt of was for him to show up and take her away; for him to look at her with warmth in his eyes and call her “child.”

She had gotten it all now. But what her heart longed was to return to that devastated land that had swallowed and buried all the remains of her quest…of her life.

Her Enemy. Her beloved. Her daughter. The only man she had ever called Father. Had she been feigning all that life—or had she been feigning her quest?

“Go, Furi.” As always, Teacher read her through, and she didn’t even try to misguide him. “Big work awaits us, a much bigger one. But first, you must close that page of your life once and for all. I’ll wait for your return by the Laughing Rocks. Bury all your regrets with your Enemy and come back.”

“Yes, Teacher. I will.”

Would witnessing his corpse help her? Furi did not know. But she wasn’t ready to live on yet. To fight for the lost civilization of her ancestors, to stand alongside Teacher in his just and grand cause as his worthy apprentice…as the true daughter of her people.

“Teacher…” Furi stopped on her tracks and looked back at him. “You haven’t taught me to shoot bow.”

“Sometimes you are so random, my girl,” he chuckled. “No, I haven’t. You don’t need something as primitive.”

“But can I really be called a daughter of Emishi then?”

He smiled, saying nothing. Maybe there was a regret in his smile.

Or maybe she could see nothing but her own regrets.

~

It took her two days to reach the Great River Castle where life was trying to bloom once again with the nearing of the spring. But the sweet plum fragrance was interweaving with the heavy stench of death. Furi could smell the sea, too. From the castle hill terraces, she could even see it once again—a hazy blue wall on the horizon, the same color as it was on the day before the fog descended, and the sound of the conch shell horn ripped through her life. The sea was unchanging, as though all those years hadn’t really happened…

But there was nobody to meet her. Her adoptive father Iwamoto had died in the last battle by Tatesuki Pass, protecting the Lord. Her aunt had never made it from the castle town and was missing, like many others.

Even her Enemy had already been cremated by the time she arrived.

“My goodness, it’s you, Furi!”

Warmth filled her chest at the sound of this voice. “Umeko-san…”

“I thought I would never see your again, after you disappeared like that into the night! Where have you been? Oh, but later, it doesn’t matter now! Let’s go!”

Bewildered, Furi was brought to Umeko’s house, where the woman now lived with her daughter’s family. It was bright and filled with children’s voices. Too bright for her desolated heart. Furi felt the urge to hide from that brightness…

“Izumi, bring it, quickly!”

…Yet it flashed right into her face from the rich silk ornamented with the familiar vivid pattern.

“I never knew you saved it.” Furi pressed her dry lips together.

“Of course, I did.” Umeko quickly unfolded the kimono that her daughter had brought. Furi noticed a little tremor in her fingers. “First, it is the late Lord’s gift. Second, it is worth more than this house and everything that’s in it.”

“Please, sell it, Umeko-san, and use the money for your family. I won’t need it anyway.”

Umeko just looked at her and smiled, saying nothing, until the tears broke into her smile and began to flow down her cheeks. But she brushed them away and smiled even brighter. “I believe you will, Furi. There could have been no better occasion to put it on than today.”

~

Ever since she had met Teacher and began her path of learning, Furi stopped perceiving magic as something miraculous. She had learned its laws and mechanics. She had realized it was but another level of perception and comprehension. Eventually, she had ceased to use the word “magic” altogether.

It had become a mundane attribute of her world. No miracle, just a dry knowledge. There were no miracles. She knew what was possible and what was not.

But to learn about his return was magic.

As if she were born into this world again. As if the sun rose after just having set. As if all the anguish and pain were miraculously undone.

As if…but not really.

There was one thing that could never be undone.

“From this day, I you are no longer on my service,” Tahomaru said, still unaware, his gaze full of guilt. His features were firm and matured, humble, more handsome than ever.

Outside the opened doors, the plums were in full bloom as if spilt from the rich silk of her kimono. Like an ethereal dream decorating the desolated landscape, the bright pattern was concealing her dead emptiness. Furi’s hand twitched to her belly. She had failed him. Why was she wearing this kimono that had been presented to her as a mother of the future heir?

She shouldn’t have. She had no right. She should have wrapped her dead infant in it and bury her tiny body like that.

Tahomaru dashed to her and grasped the tanto she was keeping in her bosom, having misjudged her movement.

Or had he...?

What was she here for?

He didn’t need her.

He didn’t want her to be here.

He was everything for her. But for him, she was an ugly scar, an eternal reminder of his faults.

Tahomaru felt guilty, even though it was her who should have pressed her forehead to the floor and confessed everything. How she had been a liar, waiting all those years for the opportunity to strike. How she couldn’t protect him, but not because she wasn’t strong enough—because she had never truly made that choice. How she had proclaimed her love for him but had never really acted on it, just watching silently his fate unfold. How she had failed to protect the flame he had entrusted her—his child he never even knew about.

She should have confessed it all, but she couldn’t even do that. What for? To hurt him even more, now that it all had no meaning? Just to become something more in his eyes than a mere servant? Wasn’t it her desire to be someone significant that kept her all that time from truly devoting herself to the person she loved? A sideline watcher who held the key to the mechanics of his fate. A pulled bow that could have decided it with one shot: to be merciless or to spare, to protect or to leave struggling alone.

Only she couldn’t even pull a bow.

'Remember: you must ignite the Fire.'

No use. Fire was what she wasn’t.

“…You must do what you truly wish. This is my final order to you.”

Furi looked up at him, the man whose inner fire she had been feeding off all that time, her eyes wide in realization. His gaze was clouded, yet the light she had witnessed die in his eye was rising again, tentatively, from the very depths of the shadows.

She knew now what she truly wanted to do. Without bothering him. Without awaiting anything in return. That’s what had been tormenting her all this time—her own expectations. If she expected nothing, everything was easy.

As easy as the sudden understanding:

What she truly wanted was to protect that fire.

“Please, allow me to stay by your side and serve you, in whatever way you will have me.”

Forgive me, Teacher. I shall not come.

Tahomaru straightened himself and turned back to her after what felt like a decade. He nodded, holding out her tanto with his both hands—a gesture of a lord accepting a samurai to his service, highly formal yet unconscious, for she could tell he didn’t realize what was really taking place. Furi silently accepted the weapon from his hands, bowing down in a slight incline from her waist, her posture steady like a distant tornado upon the sea horizon.

She felt light and calm. There were no more doubts nor alternatives. Only one path remained open for her.

The path lying in shadows.

~

“…There are many lesser spirits dwelling in the shadows. The spirits that had fallen to the Underside in their ugliness and wickedness; the spirits that got trapped there after death, unable to reincarnate. But you can’t just summon whichever spirit you wish and have it perform your will. What spirit will come to you depends on your intentions and the pattern of your own spirit.”

“‘The pattern of my spirit’? What does it mean, Teacher?”

“When you worry, your spirit wavers. When you are happy, it radiates a bright and even light. When you are raging, its rays turn into a million blades. Whatever state you are in, it reflects in the pattern of your spirit. Most of the time, our spirits fluctuate, dozens of states coexisting and changing constantly. But when you are focused, there is nothing but a steady, condensed shape of your current will. Your whole being must be an embodiment of your task. Focus. You must become nothing but resolve. Only then, the right spirit will come and guide you.”

~

I have come. I have come to guide you. I am your eyes. I am your body. Our will is one, the Living who summoned me from the Shadows.

By a miracle, she was back. By a miracle, she could hold the bow again.

In one swift and fluid movement she reached behind her shoulder, took an arrow, placed it on the string and sent flying into the depth of the forest. Then she did it again, and again, and again.

Five swift shadows pierced through the night, each finding its aim—the arrows of wood and steel shot from the dark to kill her master.

The sixth and the seventh found the enemies’ hearts.

The blood rushed through her body. Her hand felt the familiar vibration of the bow. Her fingers slid up and down the fletching, caressing the feathers. She waited like this, unmoving, listening to the darkness, perceiving the living world from the shadows, and knew that no bodily limits, no density of substances, no inertia of time itself could impede her now.

…Furi opened her eyes. She stood on the edge of the forest, thick blackness of the hour of the Rat veiling her sight, her hands holding emptiness. She had no bow and she had never been taught to shoot arrows: Teacher trained her to kill with her own hands, to feel the hot blood flowing down her fingers, to witness the silver grain of soul rising above the body, to look into her Enemy’s eyes when she would become a Shadow.

That’s how he found her, calling her—not her?—yes, her name. “Show yourself already, Furi.”

And she felt it clearly: as if two hearts fluttered like birds in her chest to the sound of this voice.

She moved to him, but the Shadow remained on the spot to keep her sleepless watch. Furi knew her name now, the name of the one who had gotten trapped on the Underside. When another danger came, they would become one again. For it was their only purpose. The common pattern of their spirits.

She became a Shadow to protect, not to kill.

Chapter Text

“Is it really fine that you didn’t go with your son to pay your final respects?”

“I rejected him the day I followed this girl. Even if I wanted to, I no longer have that right.”

Of course, she wouldn’t want, Dororo thinks, yawning. Who even cares about that Daigo? Lulled by the quiet voices of Lady Nui and Jukai-sensei flowing from the adjacent room, she is drifting into sleep, sprawled on the clean, soft sheets. She is warm and cozy in Tahomaru’s jinbaori and a thick blanket over it. A little while ago, the lady tucked her in with her small, warm hands. There were terrible brown stains on them.

What happened to your hands, Lady? Dororo asked as she first noticed the burns.

I injured them in that fire, Lady said.

It wasn’t just an accident, Dororo understood right away. She knew those burns, knew them very well. The lady had taken something hot with her two hands, maybe a burning beam blocking their way, as she had been trying to save her precious child from the burning castle.

Mama… she couldn’t help but exhale, tingling warmth overflowing her chest. The lady gave her one of her beautiful, sad smiles.

Dororo yawns again, snuggling contentedly. She feels warm, so very warm. She hasn’t felt this warm in ages. This soft, calm and relaxed. But instead of allowing the cozy sleep to overtake her body completely, she finds herself tuning in with the quiet voices that continue their unhurried conversation, alternating with the soft sounds of the tea poured into bowls.

“…I shall pray for his soul. This is the most I can do now. The most… I could ever do.”

“Did you love him?”

The calm question and a little pause afterward disrupt Dororo’s sleep completely. But when the lady replies, her voice sounds as serene as if she narrated an old, diluted tale:

“Yes, I did. I was happy to give birth to his heir. Despite the hardships our land was facing, I still believed that everything would be fine. He was waiting for the child to be born with a lot of excitement, too. It was a cruel irony that his desire for his son to come to a rich, prosperous land was probably the last straw in his decision to make the deal. He loved picturing him grow up a strong and handsome boy, imagining how he would teach him to hold a sword and a bow. He visited the stables around the domain, choosing the finest mare to bring a colt specially for him. Those thoughts averted his mind from the adversities and filled him with hope. His somber face softened. And then he was born… Everything changed in a flash. How could he discard his son like that? The one he had been thinking about with such warmth?” Dororo holds her breath as Lady’s voice drops lower, now strained with a suppressed emotion. “How could he laugh, looking at his maimed body, and then just throw him away as if he were nothing but the demons’ leftovers?”

Cold shivers run down Dororo’s spine. She balls her fists. That bastard…

“…He only gave me a couple of months until my body was ready. But my heart was not. By that time, I hated him. I knew I should not. I had to be stronger; after all, I had known all along that a Lord’s wife’s choices can’t be easy. I saw our land flourishing and the people’s burden lessen day by day. My husband was becoming the lord he strived to be, victorious and adored by his people... But I hated him. I hated the man I once loved wholeheartedly. I couldn’t imagine bearing another child for him.

“Tahomaru was born, but I could not look at him. I could not stand his crying, nor his laughter when he grew up a little. He always stayed with his wet nurse, and I was relieved. He resembled his father so strongly that I could see nothing but the hateful features whenever I looked at his face.”

Dororo freezes. Her heart skips a bit, then starts again with a heavy thud. Is it the same lady’s voice saying this? Is it… how she really felt about her baby?

“…But most of all, I hated myself for my weaknesses. I could not be the Lady of Daigo I should have been, nor could I be the mother who protects her child at any cost. That day, I rode my mare across the land, aimlessly, crying bitterly among the green hills and the paddies full of water. A peasant child ran up to me then and tug at my sleeve: ‘Why are you crying, lady? Are you hungry? Please come over, we have lots of rice and sweet buns!’ And I realized that these people had been chewing on roots just less than two years ago. Now, there were healthy children playing on the streets, mothers lulling their newborns, laughter and singing everywhere. They were gathering harvest with happy smiles on their faces. It seemed like my soul was the only wrecked, gruesome place in this domain. And all that was thanks to Lord’s hard and cruel decision. Thanks to the sacrifice of our son. The hatred was gone from my heart then, leaving only grief that would never fade.

“I didn’t even have anything to do as the Lady, there were no hardships and no disasters; everything was developing smoothly as though on its own. Therefore, I devoted myself to praying for my son who had taken all that burden on himself. Tahomaru… I guess, for me, he had always been a part of that prosperous world that required no more involvement of mine. He grew up such a bright and unproblematic child that my heart, set on suffering for too long, could barely perceive him. Wasn’t it easier to be a mother for a long-lost child than for the one right there, the one craving for my attention? Now, I finally see his pain and my despicable aloofness. All I could see back then was that strong and cheerful facade he was putting on.”

Dororo thinks of the light smile and the confident voice. 'Don’t worry. It can’t be true. So, no need to tell Mother about it.'

“…I wonder if he still does.”

“What does your mother’s heart tell you?”

Lady Nui’s voice is barely audible as she says, “That there is a grave danger for my son. A danger far greater than the rebellion Dororo has told us about.”

~The story of the unseen bridge. Part 1~

Dororo doesn’t notice the moment when the voices fade away, and the warm gleams of light disappear from the floor. The silent darkness tightens about her. The warmth disappears. Dororo shivers.

Her chest hurts.

She knew she shouldn’t do that. Hasn't she decided to never seek the same features, the same kindness, the same warmth in people anymore? She's been deceived more than once; enough to understand there can be no other person like her Mama. No use in searching. No use in feeling that pain, ever again.

She bites on her lip angrily.

…How could a mother be that cruel so as not to want to see her own child?

Suddenly, she envisions Mio. What if she’d gotten pregnant from one of those samurai? Would she hate that child? Every time she looked at that face, she would have seen the hateful features of the man who had used her. Still, Dororo couldn’t imagine Mio hating any kid. It’s like she wasn’t capable of hate at all.

But maybe she was.

Is it a woman’s fate in this cruel and dangerous world, no matter how rich, no matter how noble? Dororo fastens her fists. There is a burning lump growing in her throat. It’s good that parents told her to be a boy, after all, at least till she meets someone she can really trust. Maybe it’s because she was raised that way that she can’t imagine complying with someone like Daigo, if she were in Lady’s shoes? She would have never allowed that bastard to…as much as touch her…!

Dororo rolls over and pulls the blanket over her head, the horrible scenes she has witnessed throughout her life resurfacing from her memory—

—and she’s on her fours again, stripped of her clothes, with a dozen men crowded around her, laughing, goggling, pointing their fingers, appraising every inch of her body, and she is completely, entirely, utterly helpless before them.

Her face flares up with shame and belated fear. She wouldn’t have been able to escape, should they…

This possibility didn’t occur to her then.

Itachi was a bastard, but luckily not that kind of a bastard.

…But if Lady had refused somehow, it means Tahomaru would’ve never been born.

Conflicted, Dororo squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head.

Regardless how terrible the circumstances, still, a baby’s birth into this world couldn’t be something wrong. Could it? That someone so nice was better never existing…

Right from their first meeting by the lake, where they fought the crab monster, Dororo could tell that he was nice. It was obvious he was some lord, yet he actually bowed down to them. Lords bowed to no one. When a lord appeared, it was peasants who must have dropped to their knees and bowed. If a lord were not content with the depth of their bows, or simply not in a good mood, he could cut them down right on the spot. Of course, only the most evil lords were so unnecessarily cruel. But even the nicest of them would not bow to some random vagabonds.

Dororo went on and took advantage of his kindness. It wasn’t wise to demand money, but she had never been the one to shy away from an opportunity. Risk was her nature. So, she did. Tahomaru just blinked—and handed her a small fortune in coins.

How could someone so humble and generous not be nice?

Explaining it to Bro was another thing, though. His way of thinking was completely different from hers. Tahomaru had called him a demon. He had attacked him. He had said his domain was more important. Whether he was nice, or generous, or his younger brother, mattered not a bit.

That was it for Bro.

Or…maybe not completely. 'He did listen to you,' she recalls Tahomaru say. 'After all, he was the one to spare me.'

Which made Tahomaru overcome the demon who possessed him, too.

Dororo smiles, satisfied. She was right about Taho, after all. Boys are strong and bold, but they are so stupid sometimes, fast to draw their swords instead of talking it down and finding a solution. She’s always been right in her judgements, because she is smart. Is it because she is actually a girl? But acting like a boy, she could enjoy advantages of the both.

'You need not to be a man to be strong. There are women who are stronger than most of the men can hope to ever be.'

Dororo pushes the blanket off her head and inhales deeply, her lungs suddenly aching for air. Maybe it was his words, or maybe everything she’s been through recently, but she can feel no embarrassment of her true self anymore. No need to pretend. Her strength has always been inside her, after all. And there, somewhere inside her, Tahomaru’s reassuring smile still lingers. 'Trust me.'

…She was infatuated with that smile and the shadows in his eye, with his cleverness and his firm orders. His stern face was so like Hyakkimaru’s and so unlike it confused her. Made it awkward to look at. Difficult even. Yet tempting. She didn’t know why.

Dororo wraps the jinbaori around her shoulders tighter. It seems to her that it’s still emanating warmth. Something is tugging at her chest, hurtful and sweet. What is it she feels? What is this nagging sensation as if her insides were being fried over the slow fire, like fish on sticks?

The night surrounding her is cold, but deep within her, something is aglow.

Bro, come back already. Everything is so strange without you, and I’m being strange, too. Bro…

~

It gets even worse in the morning. Just uttering his name gives her a nervous frisson as if she were sneaking around some dangerous place for a loot of her life, risking being caught, not having a peaceful conversation at the breakfast.

“…And so, he said that you don’t need to worry because it can’t be true,” Dororo finishes and bites on another sweet, fluffy bun to push down this stupid embarrassment. It melts on her tongue, fills her mouth with blissful sweetness. Tahomaru indeed wasn’t exaggerating about these buns.

He asked her not to tell the lady about that army so as not to worry her. But if it can’t be true, then there is nothing to really tell and worry about, right?

But if it is true, then keeping it secret from the lady, who was a terrible mother to him, yet now seems to care for real, would be a crime.

Sensei frowns. “You say that army had no colors?”

“Yup, that’s what they said. No banners, no family crests, nothing to indicate they were even humans—” Dororo halts. A piece of sweet bun drops from her opened mouth. She gulps down on a heavy emptiness. “Wait… If they’re no humans, then…”

Lady and Sensei send her confused looks.

Dororo springs up abruptly.

The sun is rising above the trees as she runs out to the high river bank. The day is growing warm, and there are many people outside: men busy with fishing nets, children playing and women doing laundry. Dororo spots the tallest tree and climbs it as high as she can, heart pounding in her chest. How could she be that dumb? How could she not guess it earlier? Let herself be bribed by those sweet buns and another delusion of being with someone like Mama…instead of sticking with Taho, Taho who headed into the night—toward the army of demons!

A frigid shiver creeps down Dororo’s spine. Well, her guess can still be wrong…

She looks east, shielding her eyes against the rising sun. Under its rays, the hills are melted gold disappearing in the incandescent haze. To the north, a big nearby hill with a small fort on the top is outlined sharply by the side light, obstructing the greater part of the pale-blue line of the sea. Must be that Daishoji Fortress they were talking about on the council, where the rebellious samurai is lodged...

'One can hold just Daishoji Fortress and control the whole Kaga Province. Nobody can control Kaga Province, though, without controlling Daishoji Fortress.'

Dororo whistles. It is so close, just across this forest… Like Tahomaru has said, they are right at that samurai’s back. But no movements can be seen by the fortress, and to the east of it, there are only the Two Pines upland, and the mists floating over the hilly horizon. If only this tree were taller, maybe she could see a bit farther… Dororo grips the top branch and pulls up higher, but it is too thin to hold her. Her gaze drops. The people fussing with their nets below seem so little from up here. Still, this tree is nowhere near in height as a watchtower could be.

“Hey, you, mister!” Dororo calls down in frustration. “Why there’s no watchtower on this high bank? You gotta build it, and soon! How do you hope to see what’s happening around?”

A fisherman looks up at her in confusion. “Why do we need to see what’s happening around?”

“How else would you know when to get ready for the defense, gather up and fetch your weapons, for one?” Dororo offers. “Do you even have any weapons?”

“We’re peasants, not samurai. Obviously we ain’t got no weapons.”

“The lord never told us to build any towers…” another man adds.

“Let them samurai attack and defend what they will, we’ve got nothing to do with their wars.”

More people gather below the tree, curious about the commotion.

“Anyway, defense against whom? We don’t even know who this land belongs to now!”

Dororo thinks of the fires scattered over the silent night field, and of the fire between them, orange and cozy and casting warm reflections on his armor and his skin. In her head, she hears the quiet, soft words. ‘…Just a piece of land that belongs to its natural owners… You weren’t wrong.’ She takes a lungful of air—and explodes:

“This land belongs to you, you pinheads! And it’s on you to defend it! On you to gather and make decisions about it! If you don’t do it, then the samurai lords will do it for you! What do you want them to treat you like, if you don’t even treat yourselves like free humans?”

The first fisherman throws back at her, “We’re ordinary people! We don’t keep company with lords, like you, so how can we be free?”

Dororo puffs, irritated. She is still wearing the jinbaori; besides, these people must have seen her yesterday, being escorted by a pair of samurai to Lady and Sensei’s place. Those samurai were kind and courteous, and they bowed down to Dororo, too, as they took their leave.

You know nothing. Dororo grits her teeth. She wasn’t born to a samurai family. Yet her parents, and now she and the guys, have obtained the strength of being able to talk with lords on equal terms. Obtained with their own hands. Dororo’s fingers tighten on the branch.

“And what do you think it means to be ‘ordinary people’?” she shouts furiously. “To grow rice and pay taxes? No! It means to be savvy! To build houses and towers for yourselves and not just for the lords! To look for the means to defend your land in case there’s danger! To fish and to hunt when there’s a drought instead of sitting and waiting for the rain! Well, at least you get this one… We, ordinary people, can do everything for ourselves, and this is exactly what means to be free!” 

An overwhelmed silence is the only answer she gets. So, Dororo continues, pointing at Daishoji Fortress on the hill, frustration oozing from her voice, “See that castle over the forest? There’s a samurai who rebelled against the lord. Soon, he’ll leave this castle to attack the Daigo’s army. He doesn’t have too many men, so he’ll take them all out, and the castle will stay all but empty. We could’ve taken it just like that, with a few dozen bows and spears to spook the guards without even having to fight, but you, dummies, ain’t got no weapons!”

“Us? Take a castle? What for?” the gasps are heard from all the directions now.

“The kid is nuts…”

Dororo sighs. These people are hopeless. They’re so used to their way of thinking that it takes a huge disaster, like the desolation a major part of the domain has suffered, to change their views…

“I’ve got a bow!” Suddenly, a high voice rips through the monotonous chatter of the crowd below. “And Tako here has a sword. There are lots of yari and naginata in our hideout, too! We picked them up after the last battle in the hills, and hid so that the samurai wouldn’t take them!”

Shouting it all is a little girl, perhaps about Dororo’s age but thinner, with a long loose hair, a big mouth and harsh, bright eyes. One of her arms grips a light bow.

The arm is a prosthesis.

Dororo gasps, “That arm…”

“Yeah, our lord’s made it for me!” the girl says proudly. “I saw him with this red coat on when he was leaving, and realized at once who he was! I also got his fortification plans from Jukai-sensei, and I know that there’s supposed to be a watchtower, too! So, don’t call us dummies! You’re not the only one who’s smart here!”

Dororo begins to smile, and the smile grows the wider and brighter on her face the longer the girl yells at her, shaking her bow and her balled fist.

‘You weren’t wrong.’

Dororo looks toward the horizon where her village is obscured by the mists and the distance. She can only guess what is happening there at the moment. But maybe there was a reason why fate decided for her to be here right now, and not there. If so, she won’t let it go to waste.

Doushu, Yahiko, Jiheita… Guys, please… Make a right decision, too.

~ Ikki ~

“What?” Jiheita gasps, his voice high with bewilderment. “They flee just like this, without even taking the fight? I knew samurai were a bunch of crap all along, but this…!”

“They abandon this land…” Yahiko says, sadness in his voice.

“Well, it’s not even their land anymore. It makes sense,” Doushu reasons.

The morning mists dilute the skyline, but the view from the high watchtower gives them a clear perspective on the Daishojigawa’s valley and the surrounding flatlands. There, just below the Two Pines, the Daigo’s army is beginning to slowly draw northward, a bunch of small rows and squares from here. They don’t look very impressive among the ashes and the ruins of the large wasteland. Of course, they would abandon this land, Jiheita snorts bitterly. Will it ever produce life again? Will all the money in the world make it? Or is it better to abandon it, too, and go seek hope in another place? Wasn’t it just an unreachable dream, after all, to build a new life on the ashes of the past?

They let Dororo’s unwavering optimism obscure their judgement. While she was here, even the two crooked, old pines looming over the wreckages seemed about to bloom anew with the fresh green. Jiheita thinks of the sweetest scent of the pine grove he used to play in as a kid, and meet with girls as a youth. Now, less than a year after, he can no longer remember the scent. That grove, as well as his home, was devoured by the fire that spread from the neighboring plague-ridden village. The samurai couldn’t care less about the wind direction or the dry weather… Or maybe they set it aflame intentionally, too, just in case.

“I don’t think they are fleeing, though,” Doushu adds, breaking his thoughts. He is examining the neat rows of the Daigo’s army with his usual know-it-all expression. “Rather retreating to put up a fight at a more favorable location.”

Jiheita squints scornfully. “Yeah, they’ll lock themselves in their castles while the enemy burns and loots the villages… Been there, seen that.”

“How old were you when this land began to prosper, four?” Doushu sends him a sidelong look. “I doubt you have really seen that. And this last autumn, to do him justice, Daigo fought on the front lines along with his samurai and did everything to stop the enemy.”

Here he is again, justifying that bastard. Jiheita lets out an irritated puff, preparing his answer, yet Yahiko prevents him:

“Where’s the enemy, by the way? There’s still no movement on the west. I wonder what made the Daigo retreat all of a sudden…”

“I wonder…” Doushu echoes him, overlooking the horizon. “There is something on the east, though. Or is it just a cloud casting shadow on the valley?”

All three of them fall silent, peering into the gloom of the neighboring gorge separated from their valley by the scorched hill with the ruins of the Daigo castle on the top. Behind it, there is a thick shadow crawling north under the crystal-blue sky.

“No, I don’t see any cloud,” Yahiko says under his breath.

Jiheita strains his eyes and realizes: the dark river slowly flooding the gorge is a mass of bodies. Some mounted, but most afoot, they are marching steadily, an immeasurable army as though spawned by the mountains themselves.   

Jiheita shudders, his own words from earlier resurfacing in his mind: ‘Our walls are strong! We can hold—’

“...Any attack, you were saying?” Yahiko picks up his thought, his voice heavy.

An old biwahoshi rises to the tower then, joining the three. There is a strain of focus in his blind eyes. Jiheita watches him, tensed, without a word, as the old man follows the crawling mass with whatever vision he has.

“My, my… What a river of red,” the priest utters at length.

~ Daigo army ~

“There can’t be so many demons,” Hyakkimaru says, confidence in his voice. “Probably this is one single demonic substance, and it has a core. I’ve seen that before. If we strike that core…”

“Nice plan, but we can’t see it with these eyes.”

Tahomaru squints his left eye against the rising sun. There is a blind spot on his right, yet he still senses his brother’s gaze on him. He doesn’t turn to meet it. There is a tension in his shoulders, and in his neck.

Now, in the light of day, the size of the enemy coming in sight in the south causes the hairs to rise even on the most hardened samurais’ arms.

“About ten thousand, and more are still emerging from the mountains,” Maeda at his left concludes, unconsciously repeating the words of the young, scared scout he chided so ruthlessly just a while ago. “I have seen these numbers before only once: decades ago, during the Kakitsu uprising. It was poorly armed peasants under the guidance of some minor samurai.”

Now, it is demons, the unsaid words linger in the silence surrounding them.

Tahomaru can’t feel any fear, though. Everything pales under the weight of the responsibility—and the tension of the unspoken words that he pushed and pushed to later. Until it became almost too late.

Maeda, along with the other two generals—those aware of Daigo Kagemitsu’s last order—seemed perplexed upon their arrival to the camp. They looked expectantly at Tahomaru. Whom they owe their allegiances now? Should they pledge to his brother right away, in a brief battlefield manner? Tahomaru said nothing. Not a muscle on Maeda’s face twitched, not a note in his voice faltered as he bowed down to Hyakkimaru with a formal vassal’s greeting, setting an example for the others. They followed suit and continued to address Tahomaru as their lord for the time being.

‘My youngest son Masashi, lord... He wasn’t killed by your brother. His body was scorched by that demonic horse’s fire.’

Tahomaru shifts in his saddle. He senses Hyakkimaru’s keen, questioning eyes on him, and knows that his brother picks up on every little detail that is off. In Maeda’s case, thankfully, there is nothing even for him to notice, or so Tahomaru hopes.

“Your orders, lord?” the old samurai inquires, an embodiment of equanimity.

“We have nothing better to do but stick to the plan.” Tahomaru knows he isn’t even the one who must be saying this. Isn’t the one to command. Yet he does. “We shall retreat to Shibayama Lagoon. There is no time to wait for Imagawa’s forces to show up. Send a messenger to Awazu, tell him to be ready to attack at the red smoke signal.”

“Yes, lord,” Maeda says, and entrusts one of his attendants—Tahomaru recognizes Otani—with managing the implementation. Then, he nods to Saito to play the retreat.

The cavalry commander raises a big conch shell horn to his lips.

Tahomaru stops him. “Wait.”

He senses the generals’ confused looks on him—in addition to the one he’s been avoiding the whole morning. Tahomaru overlooks the army instead. The faces that were so cheerful and excited just half an hour ago, all readiness to kick the demons' asses and mocking jokes about the disappearing wounds, are paled now. Shaken by the view of the enormous army, confused by Hyakkimaru’s arrival, the samurai are whispering to each other and exchanging uneasy glances. Some of them have been there, by the Two Pines, Tahomaru knows. Some of them have lost their relatives and comrades there. Some of them have seen what a demon is capable of.

The sound of the horn playing retreat now will only make their morale go straight down.

Tahomaru sets his jaw. Even if it is too late, now is the only time he has.

He takes Hyakkimaru’s horse’s reins and makes them ride forth together. It seems to him that he is stepping on a frail bridge made of glass. He all but hears it creak under his mount’s hooves.

“Listen, the samurai of Daigo!” Tahomaru shouts. “Now that my brother Hyakkimaru is safe with us, I shall announce my father’s, Daigo Kagemitsu, last will. For it was Hyakkimaru whom he named as his successor before he passed away!” He pauses to gulp the air, and a multitudinous gasp fills his ears at once. Only on his right, there is a dead spot of shocked silence. Tahomaru pushes back a wave of nausea and raises his voice even higher: “And so it must be, for he is the eldest and the strongest of the two of us! He will lead us into this battle, and with him we shall slay every last demon to cleanse our land once and for all!”

The shouts are uncertain at first, but the voices rise up as the demons get mentioned: for Hyakkimaru of all people is the one who is known very well as the demon slayer, the one entitled by the gods to drive them back to hell. If he can’t beat this demonic army, then who on earth possibly can?

“I don’t want it.” In the cheering roar, Tahomaru barely recognizes a quiet exhale by his side; and probably he is the only one who does.

Maeda behind them says under his breath, “You amaze me once again with your keen wit, lord. There could have been no better time to announce the news so ambiguous for the samurai.”

“And not only that, but to raise their spirits before the battle as well,” Saito adds.

Tahomaru readjusts the reins in his sticky palms. The sun is relentless in the empty sky and on a thousand blades of the yari spears. There is an excited choir shaking the air, but it gets drowned out by the pounding waves of his pulse in his ears.

And in this humming noise, Hyakkimaru’s voice resounds like a ringing of a bronze bell, “I SAID THAT I DON’T WANT IT!”

The army freezes. Tahomaru’s heart falls along with a thousand voices. The dead silence spreads over the field like a blast.

…And now, he will turn away and ride off, far from the hateful land, from the hateful man’s final acknowledgement because he has no use for it, and nothing will ever make up for what was done to him… No power, no wealth, no status and no privilege in the world, never. Tahomaru could envision this right from the start.

Did he really believe in a different outcome?

A creak grows in the glass underneath him, and the breath of the abyss touches his skin.

“…Once, Lord Kagemitsu sacrificed his son for this land.” Maeda’s calm and strong voice rises amidst the silence. He doesn’t strain it, yet the sound floats over the hushed, confused soldiers, clear and steady. “Now, the rebel wants to sacrifice the whole land for himself. In his madness and greed, he has invited the whole army of hell to our dear home. We shall not waver!” Maeda spurs his horse, riding up to Tahomaru’s side, and the tranquility of a grandfather’s voice changes to a steel-hard command of an old warlord. “We will crush them, with no fear and no hesitation! Just like Lord Hyakkimaru and Lord Tahomaru crushed the beasts of hell before! May our land be revived and reunited again, just like fate revived and reunited the brothers! Hail to our lords!”

Tahomaru exhales a long, shaky breath. What would he do without his advisor? Drawn by the confidence of his words, the samurai raise their voices again, and this time as one: “Hail! Hail to the lords!”

“We are heading north, to fight them where it will be advantageous for us!” the cavalry commander announces, and the sound of the horn fills the air, inducing another excited roar of the army tired of waiting.

How many of them will live through this day, Tahomaru can’t help but think.

~

“See what I’ve told you? The lords have reconciled for real. They even want to yield the rule to each other.”

“Yes, they both seem genuinely humble… I hope we are spared a feud between brothers, then. But I wonder who will take the rule in the end.”

Two samurai ride their horses in the rear of the column, enjoying a relative freedom of talking the recent events over. Confusion is still painted on their furrowed foreheads as they bring all the confidence they can muster to their voices.

“I believe it will be Hyakkimaru,” the samurai on the left says. “After all, he was chopping demons like they were nothing, and he has that powerful air about him.”

“Powerful air? I heard it was a legit tornado, there by the Two Pines. Maybe we'll see it today, too.”

The samurai on the right trails off as he remembers that the man who rides just ahead of them, Yusuke, had his brother killed by the Two Pines. They even mourned him together on one of the evenings, pouring sake to each other while coming up with the strategies of subduing the demon to avenge him, so as to spare his two little sons that gruesome and dangerous task. Now, their loyalty demands them to look at things differently.

“Your brother was there, too, right?” the samurai asks the comrade on his left.

“He was just my sister’s husband. I didn’t like him anyway. He died after having lost his legs, probably because he tried to run away like a coward he was.”

“To think of it, Hyakkimaru had only been put against us by cruel fate.” The samurai on the right makes an effort to come up with a reasonable enough justification. “He had no samurai upbringing, so he could not know about the samurai’s duty to lay his life for his land. But now, I believe, he’s changed. The force he unleashed by the Two Pines against us, he will now bring forth to defend this domain.”

“Lord Maeda lost his son there, and even so his loyalty seems unwavering,” the samurai on the left notes.

“His confidence is reassuring, too: if he does trust Hyakkimaru to beat that army of demons, so will I.”

“His piety of samurai is truly admirable. May it be an example for us all.”

Having resolved this confusing matter for themselves, the both samurai urge their horses to retake their proper places in the neat marching order, until the rearguard commander noticed them slacking off.

~

Hyakkimaru doesn’t quit. He says nothing as they ride, yet he does keep close, probably feeling uncomfortable being followed by the whole army of samurai. Despite the heaviness in the air between them, his very presence gives Tahomaru a sense of confidence. He was too quick to jump into conclusions. His brother wouldn’t have abandoned him like that, on the verge of the battle. There is a hot lump of gratitude in his throat.

The sun is climbing higher in the sky, and the blue crescent of Shibayama Lagoon appears in sight when Hyakkimaru breaks the lingering silence. His voice is quiet as he asks, “How did he die?”

Tahomaru flinches, startled. Was it…what shocked him? To think of it, he never told him, and Hyakkimaru couldn’t have received the news of the Lord’s recent death in the mountains either.

“The bleeding of his scar never stopped. He passed away last week.”

“So, he died because of that?”

“Yes.”

He hears Hyakkimaru grit his teeth.

“I told him to live on as a human.” There are notes of…disappointment? in his voice. “I even gave him the statue.”

Tahomaru gasps. “You…met him afterward?” He recalls the figurine of Kannon in the altar, and Maeda’s words about his father never parting with it.

Hyakkimaru nods but does not elaborate.

Tahomaru closes his eye, his throat squeezed. So, that was his brother’s revenge. He can almost hear him uttering these words. Live on as a human. Live on—with the consequences of your actions. Live on—on the ruins of your prosperity, in darkness and despair, assured that even your family is dead now—

Tahomaru’s hands twitch, and his horse snorts, stamping its feet. Revenge? No, Hyakkimaru probably didn’t even think of revenge. His brother must have been pure in his desire to show his enemy another path, the path of a human, when he gave him the statue of the Goddess of Mercy instead of piercing him through.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Hyakkimaru asks, tentatively ripping through another bubble of heavy silence between them. “That he…wanted me to be the Lord?”

Tahomaru opens his mouth. No words come.

Why?

Why was he so hesitant to tell him? What was it that he was truly scared of?

“You want to do it yourself?” Hyakkimaru suggests as Tahomaru doesn’t reply. “I’m okay with it. I’m here to fight the demons, and I don’t understand all that lord stuff anyway.”

Tahomaru flinches. The blood rushes to his face as he finally looks up at his brother, his eye wide. “That’s not it!”

He sucks in a breath, heart slamming against his ribs. That’s not it.

Ah, but now he understands what is.

Hyakkimaru watches him, perplexed.

Tahomaru takes a few regulated breaths. He says, “You were right earlier.”

“When?” Hyakkimaru sends him another confused glance.

“Do you know what was the first thing I felt upon learning about his decision?” Tahomaru remembers the talk on the high castle wall, Maeda’s reluctant announcement and his own delayed response. “Bitterness. A sting of jealousy. The same jealousy that had poisoned my soul already back then, by the lake, when I had lost to you for the first time, having no idea that you were my brother. No… The jealousy that tormented me my whole life, when I didn’t even know whom I was constantly losing to. The jealousy that later became that bottomless reservoir of power. I wasn’t fighting you out of duty alone. I hated you. I derived strength from those dark feelings that had been there, inside me, from the beginning. I stopped my efforts to fight that darkness—and just let it flourish.”

“I hated you, too,” Hyakkimaru admits.

“Which was my only victory, I guess,” Tahomaru smiles bitterly. “You, hating me, instead of simply brushing me off as a weak, insignificant nuisance, like you did by the Banmon.”

This time, it is Hyakkimaru who stares at him, his eyes wide. Yet he does not deny it.

“I thought it was all in the past,” Tahomaru continues, his gaze now wandering over the sunlit horizon. “But when Maeda said that Father had insisted on it with his dying breath, I knew at once that he had regretted everything in the end. Turning to the demons. Throwing you away instead of raising you as his son, his heir. He might have had you there, standing beside him, fighting for the prosperity together. Then one day, he would have passed the rule into your hands, peaceful, assured that you would take care of everything. A splendid picture of how it must have been appeared then before my eyes. And in that picture, there was no place for me. I hated that bitter feeling. I hated that you robbed me even of my father in the end. And I hated myself for feeling that way.” Tahomaru clenches his teeth. As if he had the right. In the end, it was him, not Hyakkimaru, whose cruelty became Daigo Kagemitsu’s retaliation. It was him who never met his father afterward, pretending being dead.

Hyakkimaru forces a breath into his lungs.

He watches his brother’s sharp profile, the strain of his jaw muscles, the scar on the place of the only eye he can see from his position, and wonders whether it is still there. That glaring hole in the radiant light of his chest...

“…But it all swelled and passed like a wave. At once. And then, I felt light and free. So light as if I weren’t even existing. My path and my purpose became clear to me.” Tahomaru turns to face him, his eye glowing with steady light, a small smile playing on his lips. “To make everything right, like it should have been. You, the Lord, ruling over this land… That image captivated me. I was just afraid, I guess, to take that final step and leave behind the last shreds of my past self.”

Hyakkimaru shakes his head. He feels the suffocating fire crawling up his throat, to squeeze it once again with that ghostly pain. The barren land under the two crooked pines, the place he saw on their way here and recognized at once, still stands before his eyes. “No… I can’t do it.”

The steady sound of a thousand men following him thunders in his very bones. I was killing them. How can I now be leading them?

“You are the firstborn!” The suppressed heat finally breaks into Tahomaru’s voice. His cheeks flash with a feverish glow. “Everything that was created by the deal has already been erased from this land, like a dream that fades quickly after you wake up. So, take it now! Return on the path that was yours by the right of birth!”

“It might have been a dream. But the scars it has left are real.”

Tahomaru grows still. When he speaks again, his voice sounds quieter, sadder than Hyakkimaru has ever heard it:

“Yes. But we can’t continue like that. You see? Me taking the rule even for a while has resulted in another war. There will be blood soaking the land again. Don’t you see how wrecked this world has become, because we had been twisting it to conform to our desires?” He bites on his lip, and Hyakkimaru notices a tiny drop of blood swelling on the gentle skin. He wants to wipe it off. Yet something in his brother’s face stops his hand. Tahomaru raises his chin and sets his gaze ahead. “We can only bring it back to balance by pursuing the paths that were meant for us.”

~

The bright sunlight gilds the reeds and scatters sparks all over the waves of Iburihashi river as they cross the bridge, and a short halt is called. Tahomaru looks behind from the high right bank: the demonic army is lost in the layered mists of the southern horizon. Marching on foot, it won’t be here for at least another couple of hours.

“We must finish this battle before the nightfall,” Tahomaru says as he dismounts and walks back to the bridge, with his brother and the generals accompanying him. “First, the bridge. These beams seem strong, but the wood is old. See the cracks in those pillars? Set explosives there and there, and oil the wood. About a hundred archers must hide in the reeds. Let a few enemy units cross the river, then set the bridge on fire. We will cut them from the main forces and eliminate. Make sure nobody escapes. Do we have enough explosives and oil for that?”

“Yes, lord,” Maeda nods. “There must be enough.”

“Good. Next, the ford. Once the bridge is destroyed, there is only one way to traverse the river: down the stream near the lagoon, where the water is shallow.” Tahomaru runs his finger over the map Ando has quickly unfolded before him. “Position two hundred archers on the high bank here, just south of the ford. Make sure there’s enough arrows. We won’t have another chance to shoot them like that. Takagi,” Tahomaru spots the rearguard commander from before. “You shall take care of it.”

“Yes, lord,” the mid-aged man bows low, his face determined. “We will lay our lives to not let them cross the river.”

“No. You will retreat once they’ve crossed it. A ten thousand army can’t be stopped just by that. I will need you all there, alive.”

“Lord,” the samurai exhales and bows even lower.

“The hills of Bungyomachi are the best position around to deploy our forces,” Maeda reaches out and taps the spot to the south-east of the ford. “With Awazu reinforcing our right flank, we will be able to effectively control this flat area in between.”

“I agree. What about the village down there?”

“Was abandoned after the recent landslide caused by the earthquake. The people has left to the neighboring villages.”

Tahomaru sighs. The disasters haven’t really ceased, not even after everything that had already happened. What if it was only the beginning? Well, at least they won’t have to worry about the villagers being trapped between the armies now.

After most of the samurai left to proceed with the orders, with only Maeda, Saito and Shimura still staying on the bridge, Tahomaru turns to his brother who has been keeping silent during the talk.

“I have done what I could, arranging everything to give us as high chances as possible. But in the tactics of the battle, you are better than me.”

Hyakkimaru sends him a confused glance. “Why? I’ve never done it before.”

“You have, in a way. Think of this army as of your own limbs, and tools that can be applied to your benefit. The enemy, in fact, is one single demon, only consisting of multiple parts that each can live on its own.”

Hyakkimaru frowns. He did fight that. Nue, that mashup of different animals’ parts. He had to dissect it and to kill each “limb” to finish it. There was also the vampire tree, near the place he reunited with his adoptive father, which he finished with a strike in the core. But he never commanded nor explained it to others; he just did it. Now, Tahomaru looks expectantly at him, awaits something from him, some secret lore he believes to be there…

Hyakkimaru remembers the same expectance in Mamoru and Yukio’s eyes, and the lessons he gave the boys before leaving. In the end, he did find the words to explain it to them.

“We can only finish it if we act as one body ourselves,” Hyakkimaru says. “We must strike and retreat, strike and retreat, as if delivering blows. All the archers must shoot as one archer. All the spears must hit as one spear. We don’t use swords. If we get dragged into a close one on one fight, they’ll just overflow us.”

“True,” Tahomaru nods, rubbing his chin. “How to perform it effectively, though…”

“Maybe we should divide our men, say, in six regiments?” Saito suggests. “Two must be enough to strike on the flanks, like ‘hands’, with the next two charging immediately after just as the first two scatter and retreat, and so on. That way, we won’t let the enemy regain order.”

“Yes, it may work.”

“What about Awazu’s regiment?” Maeda asks.

“The one who has fresh reinforcements by the end of the battle often snatches the victory,” Tahomaru recalls the theory. “For the enemy, Imagawa’s forces may be such a reinforcement. We will keep Awazu in reserve and wait for the decisive moment.”

~

The headquarters is set upon the smooth, mild northern slope of Bungyomachi, with but a shallow pine forest on the hilltop unobstructing the wide view of the land below. The neat pattern of paddies and small canals is barely discernible under the layer of the dried mud that has been brought by the landslide. The desolated landscape stretches north, to the blue waters of the lagoon. On its high eastern shore, they can see another camp, much smaller than this one. The reinforcement they were talking about.

Hyakkimaru breathes out a long exhale. This kind of a fight takes too long. He is tired of the endless orders and preparations.

Tahomaru walks up to the steep drop-off of the eastern slope that must have been cut by the recent earthquake. The slice has exposed the body of the hill—the layered sandstone with pebbles and seashells squeezed together in ancient times. The sheer cliff goes straight down, all furrowed over with cracks and tree roots. The salty sea wind flows steadily at this height, and the scenery is different, but it still reminds him of the flat hilltop above the lake that he used as his hideaway, where Mutsu made her choice, where he planned the elimination of the giant crab, and where he spoke with his brother for the first time. Instead of the old oak tree rustling in the wind, tall pines are huddling silently over him now. Pines crush the rock with their roots as they grow through it, causing it to crumble down piece by piece. Maybe this cliff he is now standing on will break off even before the next earthquake strikes…    

A sudden blast of air shakes him slightly, and belatedly, the height takes his breath away. Tahomaru recognizes the distant explosion. Hyakkimaru steps closer and takes his shoulders gently yet securely.

“The explosives went off,” Tahomaru says. It has begun.

On their left, they can clearly see the black clouds of smoke rising above the burning bridge, yet the trees by the river obscure the battle itself. Tahomaru frantically revises all his orders in his head. Has everything been planned well? Does he have every possibility counted? Is it even possible for one thousand men to defeat ten thousand demons?

‘There is no need for such a reinforcement,’ Tahomaru recalls Maeda arguing with him back at the castle.‘You must take as many samurai as you can afford with you.’  Maybe he was right. They could have had another five hundred here instead of needlessly securing the castle defences… Should he send for them before it’s too late?

Tahomaru sets his teeth. It is too late already. They won’t be here before nightfall anyway.

The wind is blowing in his face, his head is spinning, and his shoulders are tensed, yet Tahomaru can feel the warmth of his brother’s hands even through the armor pads. He can sense the soft, steady wafts of breath against the back of his neck, too.

“You say that I am better than you at this, but you order so many things at once… I couldn’t do that,” Hyakkimaru admits.

“You will learn. Soon, I will need your help in the battle.”

“You don’t really need my help. I am not stronger than you.”

Relishing in the comfort of his brother’s firm hold on him, Tahomaru closes his eye shut, and the nauseating abyss below him disappears. Tahomaru thinks of the bridge made of frail glass he was so afraid to step on. He hardly even knew his brother by then. Now, after having spent two days with him, after having talked their souls out and cried all over each other, they are closer than Tahomaru could ever imagine them to be. The new feeling of a strong, solid surface under his feet is growing steadily.

“Brother… I have always been alone. I had Mutsu and Hyogo, but they were like a part of me… The three of us, we were one,” Tahomaru tries to explain. He thinks of the three-faced Asura, who turned out to be a perfect comparison, with a bitter feeling. “Whatever hardships I faced, I faced them on my own. To make decisions, to take responsibility… I was the only one, always. But now, there are two of us. I don’t want to rival with you anymore, nor to think about who of us is stronger. I want to cherish this feeling. I want you to be here.”

A tickling warmth spreads all over Hyakkimaru’s skin, makes his limbs go slack. He realizes that Tahomaru is very tired, too. Tired, probably, not from all the preparations, but from having always been the only one. Maybe that’s why he is being so open with him, so easy and straightforward now.

His grip on Tahomaru’s shoulders loosens into a hug, but his younger brother doesn’t seem to mind. Only a little blush is creeping up into his cheeks, the sign of being unused to this kind of affection. Hyakkimaru smiles. He wants to be here, too. Wants to feel this comforting warmth that should have been there, beside him, right from the beginning.

‘Now, there are two of us.’

So maybe he is right? If to be the Lord of the domain means to walk together, to learn and to fight together, then isn’t it what he wanted, too? Isn’t it what he envied Mamoru and Yukio as he watched them cuddled together by the fire, warming and protecting each other? Can he really have a family, after all?

So hostile and confident before, now Tahomaru has been showing him his vulnerable side, admitting his weaknesses, one by one, as if determined to count them all. But he is strong like that, stronger than Hyakkimaru can comprehend. What is this kind of strength? The one driven not by the desire to get something but by the readiness to let go. Let go of everything that made a part of him. His destiny. His title. His pride. Even his proposal to the girl he didn’t really love, which Tahomaru mentioned briefly as they rode, was in fact him letting go of his own desires. Hyakkimaru remembers the glances in the night, the invisible threads trembling with the suppressed emotion that he happened to witness. Yet it is another woman he has chosen to marry. Tahomaru explained to him something about strengthening the clans’ ties, demands of honor and reciprocal obligation which didn’t make much sense to Hyakkimaru.

‘The paths that were meant for us…’

If his path was to rule this land, then what path was meant for his brother?

“Tahomaru… What is it you truly want? Want for yourself to be complete?”

“Complete?” Tahomaru flinches. He sounds perplexed. “I want our land to live in peace. As long as it does, I will be.”

“No, you won’t. You can’t be complete when there’s something you lack.”

Tahomaru opens his eye and looks past the land, past the lagoon, toward the ocean touching the clear sky. It seems to him that the flat, narrow world he has already grown used to widens before his only eye whenever he looks at that pure, unreachable blue. He thinks of an answer, struggling with that unfamiliar concept his brother keeps bringing up. Living for yourself in his position is wrong in so many ways. No domain will last long if the lord makes his personal “completeness” a priority. Many emperors and even shoguns did that, tired of politics, preferring to live for pleasures and fulfillment of their desires. Isn’t it the reason the realm is in such a disorder now?

“Maybe I will not. But it’s fine. There is always something we cannot get no matter how strongly we wish it. I have learned this lesson quite well.” He could never attain Mother’s recognition no matter how hard he worked. He could not have Mutsu. He can’t even return his eye. “I have learned to live like that.”

“But how can you live like that?”

“How? Maybe…I just always knew that there is something bigger than my life. What I lack is nothing compared to the thousands of people whose happiness depends on my actions.”

Hyakkimaru feels goosebumps prickling his body. Thousands over one… Yet again. He tried to understand it but what he learned in the mountains was that there wasn’t much difference between thousands and one. Even one human life is like the whole world and the starry sky above it: deep, unfathomable, filled with countless treasures and mysteries. It is impossible to imagine thousands of worlds. It is impossible to really care about all of them. As hideous as it sounds, people can only really care about the worlds they have seen, touched, experienced themselves. Hyakkimaru knows he couldn’t have cared for real about that one man he had killed if he hadn’t met his family. That’s how it is, and there is no point in lying to himself.   

Yet Tahomaru’s words are not a lie. He does care about all the other people so much that he doesn’t care about himself. It seems right, but wrong at the same time. Hyakkimaru can’t quite understand it. And still, he can feel it, just like he felt it in the cave the night before. He can sense this boy’s desperate, buried deep inside like the most shameful weakness he’ll probably never admit, aching desire to live.

Just live.

‘I should not exist either… Why am I here while they’re in hell?’

Hyakkimaru slides his palm down and locks their fingers together. There is a hot pulsing of a vein under his brother’s skin. The sense of touch was not the most shocking, but indeed one of the most satisfying senses he got back. Hyakkimaru counts the speeding up beats as they stand where they are, watching the enemy multitude appearing on the open bank by the ford, breaking into many streams—and then plunging down, a black ink staining the silver flow. The water boils over with thousands of steps.

The arrows are invisible from here, but they can see them breaching only the smallest holes in the enormous mass that rolls over the riverbed without pausing—and floods the opposite bank like a tide. 

And Hyakkimaru catches, somewhere in the back of his mind, a fleeting thought that had never, ever occurred to him before.

Is it even possible, after all?

Tahomaru squeezes his hand tightly in return. “Let’s do it.”

~ Ikki ~

“He's led that army away, in the direction of the northern castle, instead of fighting here.”

“I bet it’s some strategy. He didn’t do it just for us, of course!”

“Of course. But if he hadn’t done it, we would’ve been overflown here. But the demons advanced so fast after the retreating Daigo’s army that I suspect they didn’t even notice our fortifications on their flank.”

“He still considers us his people,” Yahiko says.

“In a sense, he does,” Doushu says. “He still cares.”

We’re not his people anymore! We’re free now! Jiheita wants to remind them again but for some reason stays silent.

Is it even possible for a lord to genuinely care about them, ordinary people, anyway? Lords only care about their own matters: rivaling with the neighboring lords, spreading their power and grabbing more land to have enough supplies for their armies. That’s what peasants mean for them: supply. A countable resource. Not even humans—living humans with their lives and names…

‘The boy who was with you back then… Sakichi… Is he alright now?’ a random memory of the young voice flits through his mind. Sakichi… Right, that was the boy’s name. Yahiko, Jiheita’s neighbor, had found the boy on his porch and took him in. He was a sort of second-nephew of his, one of those numerous distant relatives’ kids nobody really counted, and his family had died from a disease. Yahiko was a fool to risk like that, yet the luck was on his side. Not on the boy’s side, though. Despite Yahiko trying his best to feed him, even begging Tahomaru himself to spare him some food, the October starvation took too heavy a toll on his already weakened body.

Sakichi… That day, Tahomaru recalled the boy’s name after only the slightest of pauses.

The name Jiheita had forgotten.

His lips twitch.

The same young voice rings in his head with that irritating indulgence of a highborn kid in it, ‘Let us live as good neighbors on this land from now on.’

“And here I was about to believe that he really considers us neighbors,” Jiheita mutters with a vague feeling of disappointment. Neighbors discuss things together. Neighbors share their plans. Neighbors are equal.

He stares eastward, at the rear of the huge army crawling away between the river and the hills like a giant black centipede. The view from the high watchtower is clear and unobstructed. A sigh of relief escapes his mouth. They can peacefully watch it from here instead of running away again, their homes burned, their paddies stomped to the mud by the warhorses’ hooves. They are safe and strong now. This is what they worked for. This is what Dororo’s father had been fighting for.

Isn’t it?

Jiheita clenches his fists.

It is not.

Because neighbors defend their homes side by side.

“You know what, guys,” he says, his eyes following a long-stretched tail of the monstrous army. “They totally won’t expect it if we come and kick their asses from behind.”

~

“So, they have decided.” An old blind man pats the neck of a gorgeous white horse that snorts, and paws the ground, and throws up his head impatiently, urging to prance after his kindred into the bright opening of the gate. “What, the heat of youth is boiling in you, too? Well, well. I guess it’s time for the old man to shake off the rust and walk you, then.”

Chapter Text

~Part 1~

Under the helmet, there is an eboshi hat and a cotton lining to soften the touch of metal. On his chin, smooth silken threads secure it tightly yet comfortably. Unlike Tahomaru’s helmet, the one that's been given to him has no horns or other maedate decoration and thus seems lighter. The cuirass is held up on the waist by the sash so as to allow most of its weight to rest on his hips, not on the shoulders. Everything is designed neatly to make protection as unobtrusive as it can be.

And still, the armor weighs him down. The dozens of knots cut into his skin. His chest is constrained with the shell of metal and leather, and the visor of the helmet limits his sight.

Hyakkimaru forces the air into his chest, feeling like a giant crab.

But he is fine with enduring it. Tahomaru insisted that he wear all this. Tahomaru who is standing by his side, clad in a similar armor. Shoulder to shoulder, not against each other, they are looking down below—in one direction, at the same enemy. They, brothers, fighting together—this is how it was always supposed to be.

And there, below, all across the vast plain, the enemy is gathering into neat formations—a monstrous multiarmed body brought into this world by an unimaginable number of sacrifices. What a madman desired to rule over this land so much so as to make a deal like this? That Imagawa, has he traded the lives of all his family to the demons? Or has he slayed a bunch of little children, believing that he's doing some twisted greater good, like Sabame did for the sake of his village?

“Is rulership really such an amazing thing to pay for it so dearly, when you can just live and be free?” the question slips from Hyakkimaru’s mouth.

In the corner of his vision, he sees Tahomaru’s cheek twitch. When he replies, his voice is tensed, “We know not about his reasons, nor about the price he's paid. But we know very well that a hand, or an eye, or maybe even a finger is enough for a demon to break into our world. The deal might seem an easy one for Imagawa. And I bet Asura wants his revenge so much so as not to be picky about the price.”

Hyakkimaru frowns. His brother believes it is Asura controlling this mass. He said so yesterday. Hyakkimaru could not discern that much himself; he had never been touched by Asura, after all. Some vague sense of the demonic presence is all that has been left of his soul vision. Sometimes he isn’t sure it is even a sense—maybe just his reasoning.

But it told him, too: this is one single demon. The demon they've already once defeated…

The fight that united them.

“Lord, all our men have withdrawn from the river bank now,” Otani rides up to report. “The enemy have finished crossing the river. About one thousand has been eliminated in total.”

“Good! Any losses?”

“There are none, lord, except some minor injuries. The men pulled back quickly to avoid engaging in a close fight, just as you ordered.”

Tahomaru nods. With a deep intake of air, he turns to look at his brother. Shall we begin?

Body vibrating from the heated pumping of his heart, Hyakkimaru nods. He lays his hands on the hilts of his two full-length swords—those he took from the killed assassins last night—but has to restrain the urge to draw them.

His weapon of today is arranged before him. Six regiments of a hundred and fifty samurai each—almost every warrior this land had to offer, poised along the stretch of the hill ready to charge.

“But what if they won’t do what I say?” Hyakkimaru releases the hilts, hesitating on his spot as his brother steps toward their horses. He never struggled with controlling his prosthetics; he could be more or less certain of his own limbs to obey him to a degree. But how can he make hundreds of other people follow his commands exactly?

Tahomaru turns around. “They will,” he simply says. “There are only samurai here. Ashigaru, foot soldiers recruited from the commoners, may ditch the order and even flee for their lives, because they were not born and raised to fight. But samurai will never do that, rest assured.”

“Why? They may die, too.”

“Of course. They plunge into attack as if they were dead already. This is the essence of martial spirit. To die to the lord’s order is an honor for a samurai.”

“Yes, that is what they say in tales.” Hyakkimaru recalls some of Biwamaru’s monogatari the priest would sing to the sound of his biwa as they rested by the fire. He barely understood complex words back then, and the meaning mostly escaped him. But later, there would be long winter evenings, and embers smoldering in the hearth, and Sen’s deep chanting voice reciting the epic tales of wars and honorable deaths that Mamoru and Yukio loved so much. Hyakkimaru even came to love some episodes, too. But most of them seemed odd to him. Like the one describing the loss of the decisive naval battle, when the whole reigning Heike clan jumped into the sea and drowned themselves, following their child Emperor—a boy of eight—in death. ‘In the depths of the Ocean we will find our Capital…’ All those heroes discarded life so easily as if death were but a short sleep, not the end of existence. As if their rulers, their titles, and their roles in that play of obedience were more important for them than their actual lives. “Is it truly so?” Hyakkimaru asks.

“It is.” There is a shadow of concern on Tahomaru’s face. “And today, this is exactly what may become a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

Instead of explaining, Tahomaru mounts his horse and rides up to the front lines. Harsh sunlight glitters on the golden horns of his helmet, similar to the one Hyakkimaru pierced through in the chilly twilight of the Hall of Hell (or perhaps the same one, restored). His posture is straight yet relaxed, as if the pressure of before has truly left his shoulders. ‘Now, there are two of us.’ Hyakkimaru feels a warm tickling in his chest as he watches him, this boy he never knew, never understood as well as he does now.

“The enemy is all gathered up between our hands now!” Tahomaru announces, stern and confident. “We are ready to attack. But don’t let the heat of the fight take over you! Only with discipline and perseverance can we overcome this monster. Remember: you must retreat at the command and take along the wounded, everyone you can afford. Those who don’t die immediately may survive and recover quickly even from the direst wounds, as we could see happen to some of us. But I doubt there is a force that would bring you back from the dead.” He raises his voice: “You are samurai! You don’t fear death. But today, what I want you to think about is our land, not your honor! Thanks to your efficient actions by the bridge and by the ford, there are nine thousand demons left, but against only a thousand of us, mortal men. If you die here, who will stop them?”

Once again, Tahomaru’s words leave the samurai touched deeply yet a bit confused. Hyakkimaru notes the troubled expressions on some of the faces. If they have been training to attack without thinking of their lives, can they do the same while keeping their safety in mind?  

And once again, the old general, Maeda, takes on himself the duty of explaining the lord’s words to the warriors: “Listen closely to the signals and follow them immediately. And remember: no heroics. Calmly eliminating the demons. If each of you kills just nine of them, we’ll cleanse this field. Surely you can do that, samurai of Daigo!”

A cheering roar of the encouraged men gives him a positive answer.

Hyakkimaru steals another glance at his brother. Tahomaru looks over the cavalry, proud and confident in these men—who, in turn, believe in him. Love him. Have to be asked not to die for him.

Because he, too, was ready to die for them.

Hyakkimaru’s skin prickles with frisson.

Plunging into attack prepared to die. By the ravine and afterward, this was exactly how Tahomaru fought him—with no thoughts of surviving whatsoever. The calculated nature of his attacks gave way to the clear rage. ‘I will slay you even if it’s the last thing I do!’ He cared for the future of his land but not for his own.

‘…Because I always knew that there is something bigger than my life,’ the echo of the recent talk still lingers in his mind.

Just like the last talk with that man: ‘…I will just feed them another. I am a samurai lord. I wish for nothing but total rule.’

Father and son, he thought they were the same, once. But they couldn’t be more different.

Hyakkimaru swallows heavily, feeling cold shiver spread across his shoulders. Father and son… The same blood is flowing in his veins, too. Out of them brothers, may he actually be the one who has inherited that cold selfishness, that confidence in his right to fight, to crush and to kill for his personal desires?

‘Give Dororo back.’

The slash of steel. The spurts of blood.

The air flaming with his rage, and his unwavering resolve.

“Lord Hyakkimaru, shall we begin?” Maeda’s voice breaks through the firestorm in his mind.

Hyakkimaru shakes up. He mounts his horse—an impatient silver stallion that doesn’t breathe fire nor craves for human flesh—and turns shortly to look back. The cloud is still curling above the smoldering remnants of the bridge. His eyes trace the curves of the river, down to the ford where the shallow water ripples over the dozens of bodies that haven’t for some reason disappeared. Like those two assassins shot by Furi in the night… Only a few dozen real bodies out of the eliminated thousand: pierced with arrows, burned, drowned, torn apart by the brutal force of the explosion. Tahomaru had arranged all this, just like he had done that time, by the lake. He had trapped the crab monster with manpower and some witty, complicated plan, and all that Hyakkimaru had been left to do was to strike the final blow.

Today, they just have to repeat that.

If he observes closely, he will eventually locate the demonic core, with his human sight and reasoning alone. After that, he will pierce it—and finish this battle.

All he needs is to observe for a while.

Another deep breath ousts the heaviness from his chest and clears his mind. Hyakkimaru straightens his back. If someone has to be the lord of this land, it is Tahomaru, not him. Surely not him. But he will help his brother with everything he’s got.

“Attack.”

The banners fly up into the sky. A low, sonorous sound of the conch shell horn rises over the valley. And two regiments—his heavy, giant prosthetic arms of today—begin their slow swing toward the aim.

~

“So, what do you think now, Masahiro-sama?” Saito Hajime, the cavalry commander, asks, stroking his mustache, as they watch the first two regiments charge down the mild incline toward the dark sea of the enemy’s lines. “Hyakkimaru seems quite confident in the role, and this Mongol tactic of his looks promising.”

As if having guessed the attack direction, the enemy’s left wing realigns and moves their lancers to the front just a moment before the samurai actually split in two streams to outflank them. Nothing less to be expected from the demons… Ordinary ashigaru would have been fleeing already, dropping their weapons, from an all-out samurai charge like this.

“It is ‘Lord Hyakkimaru’ now, not some vagabond you were ordered to shoot once. Don’t forget it, Hajime,” Maeda reprimands his apprentice, now a man of forty, sternly. “He has returned, and he is taking part in the affairs of this domain. It is already more than I could expect. I shall do what I can for Lord Kagemitsu’s repentance to not go to waste, but in the end, the decision is for him to make.”

“For now, he has rejected it quite passionately,” Saito remarks.

Maeda hums, sparing a look at the brothers. ‘I said that I don’t want it!’  Will Hyakkimaru change his mind later, or will he harden in his refusal? Whichever the case, the brothers are likely to be sharing the duties, just as they are doing now. Which is, honestly, the best outcome for this land, since one could make up for the shortcomings of the other.

Tahomaru was raised and taught to rule, and the samurai as well as the commoners love him. Even facing a monster everybody fled from, he would never give in to fear. He would just calmly say, We will do it, here’s the plan. His strategic mind and wisdom are a true blessing, too. But does he possess the required hardness to be an effective leader in the tough times? He seems to have proved it, yet… From the lost days of their prosperity, the memories come flowing to Maeda’s mind. Tahomaru was rather too outspoken and sensitive as a kid. He would regularly make the retainers blush with a too open display of affection toward his parents and friends. Later, he grew restrained, and locked his heart. The Banmon hardened him further. But isn't it the hardness of the steel that has been tempered too much? It becomes fragile, and may snap if applied too much pressure...

Down in the valley, the samurai let fly a volley of three hundred arrows at once, effectively breaching the enemy’s flanks, and speed up for spear attack. “Send the next two regiments,” they hear Hyakkimaru’s order. Saito passes down a chain of commands; but Hyakkimaru rides up to the regimental chiefs himself, perhaps to convey the plan directly.

Maeda returns his attention back to the battlefield. He frowns as he watches the horsemen on the left slow down before the enemy, just a bit, yet that bit gives out hesitation. The charge loses its initial force, and instead of cleaving deep through the lines of infantry, the samurai just poke the first row and recoil, like a child in his first fistfight who wants to hit but is scared of the pain.

Maeda grits his teeth. Exactly what he feared: Tahomaru’s words have affected the men in the wrong way. The boy has changed, indeed. He wasn’t like this before—the greater goal would usually make him close his eyes on the expenses. He would use his wits to minimize them, of course, but never at the expense of the cause itself.

For the army that is concerned about preserving their lives cannot fight. Fighting is a selfless act. You forget about yourself and become a part of the whole. Only thus can you win—and stay alive, if such is your fate.

In the same way, the lord who holds the life of every subject too dear cannot rule. For ruling, especially in the times of war, is an art of sacrifices. Sacrifices of others, not yourself.

It is a constant struggle between the lesser and the greater evil.

Watching the brothers who have been caught in the deadliest middle of that very struggle and irreparably scarred by it, Maeda wonders who of them can even do it now.

“That flaw in the demonic magic may become a trap for us without actually being one,” Saito says glumly, voicing Maeda’s own concerns about the wounds healing unnaturally fast. “Sometimes having too much hope is worse than having none.”

~

‘Think of this army as your limbs and tools…’

The body of the hill vibrates under him as another avalanche of cavalrymen rolls down the slope. Hyakkimaru’s gaze shifts further, eyes strained to decipher details of the battle unfolding below. At this distance, it is easy to imagine that the dark crawling mass is a huge clumsy demon, and the two fast streams of samurai striking at its sides are the two swords that he, Hyakkimaru, holds in his hands. Almost too easy.

The illusion begins to dissipate as he counts the bodies of the samurai who have died to his very first order. He can’t see the blood from here, nor the fading of the souls. Maybe they are alive still, but no one can turn back to pick them without breaking the pace, despite Tahomaru’s order. They are like drops of blood, Hyakkimaru thinks as, instead of the choking fire he has been expecting, an icy wind whispers sharply through his chest. When he fought, he would not care about the drops of blood sprinkling from his wounds. Wounds were unimportant. Finishing off the demon was.

“Your tactics works even better than I expected,” Tahomaru reassures him. “If we keep this pace for a while, we’ll subdue them.”

Hyakkimaru presses his lips together. They can’t keep this pace for too long. He understands it. The horses will be exhausted soon, and the growing losses will weaken the strikes that are not as strong already as he imagined them to be. The samurai are being too cautious, thinking about staying safe more than about crushing the enemy.

The first two regiments scatter away from the focused rain of arrows as they withdraw, only to circle back in a moment and charge again. In the meantime, the next two regiments replace them in the attack. Hyakkimaru’s intention was to not let the men get stuck in the battle where, highly outnumbered, they would be quickly encircled and crushed. Fast, grazing attacks on the different sides. He will keep the enemy in a constant state of regrouping, immobilized as a whole. It also must help him figure out the commanding center of that “body”.

Hyakkimaru squints, scanning the enemy’s rows for something out of order, anything. But nobody stands out. Nobody blows a horn, nobody shouts commands—it seems like the demonic army has no generals whatsoever. And yet, every warrior knows exactly what to do. A storm of arrows meets the samurai, coming from behind the thicket of lances, and then a press of foot soldiers pushes toward the charging cavalry as one dark wall. Not a single warrior wavers. No one flees. No one screams with rage or pain. A menacing silence surrounds the undead men, and if one is crushed, another one leaps to take his place from behind. 

‘There can’t be so many demons. Probably this is one single demonic substance, and it has a core.’

Maybe they both were wrong. Maybe there can be this many demons, after all.

A gnawing sensation grows in the pit of his stomach. His brother believes they can eliminate them all if they just have a smart plan and preserve their people. Hyakkimaru could feel from the beginning that it might be impossible.  

He squeezes his teeth, hot impatience flooding his chest. If he can’t see the core from here, maybe it’s just because he is too far away. The horse paws nervously under him.

“I want to be there, on the field. Let Maeda manage the rest—we must go and fight alongside the samurai.”

“We must stay here and command,” Tahomaru objects, mentoring notes in his voice. “You are the head commander. What if the head said, ‘Why can’t I be like the arms? I want to hit the enemy, too!’ Would you go and bump your head against the enemy?”

“A head can hit well, too,” Hyakkimaru grumbles.

Tahomaru smiles. “We will fight if it is required. Until then, we must trust our men.”

~

“The lords have entrusted you with the honor of the first attack, and yet what an example have you set for your comrades?” Maeda berates the regimental chiefs as the first two regiments return, horses puffing, men dripping with sweat that rolls down their paled, frightened faces.  

“But the lord said—”

“That he cherishes his warriors’ lives and would prefer you to keep them, like a kind and a caring lord that he is. But he would also prefer this battle to be won!”

The men fall to their knees and press their heads hard to the ground, apologizing fervently.

Maeda scowls. “Bear no delusions. We are making our stand here, even if everyone of us must die, to not let the demons pass. If you can’t fight them, soon your women and children will have to do it!”

One of the samurai dares lifting his head, though, his face almost white. “W-we saw our fallen brothers and comrades among them. They appeared exactly the same as we knew them.”

“Of course they did. And what have you expected from the demons, some cheap theater makeup?” Maeda lifts an eyebrow. “Get out of my sight, now. And do better next time.”

“…Bring the wounded to the medical camp!” Tahomaru’s orders cut in from the right side of their positions as the men scramble to their feet and leave. “All the others must rest well until the next charge! Get more water for the horses!”

“…Strike at them faster, harder!” meanwhile on the left side, Hyakkimaru shouts furiously to the samurai preparing for the next attack, his words short and sharp like cuts of steel. “Plunge into their rows, like a blade! Stronger!” Nothing is left of his earlier diffidence. Turning his horse to and fro, his eyebrows drawn together, Hyakkimaru tries to reach every last samurai aligned before him. Frustration and impatience have bared his fiery temper.

Maeda watches him, almost as mesmerized as the warriors. The boy who lost himself to the wildest spree of rage once, and who rose up as a man that challenged a ten thousand army of demons alone. Who is this boy? He probably doesn’t know it himself yet. Is his heart as firm as his hand, or is it a wild fire of impulse that can be destructive as well as selfless?

Yet one is undeniable: there is something about him that seems very steadfast amidst the turbulence where everyone else is uncertain, something more than meets the eye. Once, Maeda sensed the same in Daigo Kagemitsu; something that convinced him to support that young man like he had supported his father—even among the direst of circumstances, his brothers plotting against the young heir, uprisings tearing the domain apart, and all sorts of calamities devastating the land. Something that made that youth ardently say, I will find the way to make this land prosper again. I will take back the territories we have lost and expand our power to the entirety of Kaga. Even if the whole world stands against us, I will still find the way, I swear.

Even if the gods themselves are against me, he would add years later, his face hardened with the stubborn streaks, his eyes devoid of that boyish fire, opaque and iron-cold.

But he did find the way. Maeda would never once regret his choice.

Not until sixteen years would pass, and he would find out what way it had been…

Hyakkimaru was fighting demons, not gods. But the unwavering resolve that led him to victory against all odds, wasn’t it the same?

Father and son, they both have rebelled against their fate.

“…Never thought I would someday be ashamed of our warriors’ spirit,” Saito grumbles by his side as the next charge thunders down the slope in two separate streams, now aimed directly at the sides of the enemy’s formation right from the beginning. “Are they really the samurai of Daigo? Even mutinous peasants are less hesitant in attack!”  

Suddenly, the samurai make a sharp turn and strike at the very center from both sides, crushing the unprepared rows like two clashing waves—something Hyakkimaru must have ordered the chiefs to do.

“They are facing the demons. Everybody would be scared,” Maeda says calmly.

But Saito shakes his head, slowly. “Not everybody. I saw your son Masashi that day, from the hill.” The general’s voice falters as he sees Maeda’s hands freeze on his reins. He never told him the details of that battle he had witnessed from afar. Just couldn’t bring himself to. Now, the words have spilled against his will. They may never have another chance, after all… “He gathered the remaining few men around him and led the charge himself, unfazed as everyone else squealed and fled for their lives. Not a shadow of fear was on his bright face, and he looked as calm and cheerful as he had in his training fights. They followed him, a boy of fourteen, without hesitation—a dozen men against the demonic fire and the deadly tornado, such was the power of his unwavering courage.” He pauses as the tears swell hot in his throat, to take a breath. “I wish I could reach him in time. I wish I could protect such an incomparable talent… He was equal of the heroes of old.”

“He was a fool,” Maeda’s lips tighten into a thin line, his face going rigid. “He should have gathered the men and led the retreat. That way, he would have preserved at least a part of the force that perished there for naught. His courage did nothing for this land.”

Saito swallows hard on the heavy lump.

He hears Maeda add, in a voice stifled and husky as if in his chest, there were a pot of melted lead, “Yet I am honored to have been his father.”

Through the tears veiling his sight, Saito looks in the direction of the brothers who reunite at the headquarters for a brief exchange. He sees Tahomaru pat his brother’s shoulder, and Hyakkimaru answer something with a smile, like normal guys of their age would do. A heavy sigh escapes his chest. “How cruel is fate. Instead of the deadly foes, they all could have been friends, comrades in their first games as well as in their first battles.”

“No, they could not,” Maeda says.

Saito stares at him, question written across his face.

Maeda’s look flickers over the battlefield, picking up on every detail, yet the other part of his mind drifts back into his memories. True, in their early childhood, they all played together—Tahomaru, Setsuna and Taizo, Imagawa’s good-for-nothing third son. It is easy to imagine Hyakkimaru leading their little squad. Masashi was a toddler then, but Setsuna would drag him along whenever she had the chance, “because he is so cute and always makes us laugh.” One day she ran in crying, though. “Taizo said that Masashi will die in his very first battle.” She was terrified, trembling and squeezing her little fists. “I shall never, never let him go to battle!”

She always believed that boy’s creepy predictions.

I knew he would not return, she said after the Two Pines massacre, her voice hollow. She was sitting in the darkness of her room, clasping her knees, her eyes eerily dry. I knew it all those years and…did nothing in the end. But I had no idea that Taizo would perish there as well. He never told me. He always said he could not see his own future. Was it a lie? Was he simply not telling me? 

We may know the future, but to cancel it is beyond our power, Maeda said to her, unshed tears heavy in his throat.

How can you tell if we haven’t even tried? she asked.

We have, he said. Lord Kagemitsu has tried to change the fate of this whole domain. But in the end, we can’t cheat on karma for too long. The illusion of keeping something from its doom will result in even deeper grief.

She replied nothing. She would say nothing for many days to come. Heavy silence fell upon Great River Castle, and everything stilled under the first snow. It seemed ashen-grey to his old, weary eyes. What for did he still linger in this world? What else did he have to learn—and to lose? He had made peace with his grieves. He had let go of his power and possessions. He no longer cared about his bloodline to continue, and made no effort to choose a nice samurai to adopt as his heir. His only wish was for his daughter to regain happiness, but he was powerless in that regard, too. As if refusing to believe, she kept sending messages into the empty sky, and played the same melody on her biwa, over and over again. The strings tore at his aching heart.

Not for a day that aching stopped ever since. The melody of the great Emptiness continues to resound in his very bones even now as Maeda repeats, “No, they could not be friends. Because my son simply would not have existed. No use in this kind of wishful thinking. We all desire happiness, but who said we must be happy?” Maeda narrows his eyes as he watches the samurai he has trained since their teens take arrows in their unprotected spots, fall from their saddles, down to the ground to never move again—or to writhe and moan in pain for a while, until time or some random blow ends their misery. Just like this, he watched his elder sons die in the Kakitsu uprising decades ago, and his wife fade away from her grief. He got a chance to marry again and welcome another son—only to lose him soon… “No, Hajime, many meetings bring more sadness than happiness. Yet, although short, the crossing of our souls’ ways on their eternal journey is a divine gift on itself. Maybe the ties of karma will bring us across each other once again, in one of the future lives.”

“The way you look at things is more like that of a monk,” Saito says, his voice rough with emotion.

“A monk and a warrior could not walk more different paths. But maybe in the end we all come to the same truth.” Maeda smiles bitterly, the image of a lone figure hunched in the cold darkness of the old temple appearing in his mind. A trail of blood, never drying on the floor, kept other people from entering the desecrated place, and even the priests would not come there anymore. The ruler who had lost his realm, among the ashes and blood, was lamenting his fallen son. Only in the end, we come to realize what truly matters to us. “Do not get attached to the gifts of this world too much. The firmer your grip on your treasures is, the sooner fate will snatch them away from you. The more you struggle for something safe, permanent, enduring, the surer you will be reminded about the fleeting nature of all earthly things. We all are but wanderers in this world. Cherish these meetings but do not expect them to last.”

Saito replies something, but Maeda does not hear him, swept by his memories. This is how the mind of an old man is—the past will rip through the thin film of the present ever so often. Even now, during the battle, the trail of blood on the snow is more vivid before his eyes, the red glowing like embers in the night...

~

The kneeled silhouette of Lord Daigo, a sharper darkness against the gloom of the empty shrine, was visibly trembling. Maeda halted on the threshold, not daring to enter. He was clutching in his hand the gift that had been offered to him several moments before, under the cover of the night.

A gift. Or just another temptation? He thought of the big figure in the night, a bear with the eyes of the fox. Maeda had only accepted the offering to bring it to his lord for judgement. He had already commanded his attendants to watch the suspicious visitor. Most likely, the lord would order to destroy this thing, and execute the man.

Or maybe he won’t.

‘If there is something you wish more than life…’ the warlock's words echoed in his memory.

Maeda hesitated. Should he, a loyal retainer, test his lord like this? Now, of all times?

He clutched the little pouch firmer. The gift had been presented to him. So, he must handle the matter himself.

Fresh snow softening his footsteps, Maeda backed off and left the temple gate without bothering the man who sat there facing the emptiness and despair. He thought he heard a whispered name, and a suppressed weep, but maybe it was just the sound of his own husky breathing. Heavy snow clouds hiding a chilly, uncertain moonlight within hushed all the sounds of that night. Only the measured notes of the timeless Gion no shoja chant were drifting from afar: not his daughter’s, but another biwa dropped the sounds into the emptiness, slowly, like beads of frozen time:

In the sound of the bell of the Gion temple  
echoes the impermanence of all things.
The faded flowers of the sala trees
declare the great man’s certain fall…

Outrageous…! What an old fool dared sing the tale Lord Kagemitsu was widely known to hate, and in such times, too? Yet Maeda could not find real outrage within his heart. The sounds calmed his wounds and filled his mind with the serenity of acceptance.

This is right. Acceptance is the only path. Once the dawn came, he would do it. He would destroy the gift, and order to capture the visitor for questioning.

…But later that night, the unexpected happened. A shrill outcry ripped through the heavy silence of the castle. When Maeda rushed in, Mizuko, his still beautiful, although no longer young wife, was holding to her chest Setsuna’s pale body, her garments all drenched in their last child’s blood.

And a cold terror blazing his heart like a bolt of lightning told him he could not, would not let go of her. Even if it was the path she had chosen—to follow in death those she had loved the most. Even if life would only be a burden of guilt and loneliness for her. His last treasure, she was too precious for him, so he snatched her from the sharp claws of death.

~

‘If there is something you wish more than life…’

Maeda clasps his left hand tightly, squeezing the still burning scar underneath the glove.

Understanding something does not necessarily bring the strength to act on your understanding.

Some bonds are just too strong.

~Part 2~

“You will surely be healed tomorrow. Just…please, hang on.”

Tahomaru bites on his lip, rising to his feet. A faint smile on the bloodless face is the only reply he gets. Maybe this warrior will survive. It may take days to die from a wound in the guts. Tahomaru turns his head to a man on the right who moans, drifting in and out of delirium. A stab in the chest. Bloody foam escaping his mouth says this one may not be as fortunate.

The heavy smell of blood haunts him even as Tahomaru leaves the medical camp. Doctor Ogawara, the man who saved his mother back in the day, and his apprentices do everything they can, but many warriors still die from their brutal injuries or simply from the blood loss, never getting the chance to live long enough for the wounds to disappear on their own. Maybe Jukai-sensei could have kept them alive. But even Sensei would not risk the transfusion of blood; for he, too, never solved the secret of the life-giving substance. Only one man, the mysterious warlock Maeda mentioned, knew it, or at least claimed to know. Maybe he was just a fraud looking to profit from their father’s despair…  

Teeth clenched, Tahomaru spurs his horse and rushes back to the headquarters. There is nothing he can do to help anyway.

His absence, though, doesn’t seem to have affected the battle in any way either. Hyakkimaru, absorbed in his tactics, has been doing perfectly as head commander. Not at once Tahomaru even recognizes his brother from the distance: surrounded by the generals, wearing armor and a usual samurai outfit, Hyakkimaru looks nothing like the wild fellow he was. And yet, in a way Tahomaru can’t wrap his mind around, he does stand out. There is something different about him compared to the rest of the men. Maybe this is the aura of the true heir, the one who was born to rule and to lead…? Some innate charisma and aptitude that don’t need to be trained nor can be acquired, but simply are there.

Hyakkimaru changes the direction of each attack unpredictably, tearing the enemy’s attention apart and preventing it from advancing. It resembles a slow fencing—something he suggested Hyakkimaru to imagine but could never actually imagine it himself; not to be performed this accurately. He couldn't have done it with the same swift, ingenious creativity, Tahomaru realizes. Maybe his mind has been tamed too much by all the studying and theory. Hyakkimaru has only his instincts—and a lot of experience in dealing with demons. They are truly blessed to have him here.

But the losses begin to grow rapidly as the sun halts in the sky and then begins its slow descent. Fewer and fewer men are able to fight as more and more fill the medical camp or stay on the field below, motionless clumps in the dirt. The enemy, even having suffered much heavier losses, looks as humongous as before. The demons begin to slowly overflow the men during each attack. The dark wave is nearing the hill, step by step, with each fallback and each delayed strike…

“Any human army would have been shattered already and backed off, if not fled.” Saito squeezes the horn in his hand, his voice exhausted. “Yet these are still creeping on us, like insects.”

“They are preparing to attack our positions,” Maeda concludes.

“At least, they aren’t trying to break out of this valley,” Tahomaru reasons. “We are successfully holding them here.”

“We must send another charge and meanwhile prepare for the defense.” Creases deepen between Maeda’s eyebrows as he overlooks the slope of the hill. “It will take time. This position is good enough, but some necessary adjustments must be made.”

“Agree. Proceed with it.”

Maeda nods and leaves to order the preparations.

Tahomaru looks at his brother, whose eyes erratically count the remaining warriors, probably choosing the least worn-out regiments for the last attack. His face is set, his features hardened in a scowl.

Tahomaru knows the feeling. Thirty samurai fell on the cape under his command. He tried not to dwell on it then. Restraining his heart, cooling down his emotions, he turned to the traditions and prescriptions of the samurai. They were his subjects, and to die was their duty and the highest honor of the samurai. It had been established long ago what to think of it, how to name it, what to feel about it. That code was what held warriors sane and orderly in the circumstances otherwise incompatible with sanity.

And still, Mutsu’s and Hyogo’s deaths broke him.

But his brother was not raised as a samurai. He knows no codes. The guilt of the Two Pines is still very fresh in him, even though he seems to have reached some conclusion there, in the mountains, and recovered his will to go on. Yet… Wasn’t it too much to drag him into this, especially after his heated refusal to accept the rule?

Tahomaru shakes his head. What he asked was Hyakkimaru’s support and advice on tactics. But he never expected him to actually lead the battle.

And—to be this confident at it, too. When exactly did it happen…? At what moment his brother disappeared into himself and took the reins, not hesitating to correct or cancel Tahomaru’s orders even? Does it mean that, deep inside, despite his words, he is ready…?

Maeda hastily rearranges the remaining men into several lines of defense, with walls of dry brushwood oiled to be set aflame, and trees brought down for barricades, and archers positioned behind the stationary shields on the sides and on the top. The hill is being made into a fortress. On the battlefield below, the samurai of the joined first and third regiments, or what is left of these, rip right through the center of the enemy’s lines. Crushing and dispersing the demons, they plunge deep into the dark mass but, unlike all the previous times, do not recoil, continuing to slice with their spears and swords left and right.

The side rows of the enemy start to encircle the place of the heated fight. The chance to pull back is fading with each second. Tahomaru looks expectantly at his brother to give the command.

Hyakkimaru stays silent. His eyes are narrowed, his expression unreadable. He watches the boiling work on the slope, not the boiling fight beneath it.

‘It will take time.’

Tahomaru gulps on a dry lump. Does he intend…

“Lord, we’re almost out of arrows,” Otani rides up to him, catching his breath.

Tahomaru’s heart skips a bit. They spent arrows too recklessly by the river. And there are no explosives anymore...

“The corpses have disappeared, so it must be easy to fetch some by the bridge,” Ando butts in.

Otani waves his younger cousin off, “We don’t have time for that.”

“Do it,” Tahomaru says, tight-lipped. The blood is throbbing in his clenched fists. He looks at the battlefield, at the samurai being slowly milled between the demon’s giant arms yet still holding the enemy from advancing. “They are buying us time right now. And don’t waste even a heartbeat!”

The cousins gallop off without another word. Tahomaru can’t tear his eyes away from the scene below, dreadful chill spreading all over his body. The samurai must understand they will all stay there. He wonders what has Hyakkimaru told them. He looks at his right, but his brother’s expression stays unreadable. Tahomaru swallows the question and presses his lips together until it hurts.

His look shifts across the field, to the high shore of Shibayama Lagoon. Hidden in the woods, there is the reserve he planned to keep till the very end of the battle.

It may very well be the end.

“I’ll order Awazu to attack. A full charge at their rear. From both sides, we’ll crush them.”

Hyakkimaru turns to him abruptly. “No. There are still too many of them. Seven hundred against five thousand—it’s us who will be crushed.”

“Then what must we do?” Tahomaru catches sickening notes of desperation in his own voice.

“Continue what we are doing. Let them attack this hill. There is a wide stretch of bare land. We will shoot down lots of them until they reach us. If there’re no arrows, then we’ll use rocks and trunks, anything that rolls down or burns.”

His calm words stagger Tahomaru. Not at once he finds his voice to speak. “Haven’t you been eager to go and fight earlier?”

“I’d prefer to go fight, of course. But what you propose is an all-out attack in which many will die. It’s stupid to go ahead of yourself with the demons. I did it once, and I lost my leg. It might have been a lethal wound if I hadn’t been rescued.”

“By whom…?” Tahomaru asks, too fazed to argue. To be lectured by his elder brother like this… A new and irritating feeling, but not entirely unpleasant, brings heat to his cheeks.

Hyakkimaru opens his mouth to answer, but then his look shifts and comes to rest at something behind Tahomaru’s shoulder. His eyes widen. “What’s that? I see someone on a white horse.”

Surely his brother’s new eyes are sharp. When he turns around, all Tahomaru can see is a troop of horsemen just finishing crossing the ford, maybe one or two hundred; there are horses of different colors, of course, but at this distance he can’t discern any particular rider.

“Imagawa?” he squints. “Has he finally shown up?”

Hyakkimaru shakes his head. “They are not samurai, at least not all of them. Only a few wear armor. And there are no banners.”

“...And they are attacking the demons,” Tahomaru gapes.

Just as he says it, a cloud of arrows downs on the left wing of the enemy, the one facing the riverside. Then, the mysterious riders charge bravely and rather recklessly, cleaving deep through the shattered rows and breaking them apart.

“Call back the samurai,” Hyakkimaru says to Saito hastily. “Command an attack on the left flank, too. We’ll push them to the river.”

Everything develops fast after that. The samurai Tahomaru already deemed condemned break through the shattered encirclement, pull back and then turn to charge at the enemy’s broken wing. The unknown force, having realized their intention, supports the strike from the rear, and the demon wavers. The entire left wing is scattered and swept away in no time, cut from the main force and pressed to the riverside. No one flees, for the dead men know no fear, but the small squads that try to reunite and give fight make easy targets for the archers.

“Let’s do the same on the right!” Tahomaru exclaims, the sight of the scattered enemy filling him with hope. It is possible, after all! “If our reserve attacks from the lagoon and we join, we’ll reduce them to a couple thousands!”

Hyakkimaru doesn’t answer at once. His eyes are wandering around the battlefield, analyzing, calculating. Tahomaru wonders whether this side of him had always been there and just flourished now. Wasn’t it his brother, too, to come up with the decoy on the cape? To divert their attention with explosives, feigning a much bigger force than there actually was, in order to clear the way to escape… Clever. Back then, Hyakkimaru failed to fool him after all, yet did eliminate a lot of his samurai with that trick. Sure, it must have been his idea.

At last, Hyakkimaru nods. “Let’s do it.”

As if fate supported their decision, a word comes from one of the attendants—a large supply of arrows have been delivered just now, collected by the bridge.

On the left of the battlefield, the unknown host joins the Daigo troops and together, they are finishing to eliminate the scattered demons, making their way back to the foot of the hill.   

Whoever they might be, these riders have just redressed the balance of the battle. Tahomaru turns to Saito, his heart speeding up. “Give the red smoke signal. It is time to unleash our reserve.”

~

Hyakkimaru’s temples throb with a blunt pain. There is a tension in his clenched jaw, the tension he only notices when he opens his mouth to speak. He doesn’t even recognize what. Some short word of agreement, it must be. All the while, other words beat in his ears repeatedly, in a low sound of his own voice reverberating in his skull:

‘You must delay them at any cost. At any cost!’

Even through all these layers of armor, he could feel the expectant gazes piercing his body. The samurai were waiting something more from him than just staying here and dealing out commands. Maybe they expected his horse to turn into a fire-breathing beast, and the air around him to swirl in a tornado. But he was just a human now. He couldn’t even see the core of this demonic army to strike it and finish this battle before they all died.

The unforeseen support from the river was the only thing that allowed him to cancel that order. The moment the samurai broke out of the encirclement, Hyakkimaru felt as if all his limbs turned to soft manju filled with red bean paste.

…Another attack is played—a long note of the wind rising over the mountains, the sound he has already gotten familiar with. It vibrates in his bones, creeps up his spine, accompanied by a tremulous rumble of another charge rolling down the slope. Hyakkimaru doesn’t watch it. Instead, he turns his horse around.

Before his eyes, a column of thick smoke is curling into the sky, smoke colored in deep red. Dororo taught him how to make it at the time when he still had no eyes, so that if they split, they could always find each other.

How do I find you if I don’t see this smoke? he asked then.

No worries, Bro, she said. It’s me who will find you. You just make sure to remember how to do it!

He did remember. And it did lead her to him, once, in the woods after the Banmon battle.

If she were to find him now, would she have recognized him?

~

Tahomaru waits for his brother to direct the attack, yet Hyakkimaru says nothing, watching the signal smoke rising into the sky. The eyes that were glowing sharply just a few moments before now look distracted. As if the fervor of frustration that made him take the lead has evaporated as quickly... Does Hyakkimaru consider this battle already as well as won?

Tahomaru looks around for his advisor, yet Maeda is nowhere to be seen, still busy with the defense preparations.

Should they stop it and launch a full attack now? or send just a couple regiments, like before? Tahomaru’s mind buzzes with possibilities, his estimation, intuition, citations of The Art of War contradicting each other. He takes a long breath and says to the cavalry commander, “Call the men back from the field. Choose the freshest two hundred to support Awazu’s attack on the right, but without disrupting the defenses too much.”

“Will be done, lord.”

“Aren’t they the Ikki from before?” suddenly, a steady flow of the wind brings the exclamations from the forward position. “It’s the Ikki! The Ikki have come to help us…!”

Tahomaru strains his eye—and gasps. Now he, too, can see the white horse among the motley host. The horse Dororo has refused to take along. But who is riding it, with no armor and no weapon in sight?

~

With great difficulty, Hyakkimaru unclenches his fingers to readjust the reins. He knows who the white rider is, but he can’t bring himself to turn and meet him.

Instead, his gaze travels south, toward the land they have marched from, the hills basking in the warm sunlight.

It is spring.

The gentle pink of the blooming trees curls like foam along the bends of the river.

Rising above it, the jagged walls of green, dark and deep green of pine and tsuga trees huddle up the slopes like another silent army.

And still farther, the mountains soar sharply upward, icy-white against the azure sky. There, the winter still reigns, the world frozen in time where the stars seem to flutter down from the sky to melt in a cloud of breath. In that winter, there are no past and no future, only a small, cozy glow of the present.

But here, it is spring. The spring he feared, the spring he never wanted to come as he touched Sen’s hair and traced the gentle patterns of her skin to the sounds of the blizzard howling outside. The spring he still found the courage to face—and to live, even if he had robbed other people of such a chance. Exactly because he had robbed other people of such a chance. Not to waste it now. To live his life, live it to the fullest. This was all he had ever wanted...

‘ ...At any cost!..’

“Bro… I don’t want you to become someone else.”

Hyakkimaru flinches. The sound is a clear chime against the muted, misty noise of the battlefield. He turns around sharply.

“Dororo is not with us,” Biwamaru guesses his thought, or maybe reads it in the pattern of his soul.

Next to him, Hyakkimaru sees the familiar faces of the villagers Dororo brought him to after the final battle (or so he thought; the final turned out to be just the beginning.) Doushu, Yahiko, Jiheita, all the others. They are staring at him, their jaws dropped.

“I see you are doing a good job as the Lord,” the usual tiny smile is playing on Priest’s lips. “Such a great force of hell is reduced to the size of an ordinary army.”

“I’m not the Lord,” Hyakkimaru says harshly. He nods at his brother. “He is. I am only helping fight the demons.”

“Oh, excuse me then. I did not mean you disrespect, lord.” The priest bows to Tahomaru, who looks as shell-shocked to see the villagers here as they seem to be at the sight of Hyakkimaru in the samurai outfit. “But I suppose you’ve miscounted, Hyakkimaru. There are no demons here. I see only one.”

“Is it all red?” Hyakkimaru starts, just as his brother exhales:

“Can you see the core?”

“Seems like there’s none…” Biwamaru sniffs the air as he turns his head around slowly. “But, let me look closer…”

They all turn to face the battlefield. The afternoon light gilds the humid air above the distant sea and smears the coastline. In the haze, the pine grove across the valley is a blurry shadow, a mass of darkness suddenly splitting in two. What their human eyes can see is a dark wave flowing down from the higher shore of the lagoon toward the enemy’s rear: Awazu’s two hundred have answered fearlessly to the signal. Flying the red banners of their clan, they gallop wildly and excitedly, tired of waiting in ambush all this time.

Another wave, released from the Daigo’s own positions, reaches and hits the demon’s front lines a little earlier due to the difference of the distance.

The Awazu are still halfway through the valley as Saito exclaims, “Look! Another host has crossed the ford!”

Doushu shields his eyes against the glow. “It’s not ours.” 

“Stop the attack!” Tahomaru shouts, his breath hitching. Even he can distinguish Imagawa’s black-and-white hikiryou crests—two parallel lines in a circle—as the host speeds up to intercept Awazu’s charge.

“Too late, lord,” Cavalry Commander says in a faltering voice.

Too late the Awazu troops notice the enemy, too. Already engaged in battle, they barely have time to pull back and meet the charge on their flank. Imagawa’s horsemen slice through them like a blade.

The carefully prepared attack turns to a melee.

Cold sweat drenches Tahomaru’s back. He knew not to rush. He knew it, and still Imagawa has outplayed him.

For a while, they just watch the battle boiling on both sides of the field, no one proposing another move. Hyakkimaru keeps silent, lost completely in some sort of inner struggle. Tahomaru restrains the urge to shake him up. His brother is not an experienced general, after all, and has already done more than anyone had the right to ask from him. It is Tahomaru’s time to take a decision. But which one? To stop the attack, or to launch a full-scale assault? Where is his advisor, dammit?

‘Never underestimate wars,’ like a distant thunder, a voice echoes hollowly through his chest.

Tahomaru swallows on a heavy lump, heart thudding against his ribs.  I never did, Father. I just overestimated myself.

Finally, they hear Awazu playing the retreat signal. His samurai are disengaging, pulling back to the lagoon. Imagawa’s men do not pursue them. Instead, they merge with the demonic army that lets them into its very center as if to shield them from any possible danger. All doubts are finally cleared.

“We must call back our men, too,” Tahomaru’s voice is a croak. He clears his throat. “Now. Give the s—"

“I think I found something,” Biwamaru’s serene voice cuts in, startling them. His face is calm, the blank eyes gazing at one spot without actually gazing. “Yes, that must be it… The whole mass is red, but there is a greyish shape near the very center of it. Not white, like the group of men before it, but not red, like all the rest.”

“Is it the core?” Hyakkimaru asks, shaken out of his reverie.

“Core or not, I guess that shape is the key to this force. But it is shielded from us by the living men.”

“Imagawa,” Tahomaru knits his eyebrows, determination hardening his voice. “We must break through to him. Now, while we still have enough men.”

~

Only about two hundred stay on the hill, most of them the Ikki Tahomaru has barely convinced to stand by. He could not risk them. Not the people Dororo had put her trust into, who weren’t even supposed to take part in battles.

His eye is fixed on the battlefield. His neck, jaw, shoulders are so tight with tension it seems he is about to crack, like this rock did from the recent earthquake. On the right side of the valley, the men continue to fight, slowly pulling the enemy after them, stretching its lines; meanwhile in the center, the crushing force of six hundred samurai plunges deep into the dark mass.

Tahomaru holds his breath. This is the decisive attack they have been avoiding all this time. Now or never. Reach that core and pierce it, make this army evaporate, lest they all be simply ground up to the last man.

“We should’ve come, too,” Jiheita clenches his yari spear. There is also a short sword on his waist, but no armor, not even the simplest jingasa iron hat on his head.  

“No,” Tahomaru says abruptly. “We may need you here. They still may break through and attack the hill.”

“Rubbish!” Jiheita spits out. “You just don’t trust us! You think we’re some nitwits who can’t fight—”

“Cool down, Jiheita,” Doushu says. “Lord Tahomaru is right. Look at their left wing.”

The enemy is being held down on the right, but its left rows, separated by the deep wedge driven into the center, do not try to encircle and squash the men like they did before. Instead, they roll past the attacking cavalry, like a wave that simply flows around the boulder, and come flooding the foot of the hill.

And not just its front slope.

“They are encircling us,” Yahiko exhales.

The left slope is too steep for humans, all rocks and cracked walls of sandstone, but the undead men held together by the demonic force know no fatigue. Like an army of ants, they start to climb it.

In fencing, this moment would be the final charge when both adversaries drop their strategies and strike through emptiness to reach each other’s hearts. Whose blade will be faster?

“Defend the left slope!” Jiheita yells, raising his spear, and spurs his horse without hesitation. He isn’t a fine rider, his awkward movements giving out only the minimal practice, yet his ardent words and resolute demeanor more than make up for it. His comrades follow him straight away. Tahomaru doesn’t even have time to interfere.

There is no choice anyway: with the same unhuman stamina, another part of the demonic mass storms the mild incline on the front.

The carefully prepared defense proves its worth there: lots of enemies fall by the arrows, and lots perish on the burning barricades. Still, too few men are staying in the positions as most of them have been sent on the attack. Once again, the numbers and the indifference of the demonic creatures to their own fate begin to take their toll. Slowly but surely, like the incoming sea, they close the distance.

An arrow strikes a spark from the rock the brothers are standing on. Hyakkimaru’s hand twitches belatedly for one of his swords.

He wouldn’t have missed it back in the day, Tahomaru notes uncomfortably. Many evenings did they spend with Mutsu and Hyogo racking their brains over how to break through his brother’s unhuman reflexes. None of those tactics had any effect. Indeed, Hyakkimaru has lost that power along with the last demonic spark in his soul…

He doesn’t miss the next arrow, though. Cut in half, it hits the ground by his horse’s hooves with a loud ring.  

“Lords!” The chief of guard rushes to them, a look of utter terror on his face. “Please, move to the back, it is dangerous here!”

“He’s right,” Tahomaru says. “We’re making an easy target.”

Just as they back off toward the trees, Maeda gallops up to them from the forward positions. Tahomaru is relieved to see his chief retainer safe and sound—before he notices the fierce grimace on his harsh old face.

“I’ve received the news about the demonic core. But we can’t be attacking while defending both sides against a force like this, lord.” His words are restrained, but the glow of his eyes yells What are you even doing with this reckless attack?! “We must call back all the men from the field. There is no hope in the attack. Defending, we still have a chance.”

Tahomaru shifts a bit to look below. The attack gets completely bogged down halfway through to the core. Indeed, the enemy is too numerous. His brother was right earlier.

‘It’s us who will be crushed.’

If only they had another thousand, or at least five hundred, to strike on two sides simultaneously… Sweat beads on Tahomaru’s forehead. The five hundred he had ordered to leave at the castle. Maeda was strongly against it. Will that decision prove to be fatal, indeed?

“Lord?”

Teeth squeezed, Tahomaru frantically counts the numbers. The slopes are overflown with the demons. The samurai will have a hard time breaking through them to retreat. If anything, it seems even harder now than to reach the damn core.

“Awazu must attack again. It will distract them, while we—”

“No, lord. Awazu has only two hundred, perhaps even less now. The enemy can deflect that strike with the rearguard force alone, without pulling away the units from the center.” Maeda shakes his head, his voice softening, “They will not let us to their core, lord.”

Where has it gone wrong? Tahomaru tries to sort out the swarm of thoughts roiling in his head. He shouldn't have ordered to attack the right wing, elated by the success on the left. He should have stayed calm and followed the plan. ‘Don’t let the heat of fight take over you.’ He said that, and yet…

And yet, something feels wrong. Something else.

“Look at them.” Tahomaru squints, surveying the crawling mass. “We have eliminated more than six thousand. But what I see is not three, not even four thousand. Another six at the very least. They are multiplying.”

The gathering goes absolutely silent around him.

“If it is indeed so, I must admit there is no chance in the defense either,” Maeda says at last, his voice hollow.

Just another five hundred. Tahomaru forces back a curse. He recalls the monster crab. His plan was working just fine, but in the end, all the efforts went to waste because of one unforeseen possibility. One tiny misjudgment. Just like all the other battles he has fought... He would plan everything he possibly could, he would have the best people to execute his plans, but it would never be enough. The enemy would always be that bit stronger. Is it the story of his life? Will it prove to be futile in the end?

His brother saved the day back then. But now, he is just a human. A human who doesn’t want this power, this responsibility. Too quickly and too eagerly Tahomaru has tried to put a share of it on his shoulders…

“I guess there is only this much a human can do with his own hands,” Biwamaru says quietly with resignation.

Tahomaru flinches, the same voice emerging from his memory but conveying quite a different truth. ‘At all times, there is something over which the indifference of stars and the eternal murmuring of rivers have no sway: it is the actions of a man who rebels against fate.’

No. Resistance rises in him as Tahomaru recalls the sensations of death wrapping about him in the burning castle. The sweetness of it. The lightness beyond the human imagination bound in the measures of this world. The long-awaited eternal release.

No.

No way it ends like this.

Ando’s ever-optimistic voice echoes his thoughts, “Lord, if I’m allowed to say… We must launch an all-out attack now. Let us join the battle. We will get to that core or die trying.”

Tahomaru presses his lips tighter together. His eyes are travelling across the valley and to the ribbon of the road that leads away, north-east: toward the villages that survived the disasters, toward the castle still standing unharmed, toward the rice paddies being prepared for spring sowing and planting.

Do or die trying. These are high words, but they are vain. Tahomaru has never felt it as clear, as sharp and cold against his heart, not even when he was fighting his brother to protect his land. Back then, there had always been that shadow of doubt present, though not fully conscious—that he was going against fate. That even if he failed, it would only mean justice, not the total end.

Now, the truth cuts him with the clarity of it: he can’t die without achieving the goal. He can’t die trying. He must do it, or else no deathly oblivion will be a relief.

He must ensure that the demonic army is stopped here.

But how? How on earth can he ensure that?

“My lord, a word if I may.”

A shiver runs down his spine as he turns around to the familiar sound of these words. To the familiar tone, restrained and focused like a flight of an arrow.

Only the voice is different, those velvety undertones hers and hers alone.

Furi gets on one knee like a warrior, her body slightly bowed, her hands pressed to the ground on both sides. She has no weapon, at least not a visible one, but a warrior is indeed what she is. Her hair is tied in a high ponytail, and her look is stern and determined. The samurai belatedly draw their swords, but Tahomaru stops them with a sharp gesture.

“Lord, there is but one way,” Furi says, paying no attention to the commotion her sudden appearance in the very headquarters has caused. “You, and you alone must do it. You must fight your way all through to that core.”

The heart gives a loud thump in his chest.

By his side, Hyakkimaru sucks in a breath. “Not even all the men we have are enough to break through, and you’re saying he must do it alone?”

“This is exactly why I am saying it,” Furi’s voice is calm and level. Even answering his brother’s question, she looks straight in Tahomaru’s eye as if it were all she could perceive, a single point of her connection to this world. Her eyes are deep pools of shadows. “My strength is not enough to cover a squad, not even a couple warriors. But I can cover you. In fact, I can’t cover anyone but you. Will you trust me to do so?” 

The vision of the arrow in the night emerges from Tahomaru’s memory, the arrow splitting in half just before his eyes. His brother’s words resound from afar, like all the other sounds of the battlefield, as though Tahomaru were immersing in the shadows himself:

“Are you sure you can protect him even against the whole army?”

“No. I am not sure that I can do that.”

“Then why do you suggest it?” Anger crawls into Hyakkimaru’s voice. “Isn’t it his life that you are here to protect?”

Furi doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, only light and shadows shift on her face and make loose strands of her hair whirl slowly as if an ethereal, invisible storm surrounded her. Other than that, she is perfectly still. “Yes. It is. But my lord cherishes this land far more than his life. If this land dies, he will not exist either.”

Tahomaru draws in the air deeply and exhales it all, feeling the world come back to him, clear and feather-light. He can’t die trying. But a perfect achievement of the goal can never be guaranteed. Trying is still the only way there is.

It is not do or die. It is die but do.

He says, “Let’s do it, Furi.”

Just as he fixes the helmet on his head and adjusts the swords in his sash, Hyakkimaru explodes:

“I’m going with you!”

“You’ve heard her. It’s only me, me alone.”

“I don’t need her help; I can hit arrows just well myself!” His voice is a roiling current of emotions.

“A dozen? A few dozen? You still might, but not thousands. Brother, you are a mere human now.” Tahomaru places his hands on Hyakkimaru’s shoulders. “Take command of the army. Try to draw them northward, to the Awazu’s direction, feign a joined attack to divert their attention. Just give us as much time as you can without risking too many lives.”

“But I don’t want to…! Maeda, or Saito, could do that!” Hyakkimaru shouts, his rage almost palpable as if the aura of fire flared up around him again. “I am your brother! Why can’t I fight alongside you now?!”

Tahomaru breathes in, then slowly breathes out. There is no time for stupid arguing—he has to say what needs to be said. “Because I am your lord. We are in battle now, and this is my order.”

Hyakkimaru staggers back, his eyes wide.

Silence erupts between them like a blast. For a moment, there is nothing but this silence, brittle and thorned. Then, it shatters.

“I don’t give a shit about your orders,” Hyakkimaru snarls, shaking Tahomaru’s hands off his shoulders abruptly. Hot rage is now condensed in his voice, like a slow torrent of lava. “Just today, you said that I am the eldest, that I am supposed to rule. So don’t lord it over me now!”

“If you want to be the one to rule,” Tahomaru utters through his teeth, “then fucking be the one!”

The words slice through the heavy air. Hyakkimaru jerks.

Tahomaru takes a few measured breaths, calming his mind. The blood is pressing to his temples, blinding his vision. Like all those times they were fighting each other. This is not how it was supposed to go…

“She is right, I love this land dearly,” he exhales, finding nothing more to say. “I am sure that someday you will come to love it, too.”

Hyakkimaru’s face harden, every emotion disappearing once again behind the sharp glint of his hazel eyes.

“I’ll do as you want. But once this battle is over, you are no longer my lord. Nobody will ever rule me.”

~

No one dares to oppose Tahomaru after that. The retainers stare at him with their faces as pale as death, until Hyakkimaru shakes them out of the stupor, commanding the attack.

The image of the bridge made of fragile glass appears once again in Tahomaru’s mind. With an effort, he pushes it to the back of his thoughts. His brother will understand. No doubt, he will. Later, if they win this battle, they will sit by the fire and talk everything over. ‘…I am supposed to rule…’ Probably, Hyakkimaru has already begun to recognize his destiny as his innermost inclination. Being in full command of the army will help that vague feeling take form in his mind.

Tahomaru turns back to Furi, half-awaiting to find her having vanished again, but she is there, an embodiment of the calm in the eye of the storm. Eerily real. A frigid shiver runs down his spine as Tahomaru realizes whom she reminds him of now, on the battlefield.

No. He shakes his head slightly. They couldn’t be more different.

Yet…

“I am ready,” he says, suppressing the weird feeling. “What must I do?”

“Everything you possibly can and more, lord. Fight your way through them all. I shall make sure to ward off the blows you will have missed. You will not be able to see me. Act as if you were alone but remember that you are not.”

Tahomaru nods. In other words, what he needs to do is to take a step into the void, trusting there will be a bridge under his feet. He flinches. An unseen bridge.

“Understood.”

As he mounts his horse and spurs it down the slope, he can see nobody by his side anymore.

~Part 3~

Two samurai wield their long pole swords fiercely, cutting the demons left and right at the rear of the wedge.

“‘If each of you slays just nine of them’, my ass…” one of the samurai puffs, catching his breath. “I’ve already slain more than thirty. And there’s still no end to them.”

“No way,” his comrade snorts. He reaches out to strike another demon, but it leaps away. “Ten at best!”

None of the undead actively tries to attack them, however: they just run past the samurai, all blind determination to reach the hill.

“I tell you it’s thirty! They’ve just disappeared, right here, under my horse…! I swear I killed that Mitsutoshi’s corpse alone three times already.”

“I’ve slain Tanaka’s one twice, and saw three or four of him run past us. This demon has just multiplied all the bodies. Maybe we must slay all the real ones to defeat it?”

“And how do we recognize which ones are the real ones? Anyway, looks like the attack’s gotten stuck. Can you see what they’re doing there at the front?”

“Like hell I can. Let’s just chop as much as we can here.”

They try to catch some hellspawns for a while, but to no avail. The undead make sure to avoid their blades, running past with creepy agility.

“I thought Hyakkimaru will lead us into battle, but he’s just staying back,” the first samurai grunts, lowering his naginata in frustration. “Isn’t he that much of a deal, after all?”

“Maybe he’s lost his supernatural power...”

“See what I’ve told you—”

A long signal of the horn muffles his voice.

“What are they playing now, another retreat? I swear my horse will fall dead from all the running to and fro—”

“No. Seems like it’s an attack this time. Can you hear what the chief is shouting there?”

“He says we must charge at the right flank now…? What? How on earth? Have they gone nuts over there?”

“I told you they have. We should’ve listened to Yusuke’s brother earlier, when he told us to leave this cursed domain. It’s done for. There was no hope from the beginning.”

“I’m a samurai, not some merchant to go seek fortune in other lands. Yusuke’s brother died like a samurai, too.”

“Right. If it’s our fate to die, be it. But we better make sure to die for an honorable cause. Why must we even fight Imagawa? He just wants to avenge his sons. That’s why he raised this rebellion. He is fighting for justice. Isn’t it what we must be doing, too, instead of defending Hyakkimaru who is hiding behind our backs? Surely, it’s your duty to avenge your sister’s husband.”

“But it’s my duty to be faithful to my lord. I am Maeda’s hereditary vassal, so I am following his orders.”

“But he trusts Lord Tahomaru too much. He is brave and clever, but isn’t he just a boy, after all? Maeda lost his son by Hyakkimaru’s hand, too. He should have made peace with Imagawa and kept the power in his hands, instead of blindly following the late Lord’s will.”

“Maybe he also was sure that Hyakkimaru would win this battle? Why isn’t he coming here, dammit? I heard that in the mountains, he took on these demons on his own and fought fiercely.”

“Yeah, but then he was injured and saved by Lord Tahomaru and his attendants. I heard Ando bragging about their wounds. Hyakkimaru can’t deal with this army. It was all bluff. He won’t be coming here.”

“Look!” the samurai chokes on his breath, goggling at the slope behind them. “There’s another charge from the hill! They’re sending us reinforcements!”

“…Hey, you two!” The regimental chief thunders past them, shaking his spear. “Quit half-assing at the back and join the attack! To the right flank!” he yells as he points the blade forward. The host gallops after him with a loud cheering.

The two samurai exchange blank glances. Finally, it dawns on them: the rest of the army has just abandoned the hill for a ferocious do-or-die attack, and they are to join it.

“Seems like it’s no more retreating now.” One of them knits his eyebrows and grips his spear firmly.

“Finally.” The other one clasps his naginata. “That’s more like it.”

As they skirt the dark mass crawling by the foot of the hill, they see a warrior in the head of the avalanche, riding his silver horse without holding the reins, two drawn swords in his hands flaming with the late sun glow—an image of Indra wielding lightnings and thunders in his fearsome glory.

Together, the samurai spur their horses, determination sharpening their every move. No more words are exchanged. Joy of valor overflows their hearts, and no memory of the recent talk remains in their minds.

…They do not notice another rider who flashes down the far side of the slope and disappears in the dark sea of the enemy—as anybody hardly does.

~

He can’t help but hold his breath as his horse dives right into the enemy multitude, with the blind courage of a devoted creature who trusts its master unconditionally.

His spear rips through a body and stabs another one in one go as he cleaves a path through the first rows. Tahomaru drops it and draws his long sword. Spear for the attack, sword for a close fight. The enemies tighten about him, only to recede like a tide as soon as he cuts down a dozen with the lightness of a sickle cutting crop.

No, they can’t feel fear. They recede to make distance and just shoot him.

Whatever mind rules their will, it surely values efficiency above everything…

‘Everything you possibly can and more.’

Tahomaru does more. He didn’t train with sword for months—the longest slacking off he ever allowed himself since he took his first sword at the age of three. But his last fights were with the greatest opponent of all. No ordinary warrior, not even an undead one guided by a demon, can hold a candle to his brother. Hear me, Asura? You may have given him extra strength to survive until you could finally gobble up his head, but it was his own skill, Tahomaru thinks proudly as another head rolls on the ground by his feet and disappears. You could do nothing about it. Not by our hands, nor today.

The wash of heat is flooding through his veins. His body acts as if on its own, feather-light and free. He must have been dead already. But there is still no scratch on his body when he breaks to the center of the enemy forces—and comes face to face with the living men, the mounted samurai of Imagawa.

Another squad of the undead rushes to block his way. Tahomaru urges his horse forward. His gaze is flickering across the field for a sign of the man who has invited the demon onto this land. Of course, he won’t come forth. Tahomaru will have to slay them all. He will slay until he reaches Imagawa and makes this army disappear.

The arrows fly at him but disintegrate in the air as if he was enwrapped in an invisible tornado. Yet Tahomaru does feel them graze or hit his armor once in a while. Her power isn’t infinite, after all. Now, she is focusing only on the blows that would have been lethal. His horse neighs one last time, trips, and drops dead.

Tahomaru rolls over, dodges another blade, sliding aside, and jumps up. It was a good horse, even though they only knew each other for several days, half of which Tahomaru was struggling with that new fear of his. They could have become comrades. Yet he didn’t even have time to name it…  

A moment passes, and Tahomaru no longer remembers there was a horse. Under the shroud of the Shadow, no past and no future exist. His mind is a bright flash of one instant. One hit. One dodge. One cut. With his left hand, he draws his short sword. The air fills his lungs with the liquid fire. His blades blur as Tahomaru swirls them wildly, cutting through the mass of bodies, all the dojo technics thrown away for the dance of pure rage. He chokes for a breath as his heart continues a furious flutter up to his throat.

A fit of laughter escapes his mouth on the exhale. This is what life feels like—a bright flash of one instant. His body is on fire with flushing, feverish glee. Another gale of laughter. The ghostly veil makes the sound wither into the shadows. Another blow, a hard one, crushes down the back of his cuirass and sweeps him off his feet.

There are too many of them. He’s in the very core, and if the next instant he doesn’t get up—

He will never know what for he was even born into this world.

…The bright flash of one moment scatters into thousands of sparkles, broken apart by the clear sound of the horn.

With a sharp intake of air, Tahomaru remembers about the past.

He remembers about the future.

He remembers about his army, his people and his duty.

He remembers about his brother who makes all the living men suddenly pull away from the center—toward himself, leading the attack on the right flank in person.

Imagawa’s lust for revenge has made him throw the caution away.

Tahomaru jumps to his feet and rushes desperately after the samurai. He must not let Imagawa escape. He must not let him reach his brother who has no supernatural protection. He must put an end to this with his own hands, now. Tahomaru slashes blindly at a walking corpse trying to block his way, another one, yet another, and—

Everything disappears.

~

The body hits the ground with the force of the bag of rice thrown down from an exhausted peasant’s shoulders. It does not vanish, unlike a major part of the demonic army. Tahomaru hardly perceives the thud of his own body against the mud in the ringing silence that has taken over in an instant, with the swiftness of his blade piercing the core.

The core...?

When he opens his eye and rises to his knees, he is on the empty field, a few bodies here and there weird reminders of the greatest battle that ever occurred in this domain. The barren landscape is dusted with the gentle green of the new life stomped to the mud. It will sprout again. Here, right on this spot, it certainly will, now.

Wet strands of hair fall over his eye as he takes off his helmet. Tahomaru brushes them back with trembling fingers.

It’s over.

He turns the corpse at his feet.

Another stony, bloodless face stares into the void with glazed eyes.

“It’s not Imagawa.” His voice is coarse, his throat parched. “Who was he, I wonder…”

“Just a samurai of Daigo. Another one fallen by Tatesuki Pass,” Furi says flatly from behind him, holding out a flask.

Tahomaru’s face twitches as he recalls the pale corpse of her adoptive father in the woods. He takes a greedy gulp and scrambles to his feet. The wound on his back hurts, but he can’t feel any serious bleeding nor signs of inner damage.

Furi’s shadow is tall and lean in the golden rays of the westering sun. It reminds him yet again of another one. A shadow of the shadow…

'I am only existing to protect you.'

For a moment, he doesn’t want to turn around.

Then, he does.

Yet again, Tahomaru feels as if the whole world faded into grey colors, sounds quieted down, and time froze in its flow as he looks into the dim shadows of her eyes. The sad beauty of it makes his heart clench.

“Let’s go now.” Tahomaru looks over to the northern side of the emptied battlefield, where their troops are gathering back together. “The battle seems to have ended there, too.”

“Yes, lord.”

She is close enough to touch, but he can’t even make out the sound of her breathing in the silence surrounding them as they walk. Does she even need to breathe? The images of the silence filled with gaspy sighs try to resurface in his mind. The exhaustion feels almost the same, too. Everything else is different.

The field is swamped by the thousands of feet and hooves, yet there is almost no blood in this mud. These dead men have already spilt it in another battle, months ago… The pale faces of those few who haven’t vanished look past them with misty eyes. Tahomaru thinks of Hyogo’s severed head staring into the void, and of the still, grey sky in Mutsu’s eyes. He thinks of the cruel irony of fighting for your land but becoming a demon’s puppets as the result.

“What a horrid mockery,” Tahomaru can’t help gritting his teeth. “Instead of being buried like heroes, they were trapped and forced to kill their own kin...”

“Their spirits were released upon death to prepare for the rebirth,” Furi denies. “But their bodies, those of flesh and those of light, are suffering indeed. I suggest you order to gather all the corpses and make a funeral pyre, to cleanse them.”

Tahomaru looks up at her, myriads of questions buzzing in his head. Whoever she is, perhaps she knows what he can only guess. “Why did the demon even need the corpses of our warriors, if it could just create the whole army of hell here?”

“Demons can’t penetrate into this world on their own,” Furi says, confirming his understanding. “In order to break through the barrier, a demon needs to consume the force of the living offered to him on a free will. However, this army did not consist of the demons incarnated. It was only driven by some disembodied force; the force that could not take a shape of its own—which is why it used the bodies of the dead as its vessels.”

“You mean, it wasn’t a deal with the demons?” Tahomaru stares up at her. But he sensed Asura’s presence, sensed it clearly… And so did the blind priest.

“It was a strong magic. A magic tied to a dead body. I assume that the fallen warrior you slew the last had been made into an attractor of the force of the living. Chosen randomly for that purpose, his body was drawing in many people’s grief—for their relatives, beloved, comrades fallen at war. Grief and sorrow tear the soul apart. Once collected, that force was enough to revive the dead bodies, but not enough to create new ones.”

Tahomaru remembers the white horse. It, too, was magically revived on the bottom of that ravine after having been torn apart. The Ravine of The Wrathful One, as people called it for the great statue of Fudo carved in the rock, with the sword of wisdom in his right hand and the noose in his left. Known as one of The Five Embodiments of The Wheel of Injunction, the frightener of gods and men, the destroyer of the strength of demons, Fudo was worshipped widely by the mountain monks; but no one could tell who and when had carved that particular statue. For many generations it had been there, adorning the sheer cliff of the ravine, reminding people of the inevitability of karma. But, made by a carver of the ancient times, it lacked the fierce face of the modern statues, its serene features invoking wisdom, not fear; and so, before long, people ceased worshipping it. Over the time, the ravine had come to be used to dump corpses of the executed outlaws, outcasts, lepers, along with other garbage. Huge swarms of black crows dwelt and multiplied there, feasting on the rotten flesh. During the recent wars, the samurai of the both Daigo and Asakura clans used it to dispose of the enemies' bodies.

But maybe some ancient power had been sleeping there. The power that revived the horse with the force of all those resentful spirits, and granted them their rightful vengeance in the end.

Tahomaru feels cold in the marrow of his bones. Like an echo of some forgotten war, they have been on this land since time immemorial, separated only by his ruined home: the Hall of Hell—and the statue of The Wrathful One, the destroyer of demons. In their last battle, he and his brother all but became puppets of those mighty powers as well...

Tahomaru glances at Furi. Which power does her strength come from? He isn't sure he is prepared for the answer.

Instead, he asks another question. “The numbers don’t add up. Less than a thousand perished by Tatesuki Pass. If that force could not create new bodies, how come it numbered ten thousand, and kept growing?”

“The bigger part of that army was just phantoms, the illusions that have vanished,” she replies. “Only a small part of it was real corpses with real weapon that causes real wounds.”

Tahomaru gulps down. He feared that. Not all the wounds will disappear tomorrow. Not all the men who live through this day will survive the next… Some of their injuries have been caused by the real weapon, and nobody can tell which ones.

“And yet, those phantoms could kill, too,” he notes. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know, lord,” Furi admits. “This is beyond my comprehension. All I know is that it requires a sophisticated knowledge very few…possess…” There is the slightest of breaks in the steadiness of her detached voice. Yet it almost makes Tahomaru trip over with the oddity of it—as if the constant flow of a river halted for a moment. But in a moment Furi continues, “There is also another possibility. Although no demon incarnated bodily in that army, the magic that had created the phantoms and ruled them might have been a demon’s doing.”

Tahomaru doesn’t have a moment to dwell on it—loud voices disrupt their talk:

“Lord! It is our lord there! He has pierced the core! Hail to our lord!”

A squad gallops across the battlefield toward them. Tahomaru strains his eye. Hyakkimaru is not among the riders.

But it is understandable. After that exchange...

Ando reaches them first, leading a couple of horses. He flashes a wide smile. “Lord, we have captured Imagawa alive!”

“Great!” Tahomaru brightens. “Where is he?”

“He has been brought to the execution place we have arranged,” another samurai says, proud with their initiative.

“It was unnecessary.” Tahomaru purses his lips. He spots the place draped with a white, crest-adorned cloth, already installed right on the field. Next to it, visible in between the Daigo samurai, is a large group of men on their knees, probably the whole Imagawa’s host.

“Are you hurt, lord?” Otani steps up to help him into saddle, but Tahomaru waves him off.

“I am fine.”

“Where is she?” Ando blinks, halting abruptly by the other horse. “Has she just disappeared, like that time?”

“Seems so,” Tahomaru says dryly. For some reason, he doesn’t want to discuss Furi with anyone. As if, being his ghostly guardian, she also was his deepest secret. “Where is my brother?”

“Lord Hyakkimaru has left to the medical camp. He expressed the desire to personally accompany all the wounded. There were very few, though. He led a brilliant attack, even though it was just a diversion!”

“Fine.” Tahomaru suppresses a sigh of relief. It is good that Hyakkimaru won’t be present as he speaks with Imagawa. He must not learn about that man’s reasons.

~

“Impossible, lord,” Maeda says firmly on their way to the execution grounds. “Being merciful to the mutinous peasants who suffered through many perils can be considered generosity, but mercy on a treacherous samurai who staged a coup and waged a war against you is tantamount to suicide. He must be executed, and his clan wiped out. Along with all who followed him in this rebellion. You must show the strength of your rule, lord. You must put an end to this chaos decisively.”

“No.” Tahomaru says. In this world, you either kill or are killed. He, too, once fell into the trap of such a mindset. But he was saved by his brother. “There is a third way. There is always a third way.”

“What way?” Maeda furrows his brow in perplexity.

“I don’t know yet. But it certainly is there.”

“No, lord. Not now. There is no third way.”

Tahomaru purses his lips as he dismounts. He was prepared to slay Imagawa—but in battle, assured he is the core that Biwamaru spotted but could not describe as a visible figure. Now, it is different.

Suddenly, a shadow of some large bird fleets across the white cloth, causing him to flinch.

...Tahomaru sways on his feet as a memory strikes him in a flash.

~

He is four, or maybe three, running down some garden walkway. He knows he is not supposed to be here, let alone on his own, and the boiling excitement overflows him at this understanding. The unknown garden with stones and creeks and the big river visible between the trees seems to him like a vast valley. He is on his own journey. The wind is strong in his face, and his clothes are fluttering like sails. The sky is deep and boundless above his head. There, among the high clouds, is a bright fish that holds all his attention. It is red, and green, and blue, shimmering vividly as it meanders in the wind streams, so beautiful it takes his breath away. Tahomaru senses the satisfying strain of the thread clenched tightly in his hand.

The next moment, he trips over. Pain blazing his knees and his palms, Tahomaru sits up on the ground, and his hand is empty. When he raises his head again, the fish is gone. He begins to weep, crushing sorrow spreading all over his body.

“Ah, seems like your kite fell into the river,” a voice startles him. “What a waste.”

Another wave of grief hits him, but Tahomaru suppresses it. He remembers that the young samurai are not supposed to bawl like this, much less the heirs. He smears the tears on his cheeks and blinks the moisture away.

“Come on, boy, rise up.” The samurai who holds out a hand is not young. He looks tough and fierce, and, blinking again, Tahomaru recognizes him as one of the chief retainers, his friend’s father. “It was a fine kite. Your sorrow is understandable. But nothing can be done about it now.”

The samurai, for sure, recognizes him too, but pretends that he hasn’t. Why…?

Tahomaru takes the offered hand and scrambles to his feet. Belatedly, hot shame crawls across his skin. He wants to just run away, so the samurai wouldn’t stare at his wet cheeks and his running nose. Now, he will tell his parents that Tahomaru is such a crybaby. Mother will love him even less… And Father will say, No, you are not the heir of mine.

Tahomaru pulls his hand free. “I’ll go search it.”

“No use anymore. The river is fast; it’s already gone with the flow. Where do you live? You better return. Your parents must be worried.” And the samurai winks at him.

Tahomaru stares at him, and then realizes. The samurai will keep it secret. This is why he is talking as if he were some random boy. Tahomaru nods quickly and rushes away, relief and gratitude overshining the loss in his heart.

Imagawa would never mention that incident, indeed. Except when sometime later, he would show up on Tahomaru’s playground, a new kite in his hands.

“'Tis not a fish,” Tahomaru blurted from sudenness and shame.

“No, it is a bird.”

“Why?”

“Why…? Well, a fish only goes with the flow. But a bird chooses where to go. Even if it flies away or drowns, it won’t be as sad, don’t you think?” And he winked at Tahomaru again.

“Why won’t it be sad?”

“Because it will be like the bird has chosen it. Do you understand?”

Tahomaru did not, yet he nodded anyway and took the magnificent bird, too mesmerized and embarrassed to thank the samurai properly. He would take good care of it, and he would find a place with no rivers so the bird wouldn’t even think of drowning itself.

That is how he found that meadow. However, by that time, other things were occupying his mind, making him sadder than any kites swept away by the flow could. And one day, lying on the grass, numb and hollowed out, Tahomaru would just unclench his hand—and watch the bird disappear in the blue void…

~

Why does he even recall all of this now? Tahomaru is pulled out of his reverie by Maeda’s voice:

“…You do not need to decide anything, lord. The laws established long ago tell us precisely how to act in this situation. It is not malice to be true to the law.”

Followed by Shimura and several attendants, they step inside the draped enclosure. Imagawa is seated on his knees, with three samurai guarding him, his two swords on the ground. There are many grey hairs in his topknot, his thin moustache, and his pointed beard; and as he looks up, his dark eyes are nothing like the eyes that winked at the little boy years ago.

“You have lost the battle,” Maeda says, his voice cold. “Many men have died for your mad ambitions. Now that you see the lord with your own eyes, you can no longer hide behind the excuses of not believing that it truly is him. You are just a traitor, and you have sealed your own fate.”

Imagawa does not spare a glance at Tahomaru, though. His long, keen eyes under the sharp incline of the eyebrows do not leave Maeda’s eyes. “My fate is sealed, but so is yours. I have lost this battle, but it is only the beginning. My son Taizo will finish what I have started.”

“Aren’t all your sons dead?” Maeda makes an effort to not let surprise color his voice.

“He survived. A man of great skill and wisdom saved him.”

Maeda coughs. “Even if it is true, Taizo is not the one who could possibly win a war. He would never put martial training over literature, after all. Didn’t you refuse to even give him a grown-up name until he proved himself in battle?”

“Laugh all you want. He survived and returned strong. His resolve to avenge his brothers is unwavering. He will not bow to the wild beast that he has every right to slay.”

Maeda scowls. “How did you even learn about Lord Kagemitsu’s decision to pass the rule to Hyakkimaru? Who informed you?”

Imagawa squints against the late sun as he looks up at his former comrade and would-be relative. “Do you really want to know, Masahiro?”

“More importantly, I wish to know the origin of that army,” Tahomaru cuts in before it’s too late. “I suppose you have made a deal with the demons to acquire it. Where did you make it? What were the conditions? What did you sacrifice? Answer.”

“A deal has been made, but not by me, and I know nothing about sacrifices.” Imagawa still doesn’t look at him as he replies.

“I find it hard to believe.”

“What you believe is of no importance to me,” he dismisses. “But even if I did know, why would I even say a word to you?”

“Treacherous dog!” Maeda explodes. “Have your madness screwed your sight, or is it the demon’s doing? The one you dare to address is Tahomaru, Lord Daigo, the one who has the allegiance of every man on this land!”

“I see only one madman here, and it is you, Masahiro, spitting around and barking at the command of some boy. I see no Daigo before me.”

Some boy. As if in a warped repetition of that bright day, Imagawa chooses once again not to see Tahomaru as who he is. He sets his teeth, suppressing the frustration. He would prefer to focus on what really matters, yet his position does not allow him to simply brush off the offence. “Explain yourself.”

“As you wish,” Imagawa bows his head with mocking submissiveness. “For many generations, my clan has been serving the Daigo. However, it is not only loyalty that made me follow Lord Kagemitsu. I admired his strong will and resourcefulness. But the lord I knew was gone long before his body died. His last decision to leave the domain to a mad beast proves his own final madness. As a father, I do not blame him, for I know how it feels to lose a son, your heir. It may surely drive one mad. At first, I could not believe that Tahomaru was alive, just brushed it off as a lame decoy by Maeda—to lure me out of the fortress under the pretext of swearing my allegiance. Only yesterday the news reached me that it is indeed him. But it made my resolve even stronger.” At last, Imagawa looks him in the eye, his gaze blazing steel. “Tahomaru had died. What emerged from the ashes is not the brave and resolute youth I have known. The Lord’s heir would have never abandoned his father in such dire circumstances. He would have never bent to the one he had sworn to eliminate though it cost him his life. He would have never forgiven what had been done to our beloved land.”

“That is why you invited the whole army of demons onto this land?” Tahomaru can’t help a bitter sarcasm. “Then our definitions of love are indeed different.”

“That army was to destroy just one beast, to avenge all those who were slain by him,” Imagawa brushes off.

Maeda raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Ten thousand demons against one human?”

“He is no human,” Imagawa lets out a grim chuckle. “Was the whole army enough by the Two Pines? Our sons fought and died there, side by side. You think I would have sent a living man against the monster ever again? No; too many have perished already. The very future of this land has been decimated. My intent was for the spawns of hell to fight and destroy each other, but you,” Imagawa pierces Tahomaru with his hard gaze again, “you have dragged our men into this, you have made them die for the beast again. It was your own decision to protect him and bring him here, to the very core of the domain, that caused this pointless carnage.”

Tahomaru feels the ground wobble under his feet. To think of it, that army was first spotted by Tatesuki Pass, where the corpses of the dead warriors lay buried under the snow, and where “the strong magic” that Furi mentioned must have been performed. Then, it headed toward the place where they met Hyakkimaru that day. Would that army never have gone further, had they not interfered? Had they not happened there just on time to pull his wounded, exhausted brother out of the uneven fight?

Would this bloody battle never have happened?

“Our land was thriving upon Hyakkimaru’s sacrificed body for years,” Maeda says without batting an eye. “It is only fair that now, this land has given its everything to protect him.”

“So, the one you call your lord was prepared to sacrifice every last warrior left on this land to protect just one?” Imagawa lifts his eyebrows, a scornful grimace on his face. “Indeed, the Tahomaru I’ve known would have never done something like this. It is the lowest selfishness of a petty commoner, not a samurai’s act.”

Tahomaru purses his lips. Indeed, he should have been more careful with this talk. A rebellion, though with a big stretch, could have been forgotten in an intricate play of politics. A brazen breach of etiquette followed by the insults of the lord, however, could not.

Imagawa, of course, understands it. The scathing scorn leaves his face, and a stern hardness comes in its stead. He lifts up his head, firm and determined. “I will die now, but my son will succeed. He will avenge the dead and lead this land to the future it deserves.”

“You are too quick to jump into conclusions,” Tahomaru says calmly. A fish only goes with the flow. But a bird chooses where to go. The decision is for him to make, and no codes, no laws established long ago must rule his will. “I have no intent to pass the death sentence on you. You can leave and go to your son, if he truly is alive.”

Maeda tenses, feeling the samurai around them freeze up in perplexity at the lord’s words. A moment later, their faces slowly brighten in comprehension. He almost senses the strain of thoughts in their heads. Must be another smart plan of their lord, they think: to let Imagawa go so that he led them to his son’s hideout. No offspring of the cursed bloodline plotting vicious things must escape the punishment!

Maeda will not disprove this natural conclusion. But he knows his lord better than that. A smart plan is not what he has in his mind, not this time.

After a pause, a fit of cackling sounds escapes Imagawa’s throat. It must be a laughter. “What wild lunacy has led you to suppose that I could dishonor myself in such a way, fleeing like a dog? You think I fear death? No samurai, even as worthless as Maeda here, would have accepted such a handout. I find only one explanation: the soul that revived your body after the fire was that of a peasant, or maybe even a foul, measly outcast.”

“Enough,” Maeda cuts him short brusquely, his eyes flashing with cold fury. “After everything you have said here, you deserve to die like one of the said outcasts, stripped of your clothes and hung on a tree, for the vultures to devour your flesh.”

Imagawa spits at his feet. “You can do whatever you wish with my body, but my spirit will not be ashamed to meet my sons and my honorable forefathers.”

Tahomaru, frustration obscuring his sight, turns away. From the beginning, he could clearly see how this conversation would unfold, what would be said and what would be answered. And yet, he had to try.

“Shimura,” he says to the chief of guard, “free Lord Imagawa and return him his swords. Let someone of his people to assist him, too, if that is what he chooses.”

No one moves, stunned into silence.

Tahomaru adds, his voice angry, “Do it!”

“Why?” a voiceless exhale reaches him, almost drowned out by the hurried shuffling of steps.

Tahomaru halts on the exit.

“I never thanked you properly,” he says without turning around. “I released the bird eventually. I let it choose where to go, and I did not cry. But it still was sad to learn that the fishermen found it in the lake, broken and drowned.”

He walks off, a heavy boulder weighing in his chest.

~

“Lord, you were beyond generous. To allow the traitor to die with honor… All the samurai, including Imagawa himself, were astonished by your generosity.”

“My generosity resulted in nothing. Yet another life has been put to an end.”

“But it has changed your samurais’ hearts. They were touched deeply, even though I expected the opposite reaction. At this point, I fail to foresee the consequences your actions may bring, for you defy too boldly the usual ways,” Maeda admits. “But whether it is good or bad, I can no longer tell. My confused judgement makes me unworthy of being your advisor.”

“It is too easy to tell good from bad, Maeda-san,” Tahomaru says, his voice toneless. “To protect life is good. To take it is bad. No sophisticated knowledge is required here.”

“This is indeed the way of the Buddha. But my lord, you must remember that pursuing it, you may crush the grounds our very society stands on.”

“I am not a monk and I do not pursue any religious path. I only want to protect our people, but this time, by the means I would not be ashamed of. Now, I must go find my brother.”

“As you wish, lord.”

Tahomaru strides to his horse, but pauses halfway. “Maeda-san,” he says quietly. “If something as simple, as fundamental as the importance of life itself may crush our society, isn’t it better being crushed?”

Maeda looks up at him with worry. Indeed, the young lord has inherited not just his father’s strong will but his mother’s compassionate heart, too. Is it a divine grace or a divine curse to have someone so pure, so remorseful as the ruler of the domain? For a few moments, Maeda keeps silent, struggling to overcome the emotion that suddenly squeezed his throat and burned his eyes. Grace or curse, I will lay down my life for him.

“I believe it is not, my lord. No matter how imperfect, the society is order. Once the order is crushed, the chaos will imminently follow. And in the chaos, a life is worth no more than a stone lying in the mud.”

“Thank you,” Tahomaru says. “I shall remember that.”

~

Under his feet, a single red spider lily glows violently, like shed blood sprouting straight out of the stomped ground. How did it survive the fury of a thousand hooves and feet untouched? Why has it even bloomed now, in the wrong season? The flower of the autumn equinox, and the flower of eternal parting that adorns the path to the other world... Tahomaru shakes the chills off his shoulders.

’This is only the beginning.’

He tears his look away from the flower and takes the reins firmer. Above his head, the sky is a shimmering gold sliced through by the shadows of the crows gathering for a feast they will not get tonight. Many funeral fires are already coming aglow on the field behind him as Tahomaru makes his way up the slope, toward the medical camp.

Higher above, where the golden glow melts into the shadow of the nearing night, the seagulls soar through the invisible winds, steady and free, unconcerned by the tumult of the land.

...Perhaps, it was Imagawa’s words spoken to him when Tahomaru was but a little boy that changed him forever. Even surrounded by nurses and guardians, bound by his father’s expectations, he would still go his own way, a picture of the bird in the sky engraved deep in his mind. He would travel freely across the land and observe. He would develop his own understanding of the life he saw.

And it was his own understanding that led him to make that decision before the closed doors of the Hall of Hell.

The greater good. Wherever Tahomaru looked, there seemed to be no escaping of that principle. Our very existence is based on deaths of the creatures we kill to consume. Kill to survive. Kill to protect.

The one who brings danger must be stopped to save those who would suffer from his actions. A village contaminated with plague must be burned down to prevent more deaths. A warrior must plunge into attack, prepared to die, to save the cause. Everything Tahomaru believed back then, he still believes now.

There is one exception of that rule, however. One crucial exception. No demons must be invited into this world, despite how desperate the situation may be. Humans choose, and sometimes humans choose wrong. A bird who flies free may end up on the lake bottom. But in any case, the consequences must be met head on, and full responsibility must be taken.

Imagawa’s blazing eyes will forever remind him of that.

When Tahomaru looks up from his own shadow, what he sees is other blazing eyes, the eyes of his brother. Hyakkimaru dismounts and approaches him. His skin and hair are bronze in the glow of the setting sun.

Tahomaru takes a deep breath, trying to steady his heart.

'Because I am your lord. And this is my order.'

Maybe he was wrong with his words, and with his arrogant demeanor. He could not come up with a better solution at the time. He will apologize for that. And he will bow to his brother, the true heir, the one who must be the Lord, here and now. He will pass him the sword of their father. The battle is finished. The last remnants of the Deal are scattered in the wind. He, too, must step aside now.

This is how the circle will be closed, and the river of karma will flow free again.

“She did protect you,” Hyakkimaru says as they stop a couple of steps away from each other.

Tahomaru can’t say whether it is a calm statement or an astonished one. His brother’s face is unreadable.

“Yes, but it is only thanks to you that I’ve managed to pierce the core. That charge couldn’t have had a better timing.” He offers a smile. The corner of his mouth quivers. “You did perfect, and almost without losses, too.”

“Almost? But they did die. Many of them.” Hyakkimaru’s voice is harsh, his words clipped. “They believed they were attacking to crush the enemy, that I’ve got some superpower, but they were just a decoy.”

Didn’t you command the same earlier, on your own accord, to buy us time? Tahomaru swallows the remark.

“But thanks to their selfless actions, we were able to win this battle,” he says instead. “Sometimes, we have to make tough decisions. It is the sad duty of a ruler.”

“To sacrifice?” Hyakkimaru’s lips twitch. His eyes are on fire with the sunset. “I want no piece of it. You won’t make me become like him.”

Tahomaru gulps. “Brother—”

“I know now. You’re only forcing it on me because you want to escape it yourself.”

“I do n—"

“Because you just want to live.”

The words knock the air out of his lungs.

Hyakkimaru rips the swords from behind his back and throws them to Tahomaru’s feet. Without another word, he springs back into his saddle and rides off.

Tahomaru stands on his spot, shell shocked, until the silhouette is lost in the orange glow of evening, and nothing remains except the high-pitched ringing of the broken glass. Under his feet, there is no surface. There is only a bottomless abyss in which he is falling.

'…to live.' 

Chapter Text

The stars above Daishoji Fortress come aglow one by one, bright and steady, until the whole dark-blue expanse of the sky is dusted with little gems. A striking contrast, the terrain below is dark and featureless, with no human settlement lights to serve as marks to gauge the distance. Once again, Dororo strains her eyes, but even from this great height it is impossible to make out anything in the shadows of the eastern horizon. Reflecting the last rays of the sunset, the long stretch of the lagoon could be seen there just a while ago. Now, everything is but a veil of blue darkness. 

Trying her best to suppress the anxious frisson coursing through her veins, Dororo sighs and flops down beside Aki. 

“Stop sweating, sure they’ve beaten those demons,” Aki yawns. She sits cross-legged, chewing on some dried fruits they have found in the storages, a half-emptied basket on her lap. Her long tangled hair reaches the floor, hiding her small and thin figure like a coat. “So, you were saying? He really told you that the wars can’t be stopped?”

“Yup.” Dororo forces her attention back to the here and now. It’s good that Aki is there to distract her with a chat. “He said that the Shogun has no authority, and the laws are not working anymore. The lords are free to fight for lands and power, and to do whatever they wish in their domains.” The memory of the bonfire the two of them shared comes to her, vivid and warm. Dororo could have sat like that forever, discussing deep and weighty things with someone who truly knew stuff (not just guessed it, putting on a know-it-all face, like some of the guys from her village did.) Or talking about those faraway lands and their customs and goods…like this red coat, jinbaori, for one. It still amazes her to think that the wool it's made of has been delivered from across many oceans. Dororo strokes the fabric discreetly, the softness of it soothing her nerves a little. “Nothing will ever change until the country is reunited under a strong hand, he said. But who’s gonna do it, and when?” 

“Well, the strongest of them lords, obviously.” Aki leans back to look at the darkening sky, her prosthetic hand thudding against the stones. “One of them will conquer the capital and become a new Shogun. There’s no use worrying about it. Maybe things’ll get better someday… But for now, we just gotta defend ourselves.”

Dororo tugs at the flaps, wrapping Tahomaru’s coat tighter about her to ward off the night chill. The stones are still warm under her butt, though.

“If I were to choose, I’d like it to be him. He cares about people…and he is so nice… But at the same time, I don’t want that. Because nobody can do it and stay the same nice person. Heck, the nicest ones will never even start a war. The cruelest and the greediest do it…while the nicest die.” 

“And so, we are bound to be ruled by the evil,” concludes Aki philosophically. 

Dororo frowns. “No. I believe we can change things. Taho, for one, is both good and strong…” 

What am I saying? Dororo shakes up slightly. She doesn’t want him to conquer the country, of course. If she could, she would wish for him to never deal with wars at all. Then what is it I want from him?  

Not for the first time Dororo asks herself this question. She can’t help a sigh escaping her mouth.

Aki looks at her askance, her sharp greenish eyes squinted in a sly smile. 

Dororo returns the stare, “What?” 

“You’re in love with him, aren’t ya?”  

“Eh?” Dororo lurches, gasping. “What the heck! I’ve just told you that he’s nice and he cares about people—  and—”

“Yeah, I know, and also, you’re crushing on him so bad!” Aki pokes her, bursting into laughter.

“I— I do not!” Dororo shoots to her feet, her fists balled, the blood thumping in her ears. “It has nothing to do with crushes! You— you don’t understand a thing about politics…!”

“You’re stuttering exactly like my big sis when she talks about Seiichi from the next door,” Aki shakes with giggles, clutching her sides. “And she says she hates him! So ridiculous! Everybody can see it!”

“I never said that I hate him…!”

“Sure, you’re not as stupid as my big sis! She really thinks I don’t understand!”

Dororo grits her teeth, fuming. She never dealt with girls so closely. Most of the time she was on her own, and when by chance happened to stick for a while with some orphan kids, she would mostly hang out with boys. Acting like one, she passed as one. If she were still maintaining the image, nobody would have even assumed her to be in love with some boy only because she admired him!

Dororo flings back her loose hair in irritation. It only reaches her shoulder blades for now, but maybe she must resume her habit of cropping it. Is it truly as they say? That girls always only think about love? But Aki seemed like a reasonable one!

“And you!” Dororo finally recovers enough for a counter attack. “You talk like you know how it feels!”

“Yeah, I do,” Aki just shrugs. “There’s a boy I like. He moved to the castle town last summer, though, ‘cause his dad’s a merchant, but we promised to meet again. What’s wrong about it?”

Dororo sucks in a breath, stunned. “Then— why were you making fun of me?”

“You just looked funny is all. Don’t be so uptight about it. You can laugh all you want at me, too, for all I care. We weren’t laughing much this past year anyway.” Aki jumps to her feet, too, and stretches her back with a relaxed yawn. “A-ah! It’s so starry, and the wind is warm! It doesn’t seem like another war is going on. Not at all like this fall. It was all gloomy and cold then…” She trails off, a shadow crossing her face. “I know there’s no more castle town. Maybe my boy’s dead, too, or left someplace else. I guess I’ll find out soon enough. But for now, everything’s fine. I want to be able to laugh when something is good, even if it’s surrounded with all darkness, like these stars.”

Dororo looks up, too, the heat of the outrage slowly fading from her face. The night is chilly yet not cold, alive and filled with the sounds of rebirth. The soft breeze carries the breath of the ocean sweetened with the fragrance of the blooming plum trees. In the woods beyond the walls the night birds are hooting, the sound occasionally interrupted by the loud snoring from the fortress courtyard. Dororo frowns. She just hopes the guys who keep watch by the stables aren’t snoring, too. For the samurai, even locked and tied up, can be a handful… 

‘It’s to teach them a lesson.’ Dororo's skin erupts with shivers at the memory of her father’s words on a night like this. ‘So that they’ll treat us like living human beings.’

‘Living? Samurai don’t even get that?’ 

At the time, she concluded that samurai were some nitwits. It was a bit later that she realized it had nothing to do with wits…

Well, Tahomaru does get that. Could she ever imagine that the person who would one day understand her pain and aspiration the best would be a samurai, and a lord to boot? Dororo’s shoulders twitch, the warmth still not completely gone from her cheeks. What else she wants from him… Well, if he could make the samurai fight only for protecting the people, not for their stupid domination and influence, battling it out with the neighboring lords…that would be a start. Surely if one of them samurai can even change their ways, it’s Tahomaru.

And if they're together with Bro… Dororo inhales sharply at the thought. If they are together with Bro, nothing will be impossible. 

~The story of the seeds of the future~

~Hills of Bungyomachi~

‘…I want no piece of it. You’re only forcing it on me because you want to escape it yourself.’

“We barely deflected an attack from the east. All thanks to the lord’s decision to strengthen the defense of the castle. The enemy retracted, but apparently only to gather reinforcements.”

‘…You just want to live.’

“From the east? Hatakeyama…? Are you certain?”

“Yes, Lord Masahiro. The majority of banners were those of the Hatakeyama. But they were led by a small squad of the Imagawa samurai.”

‘…to  l i v e.’

“Lord?”

Tahomaru shakes up. He forces the echoes out of his head and makes an effort to focus on the things before him. 

Right. A messenger from the castle. Covered in dust, his horse steaming from the fast ride, his words fast and alarmed. An attack. There was an attack on Great River Castle.

“So, Imagawa wasn’t bluffing,” Tahomaru says. “One of his sons is indeed alive, and he hasn’t been wasting this winter. Perhaps, what we assumed to be an internal conflict was something else. Taizo, or whoever it is, might have easily taken over the Hatakeyama with another demonic trick.”

Maeda bows slowly. Weakened by internal conflict for the succession, he recalls the words he said to the lord, arguing with his decision to reinforce the castle defences. How could he misjudge that much? “No profound apologies, lord, will suffice—”

“I beg you, Maeda-san. Nobody could foresee that.”

“You did, my lord,” Maeda exhales, his voice shaking with awe. “The reinforcements you ordered to leave at the castle—”

“Were just a precaution, of course. How could I foresee something like that? Like I said earlier, I just wanted to consider all the possibilities.”

Ignoring his generals’ stunned exclamations, Tahomaru shifts his gaze below, toward the darkening valley coming aglow with funeral pyres. A heavy smell of the burning flesh is beginning to flow inland, borne on the streams of the evening breeze. The rage of the recent battle has cooled down in his veins, become just another memory, an odd mix of victory and defeat. The toll is great, but they did it. Now, looking back, the task mastered seems almost impossible... 

Indeed, everything he did would always go astray because of one unforeseen detail. He could never calculate everything down to the last possibility. Yet he knew no other way but to try. To make his plans as flexible as possible. As versatile as possible. It finally played out right today…at least, on the battlefield. Tahomaru takes a deep breath. “Still, it could have been a fatal decision, and only by chance it turned out to our benefit.”

“I must disagree, my lord,” Maeda says. “You made this chance possible by all the decisions you had taken up to that point. You were the one to treat the Ikki with respect, which induced them to come and fight alongside us. You had found your brother whose genius helped us win this battle. And indeed it is a merit of yours to have a woman who is able to protect you like that.”

Have a woman… The memory of the wild fight is like a fading intoxication on the edge of his consciousness, the throbbing pain in his injured back the only tangible reminder of it. Tahomaru can’t help shooting a glance at his side, but of course no one can be seen there. Does he have her? Someone whose strength is incomprehensible to him? Someone beyond his reach? Like an unsteady apparition, Furi has blended back into shadows, to never show up unless another danger threatens his life. Can he have someone who probably isn’t even a human?

“But you also need a…regular personal attendant, lord,” Maeda adds, lowering his voice. “Ando and Otani are the best of our men in wielding bow and sword. Saito took them under his wing after their fathers died in war seventeen years ago, since they are the sons of his sisters, and he has no sons of his own. He trained and polished them ever since. They are firm in their devotion and also smart enough. If during your scouting you found them any worthy, I strongly recommend—”

“No,” Tahomaru says brusquely, his shoulders twitching. “I don’t need any personal attendants.”

A memory of the predawn mountain gorge flashes before his eyes, twisting coils in his belly. The way the cousins charged selflessly at the whole army of demons at his order, without even a momentary hesitation…

‘We would follow you even to the depths of hell.’

Not again.

“As you wish, lord,” Maeda says formally. “Should we order to take off now?”

“The men and the horses are exhausted.” Tahomaru softens his voice, feeling bad for his harsh response. “Let us rest overnight, and hurry back at the crack of dawn. The enemy is not likely to try another attack on the castle till morning, and anyway, we will not be much of a help in our current state.” His gaze is drawn west, though, beyond the river and to the last darkening ribbon of the sunset curling above the shadowy hills, the sight raising an uncertain anxious feeling in him. “Daishoji Fortress, however… It is abandoned and thus vulnerable. The Asakura’s positions are too close. We must send a squad to take it under control, and without delay.”

“That would be wise, lord,” Maeda agrees.

Tahomaru overlooks his generals and finds the rearguard commander safe and sound among them. “Takagi,” he calls, “you take care of it. Choose the freshest horses and the less exhausted men. Take some rest, but I need you to set off before dawn. Imagawa took all his samurai to this battle, so a hundred must be enough to deal with the remaining garrison. Those who will express sincere remorse and the willingness to serve my clan should be spared and forgiven. Ashigaru must be dismissed and allowed to return to their villages. Secure the defenses and stay in charge of the fortress until further orders.”

“Yes, lord,” the samurai exhales, proud with the lord’s trust.

“And what about Imagawa’s men?” Shimura, chief of guard, nods in the direction of the captured samurai still sitting on the ground under guard, awaiting their fate to be announced.

“The same stands for them. Those who choose to follow their lord in death are free to do so. Those who wish to enter my service must swear their allegiance. I shall accept the vows tomorrow. Make sure they have water and food, and allow them to rest.”

With that, Tahomaru nods to dismiss the gathering.

As the generals take their leave, he looks over at another camp being set up on top of the hill, next to theirs. There is one thing he needs to do before he, too, can fall into oblivion for the night.

~

“…We wouldn’t have stood a chance, had you not come. No words can express my gratitude. But I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

Jiheita can’t believe his eyes, nor his ears. He wants to relish the sight of a lord bowed low before him, as low as peasants will bend before a samurai (who may very well be in the mood to test the sharpness of his sword on their necks, after all.) A lord will only bow this low to the higher nobility, the Shogun, or the Emperor himself. But to a bunch of commoners? Indeed, he has to savor this wonder to tell his future children and grandchildren, and to finally taste the satisfaction of all their misfortunes being paid off! Yet instead, he shifts his eyes away, his face flushing.

“Neighbors don’t need to be so formal about it,” hasty words escape his mouth. “It is only natural to help each other. I know you’d do the same.”

Tahomaru lifts his head and straightens. “Upon my honor and soul, I will, should the need arise.”

Doushu watches the scene, a warmth spreading in his chest. Jiheita has matured since last fall, indeed. But something else sends shivers across his skin and steals his breath; something more significant. Could it be that just now, right here, amid the bloody mess and the gore of the battlefield, he’s gotten a glimpse of Sukhavati, the Western Pure Land of Amitabha Buddha where all the sentient beings are equal, and no earthly division matters? Lofty pathos of the samurai and casual logic of the commoners have met in the most peculiar manner, to forge an alliance nobody could ever think to be possible…

“Where’s Hyakkimaru, though?” Yahiko asks, his guileless face puzzled. “I thought I saw him next to you at the medical camp, but then he disappeared. Our men found his swords on the ground…”

“He has left.” Tahomaru’s mouth quirks. He feels a sudden heaving swell of exhaustion. Right…he didn’t even pick up the swords that his brother had thrown to his feet. He can’t even remember his way to the headquarters afterward. He rode in a fog. “I do not know where.”

“And I can’t see the Priest either,” Jiheita notes, looking around.

“Maybe he went with Hyakkimaru,” Yahiko suggests.

“Where, I wonder?”

“Who knows… He never tells.”

They continue their musings as Tahomaru leaves, a nauseating swirl of emptiness tugging at his guts. He feels a dark hole growing within him as the harsh reality begins to sink in. The night is taking over the battlefield—a pitch-black darkness huddled around the fires; a sparkly ocean of stars, once he steps beyond the light’s reach. It watches him with a million impassive eyes as Tahomaru walks toward his tent. Inside, he takes off his cuirass and all but drops dead into the silent emptiness.

‘Now, there are two of us.’

He falls into a dream, yet he feels as if he has just awakened from one.

The heavy, numbing sensation that has been ripping him apart for years is back, and he is alone again.

~

“Now that you have crushed the rebellion and secured your power by winning the major battle, we have to proceed with the usual routine, lord. Your genpuku is long overdue.”

Maeda raises the question in the morning, on their ride toward the castle. Before them, the crimson sun is emerging from the layered shadows, like a flower tentatively coming into bloom, and a distant dong of the great temple bell reverberates in the crystal air, announcing the coming of the new day. On clear days, its deep resonance would carry over as far as Mountain Castle. People believed that the sound of that bell could be heard even in the underworld…

Tahomaru scrunches up his face. “It is not the time to think about ceremonies. We still have Taizo to worry about.”

“It doesn’t have to be a grand ceremony,” Maeda persists. “Yoshitsune, for instance, celebrated his coming-of-age alone in the wild, on the run from the Heike pursuers. It is the fact that matters. You have to officially attain adulthood in order to govern the domain, lord.”

Tahomaru takes a breath. Finally, he says, “I can’t do it before my elder brother.”

Maeda’s answer is quiet yet immediate, “Your brother has left us, lord.”

Tahomaru clenches his teeth, heart throbbing in his chest. He spurs his horse forward.

…Maeda didn’t ask anything. Maybe he understood that something went terribly wrong from Tahomaru’s face alone. Or maybe he saw the scene by the camp, Hyakkimaru throwing his swords to the ground and riding off. In either case, he has been acting ever since as though the matter of succession had been decided firmly and ultimately.

Is he right? Is that it?

Tahomaru can’t feel the horse galloping under him, nor the wind whooshing in his ears. The liquid cold is spreading in his veins. What is this devastation he feels? His failed promise to fulfill their father’s last will—the father whom he, Tahomaru, abandoned in darkness and despair?

His broken hope of escaping the burden of power, as Hyakkimaru said in his ruthless frankness?

His crushed desire to have a brother he’s never had but always wanted?

Father told him once that brothers were unnecessary.

Why, Father? Tahomaru asked. Everyone has brothers. Taizo has two. You had three. The great hero Yoshitsune was the ninth son. And only I am alone.

Then you should also remember, Daigo Kagemitsu replied, that Yoshitsune was killed by his brother the Shogun who decided to get rid of him once he needed him no more. Two of my brothers turned against me, the rightful heir. And Taizo…is he loved and cherished by his elder brothers?

Well, they are looking down on him, since he isn’t strong in fight at all, Tahomaru admitted.

Which is a breeding ground for a grudge, Father nodded. Jealousy, blind trust, revenge, and betrayal are too common between brothers. It is better for you to not have such weak spots. Trust only yourself. Rely on nothing but your own strength of body and mind.

You don’t need brothers, Tahomaru.

…The black stallion he took in place of the one that had fallen yesterday bulks under him, and it is only then that Tahomaru notices the voices calling him from behind with an alarming urgency:

“Lord! A messenger…! A messenger from Daishoji Fortress!”

~Daishoji Fortress~

…After Aki and her squad had swept around the village with the news about Daishoji Fortress being empty, vulnerable, and strategically important, the crowd appeared almost out of nowhere. First, boys and youths with all kinds of weapons. Then, men with forks, axes, and self-made spears. Old men came and started advising on tactics, recalling the uprisings they had once took part in. In no time, people from the neighboring villages came and joined, too. Even the fishermen Dororo had argued with looked rather tough with spears and harsh glints in their eyes. 

Dororo stared at the freshly arranged army almost with terror, pictures of her dad’s band resurfacing from her memory. It had always been sleeping deep within them, underneath the simple routine of peasant life, this dark, elemental force of rebellion. Chills crawled up her arms and her legs. Had she made a mistake?

‘We won’t do wars.’

She had said that, and so she had believed. But wars were all around them. The samurai whose very existence was war could not be bought. Money did not impress them. They looked down on merchants and despised freelancers such as ninja. 

Money was just means, after all, means for acquiring strength.

Strength to take the land and keep it.

~ 

“...So, we’ve taken the fortress quite easily indeed,” Seki, the fisherman who bickered with her, admits. “What now? Do you expect Daigo to thank us or what?”

Maybe thanks to Dororo’s ties with the Lord, or his jinbaori on her shoulders, or simply her own competence and spirit, but they have been coordinating their actions with her even now.

“Maybe he’ll reward us?” The other man’s eyes glow with greedy excitement.

“It depends,” Dororo says, her voice tense. The strong wind blowing her hair and her coat dispels the mists below and reveals the view of the land basking in the orange rays of the setting sun. The height of the watchtower allows her to see as far as Shibayama Lagoon. Something is still fuming there, perhaps the aftermath of the explosion they heard earlier. Another string of smoke rising high is colored red, maybe by the sunset but most likely on purpose, like the signal smoke she once taught Bro to make. Trust Taho to come up with some witty plan. She can also see some dark masses moving there, but it is too far away to distinguish details.   

“Depends on what?”

Dororo opens her mouth but gets interrupted by the curses of the samurai they have captured and tied up echoing from below. “Release us now, you despicable scum! Our brothers and comrades will avenge us! All your families will be wiped out, and your villages burned to the ground…!” There were only a couple dozen of them in the fortress, and they did not expect the peasants delivering them supplies from the area they supposedly controlled to suddenly take out weapons and attack them… No one died. Some of them have been injured, and one tried to kill himself in a foolish display of some samurai virtue. His comrade, thankfully, stopped him. 

Dororo sighs.

“So? Is this fortress really that important?” Seki presses, still doubtful.

“Sure it is. Tahomaru’s grandfather withstood a month-long siege here against the Asakura army numbered in thousands,” Dororo says, repeating the words spoken on the council by the Two Pines. “This fortress guards the only natural corridor wide enough for a major army to pass through this hilly area. Everybody would like to possess it.”

Seki and the other men let out impressed o-oh’s.

“Anyway,” Dororo invokes Tahomaru’s confidence in her memory and tries to recreate it. “We don’t know yet how the battle’s ended. Imagawa may try to flee back here. Keep close watch overnight, and we’ll see what the dawn brings.”

~

It is barely dawn when Dororo jumps to her feet, awakened by the shouts: “The samurai are approaching!”

She kicks Aki snoring by her side and rushes onto the watchtower.

Seki nods at the small host appearing from the morning’s rosy haze. “It’s alright, they’re under Daigo’s banners.” His grip on his spear relaxes. “They must have won the battle and sent the troops to take this fortress back.”

Dororo squints against the first glow of dawn. “About one hundred… That’s all…?”

“Maybe the main host is just relaxing after the battle,” Seki shrugs. “Why send many men to deal with such a small garrison?”

“They’ll be blown away to see we’ve already taken care of things here,” she hears the men around chortling smugly.

“You think they’ll pay us?”

“Maybe they’ll hire us into their army. I always wanted to be a samurai…”

“Nah, too much bother. I’d rather cut crops than heads.” 

The old memory of Itachi arguing with her father flashes before Dororo’s eyes. ‘You gotta join forces with the samurai from here onwards.’  Then comes the other, much more recent one: Itachi hunched in the boat, broken and bitter. ‘Boss was right. To them, we aren’t even human. No good comes from messing with samurai.’

Dororo purses her lips. Because that’s not how you do it, Itachi.

“They’ll never hire some slackers like you anyway,” she comments as she passes the men by. “You can’t even pose like proper warriors. Arrange yourselves and take your posts on the wall!”

The men shake up. “Shit, she’s right.”

Aki joins them, rubbing her eyes and yawning. The bow is clutched tightly in her prosthetic hand, though, and there’s a quiver on her back. 

“The samurai of Daigo!” Dororo shouts once the host is within voice reach. “How has the battle ended? Were you victorious?” 

The samurai pull the reins abruptly. 

“Dororo-sama…?” a sigh of amazement escapes the leader’s mouth. Dororo remembers seeing him at the camp that evening, among the chief retainers. “What are you doing here? Are you being kept hostage?”

Dororo grins. “Do I look like I am? No worries, I’m here on my own accord. So, have you defeated the demons?”

“We have! By the great strength of our lords, and with the help of your comrades the Ikki, the army of hell has been completely eliminated!”

Dororo’s eyes go round. Doushu, Yahiko, Jiheita… You guys… I knew you weren’t some good-for-nothing… Then she frowns, having processed the whole of the samurai’s words. “The lords?”

“Lord Hyakkimaru and Lord Tahomaru, that is.”

Dororo barely suppresses a shriek, heart fluttering in her chest. So, Tahomaru has found him! They are together now! Bro must have been so relieved to learn that Taho and his family had survived... 

Warmth welling in her eyes, Dororo tastes the words proudly under her breath: Lord Hyakkimaru. Her chest feels funny, like something contracts inside painfully. It seems like Bro is on his way to retrieve the destiny that is meant for him. 

Their paths are no longer one.

“Great. And meanwhile, we here have taken this fortress.” 

The samurai exchange perplexed looks. They know she is some relative of their lord, that’s how Tahomaru introduced her. Or, at least, someone “of great importance.” 

But these people are not. Dororo glances back at the villagers. ‘We don’t keep company with lords, like you’.

She takes off the jinbaori, folds it carefully and passes over to Aki, ignoring her questioning stare. 

I’m sorry, Tahomaru. I’m sorry but I need to be strong on my own. For these people…for our dream. 

Dororo inhales deeply and continues, “…Which means it is ours now. You guys have a problem with that?”

The samurai still look at a loss. “What does she mean?” the exchanges can be heard. “Is that another Ikki army?”

Seki whispers to her, frowning, “What are you doing?” 

“It’s okay, just keep your positions,” Dororo says, bringing all her confidence to her voice.

The chief samurai finally recovers enough to speak. “By the command of Lord Tahomaru, we are here to retake control of this fortress.” He rides forward, his voice firm and harsh. “Please, make your people open the gate and stand aside, Dororo-sama.”

They’re not my people. You still don’t understand. 

Dororo can hear the villagers shake up and begin to move. Still, a samurai’s commanding voice is all that it takes to make them forget about their own strength and obey… 

She draws a deep breath, turns back, and shouts to all capacity of her lungs, “Don’t put down your weapons! Keep the gate closed! What do you think we’ve done it for?! This fortress can resist against an overwhelming force, all you need to do is just STAND! YOUR! GROUND!”

~

“That girl…!”

Takagi’s temples are pulsing with rage as he dismounts under the uncertain cover of the pine wood down the slope. All his attempts of intimidation have had no effect on the cocky peasants who felt rather safe and comfortable behind the stone walls. Eventually, he commanded his people to pull back so as not to catch a random arrow someone from that mutinous crowd might have tried to release at them. 

“Wasn’t she a boy?” his son, Keiji, says in perplexity. 

“Whatever! While we samurai are fighting each other, that little rascal will snatch our land from us piece by piece! What is she even trying to do, create her own domain?”

“I wonder if there is some strong clan behind all this Ikki movement, after all,” another samurai, Masanobu, muses. “The lord called her some kind of a relative, but there is no other Daigo as far as I know. So she must be from his mother’s side, the Awazu.”

“Surely so!” Keiji says. “I always thought they were suspicious!”

“So, what do we do now?”

Takagi draws deep breaths, trying to regain his composure. The lord delegated him such an important yet easy task, and he can’t even resolve the problem on his own. With a hundred samurai, even exhausted after the great battle, he could surely take the fortress from the bunch of untrained and uneducated peasants who cannot make full use of the fortifications. The losses would be grave, of course, but it is not this fact that has been keeping him from acting decisively. They can’t just attack someone whom Lord Tahomaru considers his family. Yet with the siege of Great River Castle, there is no way they could ask for reinforcements to scare these people into surrendering, either. What do we do now, indeed?

He gives up with a sigh. “We should inform the lord and ask his orders. Retreat for now, and send the message immediately.”

~ North road ~

“What is it?” Tahomaru frowns.

“Lord…” The messenger bows and passes him a dispatch.

Tahomaru’s eyebrows climb his forehead as he reads the message describing the developments at Daishoji Fortress in detail. The generals gasp in unison around him. Damn it, Dororo… Is this your revenge for me sending you off?

“What will you say now, Maeda-san?” Tahomaru quirks an eyebrow, turning to his counselor. “This possibility I have failed to foresee.” 

“We did not have people to spare anyway, lord,” Maeda bows slightly, his face as calm as ever.

“True. I could have prevented it, though. By keeping her with me.”

“Forgive me for saying this, lord, but she is using your excessively forgiving and compassionate nature to snatch the land from us in the most outrageous way,” Shimura, chief of guard, growls darkly. “The lack of decisive response only causes the Ikki’s overconfidence to grow. Soon, we will be left with no land to fight for.”

“I don’t think she is trying to snatch the land from us.” Tahomaru rubs his chin, contemplating. “What she is trying to do is create an alliance that will benefit this land.”

“An alliance?” Saito asks, a puzzled expression on his face. “But between whom? Is this Ikki uprising being backed by some rivaling clan, after all? Like Asakura or…Awazu?”

“Awazu? Nonsense. They are my relatives and trustworthy allies, which they have proved by answering my call when we needed them in battle,” Tahomaru brushes off the assumption. “No. There is no plot. Acting like this, Dororo just wants to make us realize that they, ordinary people, must be treated with equal respect. They will succumb to fear and oppression no more.” 

“But what do they want to become, samurai as well?” Shimura asks, his forehead furrowed. “Then who will grow rice? We all will starve to death, and that will be it.”

“They do not try to become samurai. They believe they can remain peasants yet be our equals. I suppose this is her vision of the future of this land: an alliance between the samurai and the peasants.”

“How is that possible? Peasants are a lower caste. They are servants, not allies.”

“Surely they are, from our point of view. Peasants are only needed to feed us, samurai, so that we can rule and fight all we want.” Tahomaru snorts. “Yet from their point of view, samurai are only needed to defend this land from the surrounding clans so that they, people, could live in peace.”

“Lord… You cannot be suggesting that their so-called ‘point of view’ may have the right to exist?” Shimura asks under his breath.

“They are by far the majority on this land.” Tahomaru shrugs. “They are the people whom we, samurai, are empowered to serve.”

Several voices exclaim along with Shimura, “To serve?”

Maeda, who has been keeping calm during the discussion, finally loses his patience. “Enough. This is no time for philosophical arguments. However, the lord is right in his refusal to rely blindly on the custom of old. The consecutive uprisings of the last decades have made peasants a major force to take into consideration. Fool is he who denies it. It will be wise of us to reach an agreement with them instead of continuously fighting the seeds of rebellion. The times have changed. We must change our ways, too, if we don't want to be left behind. The path of a warrior is that of gaining strength and discarding everything that weakens him. It is the path of efficiency, not senseless habits.”

The samurai bow their heads with respect to the words of the old warlord, no more objections arising. Not vocal, at least.

Tahomaru mounts his horse. Maeda is right, they have wasted enough time...

“Lord… What are your orders concerning the fortress?” the messenger calls back his attention.  

Tahomaru turns to the man. “Isn’t it obvious? Take another hundred, if you absolutely must, and attack. The fortress must be taken.”

“Lord…” The messenger gulps uneasily. “Those people won’t stand a chance against an all-out attack.”

“True. They won’t,” Tahomaru nods. “But senseless fighting to death is not their intention. They are the people of farm and labor, far more rational than we are. They will give a strong resistance, and then offer to negotiate the conditions of peace. You shall accept the negotiations. Gratify all the reasonable demands under the condition of surrendering the fortress. Should any troublesome subjects arise, tell them I’ll visit them soon. Assure them we are not enemies but allies on this land.”

“Yes, lord.”

Tahomaru sets his lips, suppressing the urge to give a clear order: do not harm Dororo. He wanted to protect her, to keep her away from the dangers of this perilous time. Yet she refused to be treated like a person of special status. Instead, she took her destiny into her own hands, as well as the destiny of those people, not scared of such a great responsibility. He must respect her choice. 

“Make sure to keep the Hatakeyama matter a secret,” he adds instead. “If they realize our hands are tied in the north, the whole area may rise up.”  

“Understood, lord,” the messenger bows, and rides off.

With that, Tahomaru commands to resume the march, forcing his thoughts back to the task before them, not behind. He can only hope he understood Dororo’s intentions right. If not… Soon, they may find themselves between the two fires.

~Hills of Awazu~

The haunting smell of the smoldering battlefield follows them on the whiffs of the evening breeze for a while, until, led by the folds of the hilly terrain, they turn east, and the air clears up. Biwamaru sniffs the wind: nothing but the sea and a bit of young grass. Nice. He hears Hyakkimaru breathe in deeper, too.

Once the woods thicken around them, as does the night chill, the breeze dies down. 

The sweet scent of the reviving pines takes over.

They stop for a rest deep into the night, their horses making use of the swift forest brook to quench their thirst. Biwamaru unsheathes his broken blade to cut some fresh weeds. He tosses them into a small pot he carries among his poor belongings as Hyakkimaru puffs and grunts in an attempt to free himself from his armor. His rage makes his every move too harsh and hasty, further complicating the task. 

The boy has been silent during their ride—the ride to nowhere in particular, just deeper into the hills, away from the roads and human paths. It was a silence not unlike that of the simmering water which seems to hush before it will begin to boil. 

Noticing the sound of the bubbles sizzling, Biwamaru adds the leaves into the pot. 

Hyakkimaru finally breaks free. A heavy crush of the armor against the ground is eloquent enough for the priest to tell the imminent outburst without the need to look up at the boy’s aura. 

“I’m never putting on this shit again…!”

Well, it is good he can now make use of the whole spectrum of the language to let out his feelings a little, the priest thinks. He sits back, patiently waiting for the accumulated steam to form into a gushing stream of words.

“...He talks about duty, but I don’t wanna do it! Sacrifice others for…anything… I don’t want that! I’m never doing it again! I know that he just hates ruling, hates all of that, too! He just wants to quit and be free. He was relieved to go fight on his own instead of commanding people, and he left it all on me. He wants to leave it all on me.”

Hyakkimaru trails off, having run out of breath. 

“A-ah, so you prefer to be the one who is free?” Biwamaru reaches out to remove the pot from the fire. 

Hyakkimaru goes utterly still across from him. Yet the light of his soul is seething in deep turbulence. Hundreds of torrents arise and swirl and fade away each moment, unable to shape into a clear pattern, too strong to coexist. There are no hints of red, though. Now that his soul is free from the demonic influence, it has to settle down and find its real shape. It won’t happen at once.

Reaching over the quiet fire, Biwamaru hands him a makeshift bowl made of a large bamboo stem. “Here. Nothing’s better for a nice sleep than some herbal tea. Add a bite of a young bamboo root, and it would make a fairly sufficient meal for an old man like me. But you should probably hunt something more nutritious for yourself come the morning.” 

He can hear Hyakkimaru blow on the tea a little before taking a gulp. His voice is tense as he replies, “I don’t have a weapon.”

“Oh, you can use my broken blade as a knife to make a spear for fishing. Unless you want to take up a monk’s diet, that is.”

They drink in silence. After a while, Hyakkimaru’s rage subsides and changes into remorse. This boy has a quick temper. Biwamaru nods to himself. Too much fire.

Yet he has a big, kind heart. His current suffering speaks about it louder than anything.

“I was too quick to assume we can be together so easily,” Hyakkimaru says quietly. “He thinks that I am strong and wise enough to make things right...but I’m not. I’m not the brother he needs. I hurt him. In the lowest way possible…”

~ 

“Sometimes, we have to make tough decisions. It is the sad duty of a ruler.”

“To sacrifice?” Hyakkimaru’s lips twitch in a broken sneer. How can Tahomaru even say all this? Is he at it again, justifying evil with some greater good? Does he not realize…? 

His brother’s face is pale, except for a shadow of pain in his only eye. 

Oh. He probably does. That is exactly why— 

Hyakkimaru sucks in a breath. “I want no piece of it. You won’t make me become like him.” 

“Brother—”

“I know now. You’re only forcing it on me because you want to escape it yourself.”

“I do n—"

“Because you just want to live.”

~

Hyakkimaru squeezes his eyes tightly, his own voice ringing in his ears like that of a stranger. He thinks of last night, of holding him in his arms as Tahomaru choked for a breath. Tears were gushing down his left cheek, drenching Hyakkimaru's kimono. Tahomaru's fingers were trembling, clenching his back. 'I should not exist either.'

'You are existing now. You are alive, Tahomaru.' Hyakkimaru fastened his grip, and whispered something again. Some words of comfort. The armor had been put aside. With the pads of his fingers, he sensed the heat under the fabric, the softness of the skin and the strain of the muscles. All of this was life. The life Tahomaru believed he had no right to live. 

After all the tears his brother had cried in his arms that night in the cave… After all the truths, fears and regrets he had confided to him on the road, and the weaknesses he had admitted as they had stood on the edge of the rock…

'You just want to live.'

With those words, he stabbed Tahomaru most treacherously into his innermost weak spot.

“Because he’d hurt you, too.” 

Biwamaru’s voice causes him to flinch back to reality—that of a lonely bonfire lost in the night, with no one but this old man to shield him from the glaring void.

'I am your brother...!'

'I am your lord.'

Hyakkimaru’s shoulders stiffen again. His chest clenches with a throbbing pain. “Yes. He had.”

“It is in the nature of things.” The priest’s voice is soft and compassionate, like most of the times. “Every animal will kick and bite back when it’s hurt.” 

Right. Even Mamoru and Yukio, who grew up together, had a hard time understanding each other…  

“…A human, however, can choose.”

Hyakkimaru’s head jerks up. 

Human.  

…He thought he had grown so much more human over the winter. He has learned so much, too: to restrain himself and to give in to his desires; to read other people’s thoughts and feelings in the slightest change of the eyes, shift of the features, alteration of the voice. To be attentive and observant. Tahomaru said he became really good in it. But what all of those skills and knowledge truly were?

— a sword that he could drive into another person’s heart if he needed to. 

No matter how many times Hyakkimaru had left his weapon behind, cursed it, tossed it onto the ground, it still remained a part of him… Has he grown more human at all? 

Hyakkimaru drops his head in defeat. “I want to be together with them, but I can’t.”

“People are not easy to deal with. There is a long way ahead for you.”

“I don’t know what to do now.”

Biwamaru raises his bald head and sniffs the night for a while as if he could sniff out the answer. 

“The air smells of rain,” he concludes. “Good, for it is the beginning of the sowing season. Maybe you should put those seeds to use before they rot in your pouch?”

Chapter Text

Occasional breaths of winter carried snowflakes under the roof of the terrace facing the white woods. Touching his freshly healed wounds, they melted on the pattern of scars and burns in one instant, without giving him a chance to appraise the delicate beauty of the heavenly art, lingering only on the tips of his long, silky hair that flew loosely down his cloak. The thick beard of the man who sat against him was sparkling with snowflakes, too, like moonless night with stars.

“…Meaning The third son, huh? Quite a plain name for such a unique young man. Haven’t you been through genpuku yet?”

“Father said he had no grown-up name for a weakling like me,” the young man scoffed, raising a cup of tea to his lips. His voice sounded sour rather than sad. “‘Maybe I will think of something when you go to this war and make a man of yourself,’ he told me. I could never understand their infatuation with wars. An ever-spinning wheel of senseless slaughter. What manhood do they all seek in it? What does a war change? Strangely enough, maybe now I do understand, if only a little.”

“There is nothing strange about it,” the bearded man shrugged his broad shoulders. “After all, blood is the flowing water of the soul. You have many raging souls dwelling in your body now. Their voices are speaking in you. Their understanding has become your understanding.”

The young man lifted his arm, his eyes curiously tracing the bluish lines of the veins winding underneath his thin, pale skin. His hands were used to holding a brush rather than a sword, and were skilled at laying elaborate strokes of ink on paper, not at cutting through flesh. “Rage? ” his gaze halted on a tiny bruise still marking the spot where the needle had been inserted. “So this is what it feels like. A fire smoldering in the chest… Quite an uncomfortable sensation. Yet indeed liberating. Must be a bliss to live such a simple kind of life… To fight for your desires, to let your rage control your mind. To be ready to die for something fickle, and never think about the future.”

“Such is the liberty of the majority,” the man replied. “Future is the responsibility of the few.”

The Third One hummed in agreement, watching the snowflakes die on the hot surface of his tea. “The majority… They are like a wanderer in the night who walks with a lantern in his hand and dares not look beyond the narrow circle of its bright light. What is behind and what is ahead is hidden from him. There is no past and no future…nothing but a bright flash of this very instant.”

The bearded man nodded, his shrewd black eyes slightly narrowed. “Which is why people must be guided by those who can see through the darkness.”

“Is it for that purpose that you have saved my life?” The youth mirrored his look. “I shall repay you generously, just tell me what you wish.”

“You owe me nothing. I only did it because your time here was not over. In that sense, I am but a tool of your own fate.”

The man rose to his feet, his big figure proud and imposing. Indeed, he left no impression of someone who was in need of anything; quite the opposite. In his dark gaze was the power to obtain whatever he should desire. Yet his simple hut in the wild woods spoke of the high mind set on the matters of the spirit rather than the body.

“Tell me your name, at least,” The Third One asked.

“You can call me Teacher. For even though you can see the way, you must be taught how to walk first.”

~ The story of the three ~

~Part 1~

Before long, the remnants of the army approach Great River Castle. The rising sun is painting the megalithic walls adorned with the blooming trees bright orange, yet no daily hubbub is rising abobe the streets of the castle town. The field outside the suburbs, however, is bristling with the defense palisades, spikes, and spears. Camped there to deflect another attack are about three hundred samurai and as many ashigaru—almost the entire castle garrison, excluding those who must have fallen in the battle yesterday.

The enemy forces are scattered all over the eastern hills, not too far but not close enough to call it a siege. They are clearly waiting for something.

“Four or five thousand,” Tahomaru estimates calmly, feeling no trepidation after everything they have already been through. “They do not need reinforcements. Something else is in play.”

The threatened castle is unusually empty and quiet. With all the men staying either on the field or on the walls, it is women who have taken over the last line of defenses. The maids greeting them inside are clad like samurai, prepared to fight till the end and then die should the enemy break in. Instead of their usual clothes, they are wearing narrow hakama, the sleeves of their kimono are tied up, and some of them are carrying bows and naginatas.

In one of the innermost corridors, there are four women standing on guard. Maeda halts on his tracks as he sees his wife among them: a beautiful and strict mid-aged woman with two swords, a shorter wakizashi and a longer katana, on her waist.

“Welcome back, lords,” she bows to them. The other women greet them with the same short, accentuated bows of warriors, without leaving their positions by one of the doors.

Tahomaru is puzzled. Maeda, judging by his pale face, immediately understands what is taking place.

“Mizuko…”

“I had no other choice!” the woman exclaims defensively, her cold facade crumbling at once. “She wanted to open the gates to the enemy upon learning who he is! I told her he is a traitor now, and she said she doesn’t care. And that is after the lord himself went out of his way and proposed to her—” She halts and jerks her hands up to her mouth, realizing she has probably said too much.

Maeda gapes. He turns to Tahomaru. “You did?”

“Yes.”

“Lord…”

Tahomaru clears his throat. “I intended to ask for her hand properly once we were done with this rebellion. I am sorry that you had to be informed like this.”

“Please, forgive me, lord!” Mizuko starts to bow desperately.

“It is fine, Lady Mizuko,” Tahomaru says. “I suppose the change of circumstances compels us to postpone this matter for now, anyway.”

Maeda’s face whitens. Tahomaru can almost hear the thoughts throbbing in his head. His own daughter has betrayed the lord like that, in more than one way…

Tahomaru turns to him. “Maeda-san, I shall talk to Setsuna, but later. First, I must meet and speak with Taizo. Please, arrange our meeting.”

“I'll send a messenger immediately.” His counsellor bows shortly but does not raise his eyes afterward.

~

Maeda leaves Ando and Otani on guard by Setsuna’s chambers, dismissing the women to take a rest. He is unusually silent on their way to the meeting place that is being hastily arranged on the bank of Mae river, between the two armies. 

Tahomaru wonders whether these soldiers are undead, too. His gut feeling tells him they are not, though. The samurai he can distinguish in the distance look and act like real humans.

‘A deal has been made, but not by me, and I know nothing about sacrifices,’ Imagawa’s words resurface in his mind. Furi, however, called it a strong magic rather than a deal, since no demon had been allowed to pass into this world. A magic that might have been performed by a demon… In either case, Taizo was probably the one behind it.

Is it even possible—to use a demon’s power without granting it what it wants the most? Tahomaru remembers Asura’s insatiable thirst and his craving to get the right of passage into the living world, the right he could acquire in no other way. Never once Tahomaru experienced a craving that intense…and probably no mortal did.

“I shall ride alone now.” Tahomaru pulls the reins to a halt at bowshot distance from the tent.

“I don’t like this term,” Maeda says through his teeth, his face hard like a stone.

“He won’t harm me. He must want to retrieve the body of his father.”

“I would not be so sure. There wasn’t much warmth between them. Whatever new force Taizo has acquired, it is unlikely he has also acquired love.”

“He will not harm me,” Tahomaru repeats. “I am not completely alone, after all.”

Maeda looks at him in perplexity. Then realization and relief soften his face. “If you say so, lord.”

Tahomaru is not worried about his security, sensing the shadow following him step by step and not trying to brush off the eerie feeling anymore. Yet beads of sweat break out on the back of his neck as he approaches the tent, dismounts and walks toward it, trying to recollect how many years exactly have passed since he last talked with Imagawa’s third son. A decade? No; they must have met over the years, even if just briefly. Yet Tahomaru can’t even say right away when exactly their friendship ended. Was it after the incident with Setsuna? Or later, after one of the dojo duels? His memories are a mess, yet there is no time to arrange them now.

As he steps inside the tent, Tahomaru still has no idea whom he is going to meet there. His half-forgotten childhood friend? His begrudged enemy? Or someone completely new, endowed with the unknown power to rule over the demons themselves?

~

The young man who greets him with a pleasant smile is but a year older than Tahomaru and about the same height. Even matured, Taizo’s face is still strikingly-familiar, immediately invoking a torrent of nostalgic childhood memories, and this fact alone tells Tahomaru they have not interacted since those days, indeed.  

Unlike him, Taizo is wearing no armor and has no swords tucked in his sash. If anything, he looks like a prince on a field trip, clad in a simple yet elegant kimono of pale purple and moonlight-grey that sets off perfectly his porcelain skin, black loose hair and dark almond eyes. Everything about him is elegant. Even the new scars covering his face are an elaborate pattern of thin lines and almost artful burns as though some artist has wrought it, not a storm of steel and fire that ground up two hundred men and devastated the entire field by the Two Pines.

The thought entails yet another one: he was always like this, and as a child, Tahomaru was always somewhat jealous over the fact.

Tahomaru was strong; some people would say he was also handsome, manly, and stately. But Taizo was undeniably beautiful.

“Why, have you not brought me the head of my father?” Taizo overlooks him from head to toe and, having found no appropriate box wrapped in silk, arches a thin eyebrow. It is traversed by a scar, like Tahomaru’s own, yet his eye is intact.

His voice is melodic, but behind the gentle notes, there is a new metallic coldness in it.

“Your father has died like a samurai,” Tahomaru says. “If you wish to attain his body, we can talk about the conditions.”

“What would I need his body for?” Taizo seems genuinely puzzled. The casual expression on his face changes to a confused one in a blink of an eye.

Tahomaru frowns. “To perform due funeral rites, perhaps?” he suggests the obvious. “He’s told me you are dead set to continue his war and to avenge your brothers.”

Once again, Taizo’s face changes in a flash, growing cold and detached. “Bodies, ceremonies… If you knew what I know, you would understand how unimportant things like these are. Yet many waste their lives in senseless fights over blood spilt long ago, hurt dignity, and the breach of etiquette…” He lets out a contemptuous snort.

Tahomaru blinks. It feels unreal, somewhat, to watch his expressions flowing one into another like reflections on the water, so different yet quick that the transition is barely perceptible.

“For what reason have you started this war, then?” he asks directly.

Instead of replying, Taizo walks over to a small table, lifts a jar and fills two cups. He nods to Tahomaru with an inviting gesture and, without waiting for him to join, sits down and sips from his cup. His every move is smooth and laid-back, and this is also something new to him. Tahomaru remembers this guy as elegant yet somewhat anxious, always conscious about his surroundings.

Now, Taizo is clearly enjoying himself.

Tahomaru takes a seat across from him and takes a gulp, too. A hot tea, with a strong scent of mountain herbs. Odd, like everything else about the guy.  

“Well, the answer may already lie in your memory,” Taizo says at length, his dark eyes reflecting three fiery dots of the lamps around them as he sets his gaze on Tahomaru. “Do you remember what ended our friendship, or do you not?”

~

His memory has always been a peculiar one. Tahomaru would remember the names of all the random people he met on his way, travelling across the land, even those of the most insignificant commoners. At the same time, there were blank spots in place of some events that he would brush off as no longer important for his goals or duties. His early childhood had been especially thinned out.

But not completely so.

This young man looks nothing like the little boy he once played with, but when Tahomaru looks up at him, the memories he thought to have been long lost start resurfacing from the deepest storages of his mind.

“We must go now!”

“I’ll bring my kite tomorrow!”

“Right! Good night, Taizo, Setsuna!”

“Good night, Tahomaru!”

He is barely five. There are no Mutsu and Hyogo yet, and when he is left on his playing ground alone, the dusk envelops him all of a sudden, a dark-blue veil of silence. He hates darkness, and he hates being alone. He doesn’t get it, why the days must always end.

“Ah, it’s no good, my nurse’s gonna scold me again...” he can still distinguish the voices moving away into the darkness.

“Don’t worry, she’s nowhere as grumpy as mine...”

“Yep, but your mother is so nice and funny. Remember the dolls she's made for our theater…”

Tahomaru stands where he has been left and thinks about the kneeled silhouette against the candle glow which is beautiful and distant and not at all funny, until the laughing voices dissolve into the chirping stillness of the May night completely. Soon, nothing is left except the pulsating hole in his chest.

“Tahomaru.”

“Father!”

His melancholy is gone all at once. Father is the one who is always cheerful and affectionate. He tells breathtaking stories about wars and heroes. He pats Tahomaru’s messy hair or pinches his cheek, raises him high onto his hands and hugs him tightly.

But not now. Now, the Lord’s face is stern, and his eyes are cold and distant, glancing into the shadows where Taizo and Setsuna have just disappeared. “Why do they call you by your given name and without any honorifics?”

“Because I told them to! They are not some servants, they are my friends,” Tahomaru says proudly.

“Wrong.” Father’s voice is rough, like when he addresses his retainers. “They are your subjects, like all the rest. They must call you ‘Young Master’ with proper respect. Next time do not let them assume they are anything else.”

“But why? It is no fun!”

Tahomaru is confused. Why is Father so upset about something like this?

The Lord kneels to his eye level and puts his big, hard hands on his shoulders. His piercing eyes make Tahomaru’s skin erupt with shivers. “Listen, Tahomaru. Many great lords fell because they trusted too blindly those whom they considered friends. Kiyomori and Yoshitomo were friends in their youth, yet the jealousy of the latter resulted in his betrayal and pulled their clans into a war that devastated the entire realm. The Heike were wiped out, down to the last child. I, too, was betrayed by my closest friend once. Then, my own little brother plotted against me. I survived through everything only because I realized promptly that in this world, you either kill or be killed. The only brother I had on my side was trapped and betrayed by his trusted friend in Takigahara, where he had been invited to a wedding feast. Only by sheer luck did he survive, although he lost his leg and a few dozen of his retainers to the hands of the ninja the said friend hired; but you know that story. Friendship is as fickle and selfish as romance. You are the future ruler of the great country that I am going to establish. You shall have many retainers who will fear you and admire you, and attendants fully devoted to you. You can’t have friends.” He almost spits out the word, utter disgust on his face.

…Tahomaru would not comply with that rule. He did not like it at all. Yet he would become more careful, choosing the places to play where his father would not overhear them. It was his own little rebellion. He liked to be called by his own name, not that short “waka” that followed him everywhere. Or rather trailed behind and kept him tied up, like a leash.

There were so many stupid rules, the one about not having friends was just another in the list.

No tree climbing. You are the heir, what if you fall and break your neck?

No touching stray cats or dogs. What if they are infected?

No running outside the gates. The heir should not mingle with the commoners. And so on and on; his nurses were inventing those every day.

Tahomaru did not want to be the heir. He wanted to climb trees, and sneak out to go running around the town with the peasant children, and do all the things other samurai boys did and bragged about. Like throwing dry poop at Big Jiro. He was a legendary town idiot and would yell and roar like a bear and run after the children with a huge hammer for mochi in his hands. It must be so much fun!

“Nothing special,” Taizo shrugged after he had managed to do it one day. “It was just stupid running around. And Big Jiro isn’t that big at all.”

“And the peasant children?” Tahomaru asked greedily. “Are they really huge and strong?”

“Not at all. They’re just like all the others.”

“And the market?” Tahomaru narrowed his eyes, suspicion rising in him. “Were there acrobats and musicians and merchants from the faraway countries with their faces as black as ink?”

“None of these. The market is rather boring.”

...Tahomaru could tell it: Taizo was saying it just so he wouldn’t feel too bad. No way the peasant children were like all the rest. No way the market was boring, with so many various things and shops where they said you could buy any wonder. Despite his bored tone, Taizo’s eyes were glowing, and his cheeks were red from all the excitement.

Setsuna agreed when Tahomaru shared his suspicion with her.

“He is just being considerate,” she explained. And added dreamily, “Ah, I wish I were a boy, too…”

“I wish I were not heir,” Tahomaru said in frustration.

“You’ll grow up and go wherever you like. Heirs can even order to build them a ship. But women just always sit home.”

That was true. It was not fair of him to feel frustrated when her situation was so much worse. The next moment, a solution came to Tahomaru: “Well, I can order them to let you out on a journey when I grow up.”

“Promise?”

“Sure.”

She brightened and smiled. Tahomaru smiled, too. Being the heir was not so bad, after all.

…The three of them would always play together those days, until something changed.

Setsuna came alone once, smearing tears all over her face.

“I hate him,” she said. “He said that Masashi will die very young, in his very first battle…”

Tahomaru furrowed his forehead. Masashi was a strict samurai of three years of age, proudly carrying his wooden sword and a tiny bow, her little brother. He was also the best in hide-and-seek, and the funniest when they played their little puppet theater.

Setsuna began to weep. “Why did he say that? Masashi is so cute, and I love him so much!”

Why, indeed? Furious, Tahomaru confronted Taizo on the same day, grabbing him hard. “Why did you say that?”

Taizo shrugged, without as much as trying to defend himself, his shoulders slack. “Because I see it. My mother will die, too, while giving birth to a girl. Do you think I want it or what?”

Tahomaru recoiled, perplexed. He thought about the funny lady who had made the dolls and would sometimes take part in their games, laughing and running with them like a girl. No, nobody would want that.

Taizo’s dark eyes, red around the corners, were telling he would not want that at all.

It cooled Tahomaru’s anger. The incident must have been settled, yet Tahomaru doesn’t recall them playing after that. Taizo changed, closed up and grew sullen, probably struggling to come to terms with his visions. Setsuna must have remained close to him; Tahomaru didn't know for sure.

Because later that year, Mutsu and Hyogo appeared, to play and to study and to grow up with him, and to never leave him alone in the darkness.

His life changed completely, and gradually, he all but forgot about those whom he first called “friends.”

~

The next encounter Tahomaru can clearly remember, it is spring, probably his eighth, and he is walking into the dojo with a new confidence in his stride, wearing his first real sword on his waist, holding a sized yet real bow, followed by the real attendants. He already knows the power over others, and the smell of blood, and the feeling of taking a life—even if it is the life of a turtledove he shot on his tenth try.

But most importantly, he knows all the truth about wars, which are not all heroes and valor and dignified deaths, but also rotten flesh, starvation, vileness, and grief Mutsu and Hyogo described; and he has a path set before him—the sworn decision to put an end to the very possibility of war in his domain. The Goal fills his every move with the strength of resolve. No opponents of his age can hold his harsh, precise attacks nor penetrate his defense. He must become strong. It is his duty—to be the strongest in this domain to protect it, and to have the right to demand the same from others. 

“You slack off,” Tahomaru throws with disdain as the wooden sword he has just knocked off Taizo’s hand thuds against the ground. “It is not even interesting to fight you. Mutsu is ten thousand times more skilled even though she’s a girl.”

Taizo scrambles to his feet awkwardly. In his nine, he is taller and thinner than Tahomaru, but weaker, too. He looks over at Mutsu and Hyogo sparring on the other side of the courtyard with heavy swords of black oak, their movements so fast and sharp it’s hard to follow.

But Taizo’s eyes are not even trying to. They are unmoving.

“They can be strong and skilled but they will fail to protect you. You will end up all alone and you will die because of them,” he says in a monotone voice that sends chills across Tahomaru’s skin.

“What nonsense is that?! You are just jealous!”

“No. I can see it.”

Tahomaru chokes on his breath, infuriated, giving Taizo the chance to continue:

“Our sensei, Mitsutoshi, will die in the mountains, along with half of his regiment.” He is slowly overlooking the training courtyard where dozens of boys and young guys are dueling on bamboo swords to the grunting of the teachers. “Tanaka-sensei and Ijo-sensei will bleed out and freeze to death in the same war. These cousins will die at a woman’s hand, the guy with the big head will drown in a flood, and his training partner will be squashed in a rockfall on some distant cape. You will witness it.”

Tahomaru shakes off the goosebumps. “This is ridiculous. My father will create the land of peace.”

“No, he won’t. There will be war, plague, droughts, and floods. People will starve again. Many will die. Your strength won’t help them, nor yourself.”

“Then what, if not strength, could have? Tell me, if you know so much,” Tahomaru sneers.

Taizo’s eyes are narrowed, like those of Mutsu when she pulls the bow and aims. There is no grudge and no hostility in these eyes, only the strain of focus, and at last he replies, “Something you cannot have.”

Setsuna, who has been training nearby among the girls with bow and naginata, runs up to them, three sticks of seasonal-colored dango in her hand—white, pink and green. “Hey, look what Mother gave me! Want some?”

“Go and eat,” Tahomaru says, his chin raised. “I still have training.”

…He did not believe those prophecies, of course. Yet, years later, when he learned that Taizo’s mother had died while delivering a stillborn daughter, he felt a cold prickle deep inside.

He brushed it off his mind shortly, along with everything else that impeded him on the way to his Goal.

~

“I do remember.” Tahomaru meets his gaze steadily. “You claimed to foresee things. I refused to believe you. Now I see I was wrong, and I owe you an apology. Many things happened exactly like you had said. But are children’s grudges really a worthy reason to start a war, summoning a ten thousand army from hell?” He bends an eyebrow.

To his surprise, Taizo bursts into laughter.

“You are right, it would have been ridiculous,” he says, wiping the tears of merriment from his long eyelashes. “Honestly, do you think that your—or someone else’s—acknowledgement even concerns me? Well, it might have concerned me as a child, I can admit. But soon, I realized there was no reason to care. It is like resenting a blind man for being unable to appreciate your painting. Utterly pointless.”

Tahomaru, taken aback once again, remembers that Taizo used to be a fine artist. He was good in other arts, too, especially in poetry, which Tahomaru enjoyed as well. And, like Tahomaru, Taizo loved poetic tales of wars and heroes.

Like Tahomaru, he used to hate actual wars.

Yet unlike Tahomaru, Taizo was not the heir of his father. He was just a third son, and nobody expected anything from him. He had no duty and no goal weighing on his shoulders. With his two strong and capable elder brothers, he was free to just be who he was.

They ceased to understand each other.

This was what ended their friendship, Tahomaru realizes at last.

…What if Hyakkimaru had been there, the strong elder brother he lacked, Tahomaru can’t help but wonder—in that impossible possibility which he once forbade himself to think about, the one where Tahomaru existed as well, as another child of love, not obligation? He can almost imagine it now. The possibility where he was free of the burden to rule and to shut off his heart. Where he could just be who he was…

‘You’re only forcing it on me because you want to escape it yourself. Because you just want to live.’

The cup in his hand shakes up as a dull pain spreads from the heart to the tips of his fingers. Was he right, after all?

“So, if people’s recognition does not concern you, then what does?” Tahomaru asks, putting the cup down carefully. 

And, just as he asks it, the memory of the same question comes to his mind—the question he asked Setsuna in the castle gallery facing the sea, when they talked to each other for the first time in years.

‘Then what does concern you?’

Acceptance, was her reply. I do not agree with the nonsense my father says about karma. I shall never embrace it.

“The future,” replies Taizo, his look changing in a flash. Like that day in the dojo many years ago, it gets hard and focused akin to that of a bowman, but no longer impassive. “The future that must not be allowed to transcend into life.”

~Part 2~

‘You slack off.’ A swing. A blow. A downward diagonal cut— kesa-giri . The real sword is heavy in his numbed hands, and his every muscle aches, strained, like a string that is about to snap. The pain blazes his wrists as the blade hits the target at a wrong angle. Rolled tightly into a cylinder and soaked in water, the straw mat is supposed to approximate the density of flesh, and the green bamboo in its core is to approximate bone. Is it really this hard? Must be even harder. And resilient, too, with armor, and taut tendons, and spurts of blood… Another swing. Another cut, upward diagonal kiri-age. ‘You are just jealous!’

Taizo shakes his head as a raindrop lands on his cheek. Maybe he is. When did it happen? When was he left behind?

Those two Yasue siblings appeared out of nowhere with their fierce strength and grim resolve, and changed his friend completely.

…But maybe it was him who had changed before that. The visions emerged in his dreams first, more vivid than any nightmare his subconscious could come up with, and then invaded his conscious mind, too. He did not want to know all those things, yet he could not hide from the knowledge. He did not want to share it with others, yet he could not keep it inside.  

Another swing, another cut. He should have, probably. There is no point in knowing it anyway. What is the use of knowing the inescapable? He should stop thinking about it, and focus entirely on his training. He should become strong, even if there is no use in strength. Even if just so as not to be laughed at. But the imitation of flesh and bone is tough under his strike, and it wrenches the sword out of his narrow hand with the same easiness Tahomaru knocked it off earlier this morning.

The sky opens up. Rain pours down from the thick clouds. Over the distant thunder, Taizo can’t hear a cautious rustle in the hydrangea bushes. Only when Setsuna steps out onto the clearing, he notices her.

She picks up his sword and walks up to him.

Taizo realizes it is too late to hide his red eyes. What is she here for? As if her witnessing his defeat in the dojo wasn’t bad already…

The girl says nothing, just puts the sword back into his hands.

“My brothers are laughing at me, and my father is ashamed of me,” the words rip through his squeezed throat almost against his will. “No matter how hard I train, it’s still not enough... I hate this body! It just won’t become strong…!”

Setsuna winces from his outburst. Perfect. Now, she will despise him too. But he no longer cares. He is tired of caring...

“But you draw, and play flute, and compose such beautiful poems,” she tries to console him, a nice and sensitive girl that she is. “You are cool like this.”

“What’s cool about that...”

After a bit of hesitating, Setsuna adds, “And you also can see what is about to come.”

Taizo gasps. “You...believe me?”

“Of course I do. I was just scared.” She cracks a smile, and the usual cheerful notes return to her voice. “But then I decided I shall never let it happen! We just have to change the future.”

“You…think we can?” Taizo blinks, taken aback. “I tried to tell Mother that she shouldn’t give birth to girls, but she just laughed and said, It’s for the gods to decide.”

…Mother then went on to convince him that girls were nice, too. He said, I know, my best friend is a girl, that’s not the point. His brother Yoshiaki heard it and started to ridicule him again…

But Setsuna squeezes his hand and flashes him another broad smile. “Sure we can. What would be the point of your gift if we couldn’t? The gods gave it to you for a purpose. We just have to figure it out.”

“But how do we do it?”

“We shall see.” Setsuna doesn’t give him an immediate solution, yet she gives him a warm, a bit sad look of her bright hazel eyes. “Tomorrow, Masashi and I leave for my father’s northern castle. I shall think about it there, and you must think, too. When I return, we’ll discuss our ideas.”

“When will you return?”

“I don’t know. Maybe in half a year, or more.”

Taizo’s heart falls again. He has just acquired something he thought he would never have—someone else’s understanding. And now, she leaves him alone…

“But I've come up with something,” Setsuna adds, a mischievous sparkle lighting up in her eyes. “Mother gave me a pigeon that can deliver messages. I shall write to you, and you’ll send it back with the answer! That way, we can stay connected wherever we are. But promise to tell me everything you foresee. I won’t get mad at you anymore. Tell me  e v e r y t h i n g. Promise?”

Her palm is warm upon his hand, and her eyes surrounded with freckles are like winks of the sun in the autumn forest. How come he never noticed this beautiful scenery? 

How will he live if one day he foresees its demise, too? 

We just have to change the future.

He squeezes her hand back. “Promise.”

~

He could not see her future, and he had a hard time convincing her again and again that he was not lying. Yet that was true. Taizo could not see his own future either.

With time, they came to a conclusion: it meant that they were free. Their future had not yet been written. They could choose. They really could try and change something.

…Yet they failed. Time and time again, they would fail to change the foreseen. Maybe because those visions lacked some crucial details. Maybe because it was simply not possible, after all. Taizo could not prevent his mother’s death. Setsuna could not stop her brother from going to that battle, and Taizo could not protect him on the battlefield, having always been a weaker warrior. About the hundreds of the other deaths he foresaw, Taizo never really cared. Their lives, their wars, their entire world was a mockery, a parade of the doomed. 

Amidst it all, he had met the one person who was able to understand him, and it was enough.

He had always thought it was enough—just to be understood.

Now, Taizo wondered if there was even such a thing as enough.

…The dark eyes of the man who had said to call him Teacher shifted in precognition of the shadow that appeared the next moment from the white haze of the snowstorm. A gust of wind swept across Taizo’s skin. He raised his head and saw a big raven flapping down from the sky. The shadow of death he had seen on the battlefield, it was still looming over him. Yet it was willing to wait, for now. 

…Maybe they had failed because they had had no teacher to guide them, a thought occurred to him. 

The raven landed on the terrace in a whirl of snowflakes, shook itself off, and, having settled unabashedly a few steps away, fixed its glistening eye on Taizo.

Teacher chuckled. “Seems like this raven took a liking to you. He followed you from the very battlefield. While you were healing, he would go on a hunt sometimes but always return here.”

“He has been robbed of the chance to feast on my flesh,” Taizo’s lips twitched in a smile. “Probably, he is still waiting for the opportunity.”

“This reminds me…” Teacher muttered, then turned abruptly and went inside. He returned shortly, sat down across the youth again and put a small box on the table between them. “This thing was clenched in your hand when I picked you by the Two Pines. Perhaps it was important to you.”

Taizo opened the lid and took out a small piece of wood. His eyebrows rose in puzzlement. The little thingy was attached to a silken thread tied into a three-looped musubi knot. Ah. Must be the omamori the dying samurai had put into his hand just before he drew his last breath, a strange smile frozen on his face. It was the first man whose last blood Taizo had received, Teacher’s skill stopping him right at death’s door.

Taizo chuckled, regarding the simplistic shape of a heike crab and the clumsily carved characters of two names, barely discernible under the dark coating of the dried blood. The children who had crafted it must have loved Heike Monogatari, the echo of the great Genpei War that blind monks biwahoshi had been reciting through the centuries, keeping the memory alive. The most important story of this realm, it spoke of rise and fall, of honor and loyalty, and of the inexorable flow of karma. Probably, like most of the samurai boys, those two disregarded the moralizing but knew by heart the epic scenes of the naval battles, admiring the tragic heroes, such as ingenious Yoshitsune or fearless Atsumori. He had, too, as a child. But war was fabulous and beautiful only in the tales of old.

Now, quite randomly, his memory offered another excerpt he never knew he remembered:

“Love smolders in the bosom like the smoke of Fuji, and the tears that moisten the sleeve are like the waves of Kiyomigaseki. So in the end Michimori obtained this lovely lady, and their affection for each other was most profound. So she followed him even to the wind-tossed waves of the Western Sea, and in death their path was not divided.”

What was it, another premonition? An alien memory that was now a part of him? Or just a fleeting longing for something he might have lost along with his past life and blood? Taizo clenched the omamori, like the samurai whose name he didn’t even know had before parting with it, and he felt his fingertips throb with the echo of the new burning in his chest. Maybe it was the souls of others speaking in him, raging in the blood that now streamed in his veins, but the understanding of their longing and their pain was still his. It choked his chest and burned there, deep inside, where only indifference had reigned earlier.

And for the first time in his life, Taizo saw not just the future but the first steps of his own path in it.

“Thank you, Teacher,” he bowed deeply. “Now teach me how to walk.”

~

The mountains on both sides of Tatesuki Pass were like white foam of the collapsing waves frozen in their fall. Thick layers of snow covered the trees huddling up the slopes. It melted on the treetops of the southern side of the gorge, where the sun of the nearing spring had already touched it, yet a thin layer, mostly brushed away by the winds, was still hiding the road and the gore of the fierce battle that had occurred here months ago.

Beneath the white blanket, they lay with their faces grey and hard like the rocks beneath them—all those who had died in accordance with his visions. Cut in pieces, pierced through, wounded and left to freeze… Too few of them had survived to take care of the bodies. The Asakura and the Daigo, who had fought proudly under their respective colors, were now but a jumble of corpses scattered around under the sole white color of snow. The severe winter had struck fast, freezing them at the very beginning of decomposition, as if everything had happened only a few days ago. 

Taizo kneeled by the body of his old sensei Mitsutoshi who had commanded this regiment in its last battle. He was missing an arm but otherwise looked recognizable.

Yet Teacher had chosen another body for the purpose—some young samurai Taizo did not recognize.

This one is mourned the most, Teacher had explained. I can sense the force of the living still being poured into him. Pain, longing, love…an insane amount of those… 

It was a lengthy ritual. Odd, alien words were spilling from Teacher’s lips, making the snowflakes above and around them melt and drop—a warm rain in the core of the mountain frost. Taizo could not sense any “force” Teacher had talked about, but he felt the slightest buzz in his very bones, like a deep resonance of a ghostly bell.

Then, Teacher lowered his hands and opened his eyes.

For a moment, the silence was complete. Then it shook, and they heard a rustle all around them.

A thousand men army was rising from the snow, shaking off the ice and gripping their weapons tightly once again. Their dead eyes were staring into the void, holding no rage, no desires of their own, and no recognition of the world around them. What was now moving their bodies was but a mechanical force. 

“It is not enough,” Taizo said calmly, having found no trepidation inside. A mocking contrast to his current self, no dead army devoid of their souls could scare him—lying on the blood-soaked ground by the Two Pines, caught in the whirlpool of visions, he had seen millions of deaths, and he had been millions of deadmen. “I must have at least ten times more.”

Teacher looked at him askance. “I don’t have such strength, and no human being does.”

Taizo shrugged. “Then I need help from other beings.”

The obsidian eyes narrowed. “I know who can help you. Follow me. That place is not too far from here.”

~

“…The knowledge of the blood is merely a fraction of his abilities. In the mountains, he collected the stones from all the twelve destroyed statues and arranged them into a wide circle. With ancient magic, he brought them back to life. That is where I made the deal.” 

Tahomaru’s mouth feels dry. He gulps on a bitter aftertaste of the tea, a wave of dread mixed with frustration surging through him. Indeed, evil cannot be exorcized completely while there is at least one man who wants the unattainable. It is always there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for someone to call out to it…

“Wasn’t it too cheap for a deal?” Tahomaru asks, keeping his face impassive, his eyebrow arched a little higher. “Apart from the undead men your Teacher had raised up—only the phantoms that could not deliver a lasting wound?”

“Oh, that elusive army was an advance of sorts, not the deal itself,” Taizo begins to explain nonchalantly, but then his eyes shift, having noticed something. He rises and walks over to the exit of the tent. 

With the corner of his eye Tahomaru catches a shadow of a big bird sweep across the rippling white fabric above them. 

Taizo lifts the flap, and a black raven flies in, wings clapping loudly. The flames shake in the torrents of disturbed air as the raven sits onto a wooden stand that normally used for hanging armor on. Tahomaru notices a scroll attached to its leg. 

“...Still, it was impressive, don’t you think?” Taizo continues, proceeding to detach the message. “Just a half of it allowed me to take most of Etchu Province in a matter of days, without even shedding much blood. Some accidents and suicides of the exceptionally persistent individuals, that’s all. Most of them just surrendered right away, giving me the keys of their castles and swearing their allegiances. The other half of the army I gave to my father, so that he took over Ishikawa in the meantime. Such was the plan. But he was too old, too rigid to look beyond his pointless revenge. Instead of marching on the castle and taking it, he let you pull him into battle—and failed, of course.”

‘That army was to destroy just one beast, to avenge all those who were slain by him,’ Tahomaru recalls Imagawa’s words. He never tried to break out of that valley to march straight on the castle, choosing to attack their positions instead. His and his son’s goals were indeed different.

Unrolling the scroll, Taizo scrutinizes it for a while in the bright rays of the sun penetrating inside. Then, he throws the unfolded paper onto the table, satisfaction written on his face. In the shifting light and shadows Tahomaru distinguishes a map of the neighboring provinces, with some war schemes and remarks written across it.

“My generals in Etchu report the surrender of the last resisting fort,” Taizo nods at the dispatch. “The road into Hida and Mino is now open. I could have taken the country like that. Just imagine: a bloodless unification! Too bad, it seems like that army was just a one-time thing, a display of their strength.”

“Of course. Demons want blood and death. A bloodless war will not satisfy them.”

“They won’t have men fighting against men for long, though.” Taizo’s face imperceptibly changes again, growing harsh in the side light seeping through the opening. Long strands of his hair flow like silk in the intruding gusts of fresh air. “The price they are yet to reveal, but after the deal is sealed, I will acquire a force real and big enough to take the whole country.”

“It will be your firstborn child.”

“Probably. I am fine with that. It’s not that much of a price.”

“When did you acquire this lust for power?” Tahomaru watches the boy he once knew, a clever, sensitive, and nice kid who loved arts and despised violence, and can’t understand whether he is still there—or was his soul replaced that day completely, piece by piece, drop by drop? “Was it also in the blood of others?”

“You think I want power?” Taizo snorts with a faint annoyance. “Power is just a burden when there is so much more to this life. A burden only a fool would desire. You are no fool, and you never desired it. Yet you had no choice. Well, neither do I.” 

He takes the raven on his forearm, walks over and releases it out into the sky. Once the curtain falls close, everything stills inside the tent once again. Taizo turns around, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light, his scars and burns resembling war paint the Emishi, barbarians of old, would put on their faces in a wild celebration of death. 

“Things can’t get worse, you think. Oh, but they can. When I was dying on that field, I died a million deaths. I witnessed the future of our country.” His voice hardens, no more artificial nonchalance in it, and this is perhaps the closest Tahomaru has seen him yet to the Taizo of his memories. “We are just at the beginning of the chaos. It will get far more terrible. This decade-long civil war is only a spark which will set fire to a broader conflagration once the shogunate completely falls apart. Kyoto will be brought down to a heap of rotten ruins. With no central power restraining them, the local daimyo will start their full-on struggle for domination, and the wars will last more than a hundred and fifty years. Thousands and thousands of people, including innocent children, will die of famine, and steel, and the brutal weapons of the Outlanders that will spread widely by that time. Hideous gore will become the most rutinous sight across the land. The realm will be immersed in chaos we have never seen and can hardly imagine, until the most terrible of all men arises and conquers the whole country. He will be called The Demon King of the Sixth Heaven. But our descendants will praise him as the unifier of Japan, the greatest warlord in its history.” 

Tahomaru shakes off the chills crawling up his shoulders to the grave harshness of his words. He thinks of the nine-year-old Taizo describing the things he foresaw with a detached monotony. Now, there is a crackling fire in his voice. Beautiful features sharpened with fierce resolve, he suddenly reminds Tahomaru of his brother. They are around the same age, too. 

He forces himself not to dwell on it as Taizo keeps going. “...So, if that is the only way to put an end to the wars, why should we wait the whole century and let all those thousands of people die in vain? I shall become that Demon King now, at the price of just one child’s life.”

“It is the mistake I once made, too,” Tahomaru says, his throat tight. “If I can achieve peace by sacrificing just one, it is worth it, I thought. I was blind. The demons may give you anything, but everything they will have given you will be erased after the deal is broken. Once you die, all the land you will have conquered will fall apart. All the people who will have survived or been born thanks to your deal will perish. Look at this land. Is the proof not vivid enough?”

“It is the proof of your weakness,” Taizo’s words cut like steel. “All of that happened only because your brother had survived and slew all the demons. You were too weak to walk that path through till the end. I don’t know what happened in the burning castle, but I guess you gave in to doubt and let your hand waver in the end.” The cold almond eyes pierce him with the same dismissiveness Imagawa had in his gaze. “You can only guess what will happen once the one who made the deal dies. All those who weren’t supposed to be born shall perish, you say? Why are you still alive, then?”

Tahomaru can’t help his look wavering for a moment. Why is he still alive? This is what he would like to know as well…

“...You can blabber about karma all you want, but it will be just that—a blabbering. No one can tell for sure. Well, probably with the exception of my Teacher. He does know how to manage the blowback, should the need arise. He possesses the wisdom to bend karma itself.”

“How can you be sure that he truly does?”

“What would he lie for? That man is too powerful for cheap trickery.”

Tahomaru says nothing. 

Taizo sits down, a satisfied smirk pulling at his lips. He picks up the scroll again, his eyes studying the map intently as if an idea just came to his mind.

“Actually, screw Mino. With an army about twice as big I could march right on Kyoto and take it within days, in the state the Shogun’s army is now. Yes. Perhaps this is what I will do, after I have taken Echizen and Omi provinces. At least, this is how it was done—or should I say, would have been done? —a hundred years later. The Azai of Omi turned their back on the Demon King who trusted them rather blindly because of the family ties, and supported the Asakura. Now, I am spared of that disadvantage.” Taizo engrosses in his strategizing as if having forgotten about Tahomaru altogether.

“If so, what do you want from me?” he asks.

Taizo glances up at him. “Simply for you not to stay in my way. I need a secure rear. Swear allegiance to me, and that will be it.”

Tahomaru sets his face, his voice firm. “I will not let this land be dragged into another play of inhuman powers. If you want this domain, then prepare another army and try to take it.”

Taizo sighs with exasperation. “Exactly what I do not want. You all try to take everything down to a war, while my objective is to stop it. I don’t want another bloody battle. I want to bring this realm to peace unattainable otherwise. I know the future. I have a plan. You have none.”

Tahomaru clears his throat. “And so, you have decided that you are the chosen one who can accomplish it.” He confines himself to a muffled snort. He knows the feeling all too well; after all, that was what he himself believed for the longest time, prepared to go to any lengths to create the land of peace…

“It is not me who decided.” Taizo appears unfazed. “We decide very little. Being gifted with something, we are simply instruments of those divine gifts. All we can decide is whether we use them or not. But if we don’t put our gifts into use, it means there was no meaning in our birth, doesn’t it? The gods aren’t likely this wasteful.”

“So, the gods gave you the gift of foreknowledge so that you made a deal with the demons?” Tahomaru quirks an eyebrow.

Taizo gives a simple shrug. “Why not? After all, these powers both rule this earth. The world as we know it is the result of their collaboration. Without their eternal enemy, could either of them even exist?”

Tahomaru feels a draining exhaustion as if he were looking into a mirror and arguing with himself. Taizo deflects every argument easily. He is not lying and not fluctuating. Now that Tahomaru looks closer, he sees no greed, no lust for power, not even a hint of conceit in him. We are simply instruments. 

A detail in a mechanism. A function…

Tahomaru rises to his feet to leave. He has done all he could.

“I shall not waste my time on this castle, for now,” Taizo throws casually without rising to see him off. “This devastated land has no man force and no supplies needed for my campaign anyway. In about a year, when I take all the surrounding lands, you will realize there is no other way for you but to join me. Until then, you can sit here and watch how the new future I am creating unfolds.”

“Why is your army here, then?” Tahomaru asks point blank.

“Only because there is something of mine.” Taizo turns to face him, a sharp glint flashing in his eyes. This gaze is completely new to him, too, a darkness heavy with possessiveness. “So, give her back to me, and I shall leave.”

Tahomaru holds his gaze. “She isn’t a thing to be given. She doesn’t belong to anyone but herself.”

Taizo gives out a relaxed chuckle. “I know that you proposed to her. Ridiculous. She is mine. She has always been mine. You don’t even love her.”

“And you do? You, who wants to feed her child to the demons?”

“You know nothing about love.”

“Then tell me what it is.” Tahomaru raises his chin with a challenge. 

“Treading one path together,” Taizo replies without the slightest of pauses. “No matter how painful, no matter how frightful, you two walk it down hand in hand. Oh, wait, but you must know it. Was it not the same for you and her?” He lifts an eyebrow, only to squint the next moment skeptically. “No. Perhaps you did not love her all that much, or you would have gone to the depths of hell with her instead of staying here.”

Tahomaru winces, the blood rushing to his head, his hand twitching to the hilt of his sword. The next moment, he stiffens. I could have slayed you now, putting an end to all the deals and prophecies. If he tried, would it be something Taizo had also foreseen, or would it be an alteration of the future? If so, which of the futures—the old or the new one? 

…You may know the future but you know nothing about us. Tahomaru thinks of them both running up to Mutsu in the Hall of Hell in a blind rush to protect or to share her destiny. He thinks of touching her, something he had once forbidden himself to do, despite the stains of plague covering her body. He was prepared to go off with her. He was, and yet… 

With difficulty, Tahomaru suppresses the pulsing heat in his temples. 

“If this is what she genuinely wants, I will let her go.” He keeps his face still, and his breathing even as Taizo watches him out of the corner of his eye. “But I have a request, too. I want to meet with your Teacher.”

Taizo does not ask what for, he just shrugs. “I’ll tell him. He will meet you if he wishes to.”

~Part 3~

Tahomaru says nothing on their ride back to the castle, his head swimming with thoughts. 

Father did not want him to have friends. And yet he would never interfere in his relationship with Mutsu and Hyogo. They became something other than friends, other than a family—an organism living for the sole purpose. But was it more or less than friends, Tahomaru wonders now.

He believed their Goal was more important than either of their lives. As his right and left hands, it was only natural for Mutsu and Hyogo to fight defending their master and even die should the cause require it. He knew it. He was prepared for the possibility, or so he believed. He would mourn the loss, of course, but accept it as a part of the natural order of things. He would not blame himself.

And yet he did, because for him, they were indeed more than that. Siblings. Playmates and rivals. Trusted partners in crimes. A confidant. A first love. Tahomaru wasn’t supposed to, but he wanted to protect them. His definition of love has always been the opposite of that of Taizo. 

That is why for him, love became a dangerous distraction he tried but ultimately failed to eliminate. 

And ended up detesting and blaming himself. 

…All the more so because they had not simply died. He had dragged them into the deal, and he had left them in the demon’s paws, the same demon he himself had managed to drive from his soul. They had not had the chance. And so they died—without breaking their ties with Asura.

They died and went straight to hell, just like his father. As if the life they had had on this earth was not hell already… 

“Lord?” At length, Maeda breaks the silence. “What did he tell you?”

Tahomaru shakes up, forcing his attention back to reality. “Taizo doesn’t want to fight us. He will leave, for now. He has a bigger objective in his mind, which is the whole country. So, he will focus on other provinces. He is assured we will bow down to him once we are encircled here.”

“Encircled?” Maeda gasps. “How on earth? Does he have another demonic army?”

“Not now, but he will surely get it once he makes the sacrifice. Until then, he will be using the Hatakeyama and other clans.”

“What sacrifice?”

“Most likely the same. His firstborn child.”

Maeda chokes on his breath.

“Concerning your daughter, of course, he wants to get her.”

“He shall not.”

Tahomaru nods. He said he would let her go if that was what she genuinely wanted…but can he, really? There is no way he will let Setsuna become a tool of the horrible deal. 

‘In order to break through the barrier, a demon needs to consume the force of the living, offered to him on a free will.’

He will not let Asura come into this world again.

…But Taizo will not be subdued by that. Tahomaru thinks of the glint of determination in his childhood friend’s eyes, a determination so new to him. He will not stop. He will besiege this castle, he will attack and grind it to dust until he gets her. And even in the case he doesn’t succeed, unlikely as it is considering the man resources he already possesses, Taizo will just use another girl for the task. Another innocent life will be ruined. The demon will push him to do so. Taizo has gotten his “advance of sorts”; he is indebted already.

Tahomaru grits his teeth. No matter. He might not be able to prevent the sacrifice, but he can’t let Setsuna, the girl he has promised to protect, become the tool. He simply can’t.

“...It was her who informed Imagawa about Lord Kagemitsu’s last will. I should have realized it earlier,” Maeda’s voice reaches him, devoid of any emotion. His eyes are set on the castle ahead. “She must have sent a letter to Taizo. I thought she was just going mad because of her grief, sending letters with her pigeon into the sky, when in truth…”

He trails off.

Tahomaru recalls the night of the funeral feast and the following morning. Deathly despair in Setsuna’s eyes and in her words. Could someone be such an impeccable performer, playing desperation while plotting rebellion in cold blood?

Tahomaru shakes his head. “She did not know back then that Taizo was alive.”

“If she did not know, why would she keep sending him letters?”

“Perhaps in the madness of grief, like you suggested. It is obvious she would not have tried to kill herself, had she known it all along.”

To that, Maeda nods, slowly. “You are right, lord. She must have learned it later. She will be questioned, and we shall learn the truth.”

The gleam in his squinted eyes contains no warmth of the afternoon sun.

~

It is with the heavy heart that Tahomaru leads the way down the inner corridors of the empty castle to the place where they left Ando and Otani on guard. Only a humming echo is accompanying them in the murky darkness. No maids must have been on duty to refill the lamps with oil…

Tahomaru’s body tenses before his mind can catch up. Something is amiss. This silence is too deep. Nobody greets them, and nothing can be seen in the shadows down the corridor…except for a dark pile on the floor.

Time stills. Their footsteps slow.

Tahomaru freezes completely as the shadows reveal the horrid scene before them: the guards are lying in a puddle of blood, their throats cut open. 

Ando’s young, ever-smiling face is distorted in utter bewilderment. Otani’s stoic features are frozen in rage and terror. He must have witnessed his younger cousin die before he himself was slain...

Tahomaru twirls in a heartbeat, his sword ready to strike, to meet another assault from the shadows—

It is the next moment that he realizes: the assault came from the inside. 

Maeda’s figure is already there, rooted in the center of the empty room, his drawn sword vibrating in his grip and twitching to each of his rasping breaths. There is no other sound in the stillness of the chamber. Tahomaru can hear himself swallow. 

He crouches down, quickly touching Ando’s cheek: still warm. His palm is empty, but so is the sheath of his wakizashi. Otani’s hand is clenched on the hilt of his sword, arm frozen in an attempt to draw it. Probably, she cut Ando’s throat with a tanto, then took his short sword and struck Otani with it. She must have acted very quickly to catch Maeda’s best warriors completely off guard. Either that, or they just could not expect such ruthlessness from the girl they had known since childhood…

‘Won’t you take the words of a woman seriously? Then you shall soon regret it.’

Tahomaru forces a deep breath into his chest, fighting a rush of dizziness. There is no time for sentiments now. What has already happened can’t be undone; he must focus on what is still preventable.  

“I’ll check the north gate.” Tahomaru closes the cousins’ eyes and rises to his feet. “You know this castle better; are there other passages that she could use?” 

“Yes. I know where she could go.” Maeda turns around. His expression is set, his eyes unreadable.

They waste no other minute. 

Maeda descends to the ground level, while Tahomaru rushes down the main gallery to the opposite gate, the ones opening toward the calm seaside far from the field of the recent battle. The blood is drumming in his ears. He only hopes his calculation was right: Setsuna must realize that her father will check the secret passages first. It is impossible to sneak out through the main gate either. Here, however, the guards are not even likely to be aware of the delicate family matter, and will not think to oppose their lady’s order to let her out.

…Although Tahomaru catches up with her before he even reaches the gate.  

Setsuna meets him head on on a narrow flight of stairs leading from the gallery down to the lower level of the wall. A knife flashes, aimed straight to his head, followed by a shuriken. Tahomaru knocks down both with his short sword, dashing downstairs. At the bottom of the flight, Setsuna raises the wakizashi she took from Ando in a defensive position, backing slowly toward a loophole in the wall. Tahomaru notices the blood on the blade reflecting the sun. There is a trail of stains on the front of her pale-blue kimono, too, its sleeves tied up, the hakama pants fastened around the calves to make moving around easier. Her coppery-brown hair is no longer reaching the floor, cut and gathered in a ponytail. 

The next moment, he notices a rope already fastened to the wall and flung over the opening. So, she wasn’t about to try chances at the gate. He has barely made it on time to stop her from climbing down…

“It’s over now,” Tahomaru exhales, stopping at a strike distance from the girl, his sword in a neutral position allowing him to deflect any blow. Setsuna must realize she is no match for him in one on one fight. Hopefully, she does. “Put the sword down. I won’t hurt you.”

Setsuna lets out a belligerent laugh, her eyes flashing fury and resolve. The blade strikes in a swift diagonal cut, colliding with his with the force that nearly knocks her over, wrenching the hilt out of her small hand. But it is not her sword he must have paid attention to. Setsuna’s left hand swings sharply the same instant, and another knife drops by Tahomaru’s feet, split in half. 

He wasn’t the one to knock it down this time. No human reaction would have been fast enough… 

Thank you, Furi.

The short span in his concentration allows her to pick up the sword again—

“Stop it…!” Tahomaru shouts, cold sweat belatedly breaking out on the back of his neck. “I’ve said it’s over! You can’t defeat me!”

“Indeed.” Her mouth curling in a sneer, Setsuna sets the blade against her own throat, upon the scar of her first attempt. 

Tahomaru feels the breath leave his lungs.

Her amber eyes are set on his, bright with a vehement glow. “...Don’t know how the hell Father saved me back then, but this time, he won't. Unless the demon that guards you can pull off that trick, too.” 

Tahomaru lowers his sword slowly, his every move cautious and smooth. “Are you this desperate to leave? Taizo may not be the same person you used to know.”

She just laughs, harshly and bitterly. “I know what he did. He made a deal with the demons.”

“You will have to sacrifice your child.”

“I am fine with that.”

He sucks in a breath. “You mean it…?”

“Yes. I do.”

Setsuna readjusts her grip on the sword, the fair skin of her neck now smeared with the blood of the ones she has killed. 

“We have had this goal, Tahomaru. Ever since our childhood days. We vowed to change the future. Now that he knows the way, I shall walk it through with him till the end, or I shall die here and now. There is no third way.”

Tahomaru’s eye widens. In their childhood days, he was badly mistaken. He was not the only one with the Goal. The three of them, they all wanted the same… Then why on earth have they ended up on the opposite sides?

“…He saw it all, back then. Everything happened just like he had said. Everybody would laugh at him, everybody but me. I promised I would always stay on his side, even if the whole world turned against him.”

“And I have promised to protect you.” There is no strength in his voice. The sword seems leaden in his hand.

“Protect me from myself?” Setsuna laughs darkly. “Well, I used to believe in this nonsense, too. Can you imagine what it was like to know all along that my brother would die in that battle? Do you think I did not try to stop him? He knew about the prophecy, and he never doubted it either. But he said, ‘How can I stay behind if even the peasants who should have never held a sword must go and die there? I am a samurai. It is my place to die.’” Setsuna’s voice breaks, and for the first time, Tahomaru sees another emotion glimmering in her eyes, a glimpse of the long-held pain he once chose to brush off his mind and his heart along with his first friendship. “That is who he was, a noble and compassionate boy. He had made his choice. Maybe I could have stopped him still, come up with some trick. But I realized that by protecting his life, I would just ruin his soul. The good enforced is not a good.”

“Yet you are nourishing the hope to change the future of the whole country,” Tahomaru says, his heart throbbing painfully, realizing all his attempts at arguing are a decade too late.

“Do you not understand? As long as there are wars, the best, the noblest will keep perishing in battles. The ones who prefer certain death to cowardice. The ones who are willing to sacrifice themselves for others. The ones who could have made this world better with their own hands. They will perish, while the despicable ones will remain. Yet we cannot make them betray themselves and stay back. There is no chance in waiting for this order of things to end on its own.”

We cannot make them betray themselves.

Tahomaru gulps the air, the weight of these words constricting his chest. ‘You won’t make me become like him.’ He thinks of his own brother whom he has failed to understand. We are not born to comply with the choices and wishes of others. We are born free, to walk our own path. Even if it means rejecting everything that has been offered to us on a plate and go seek it in the wilderness.  

He thinks of Imagawa’s bird, too. The three of them, they would fly their kites whenever the wind was strong. Bound to the halls and courtyards of the castle, Tahomaru would look at the colorful bird soaring among the puffy islands of the clouds, sensing the strong winds raging out there through the strained thread humming in his hand, and imagine himself roaming the faraway seas…

‘Well, I can order them to let you out on a journey when I grow up.’

‘Promise?’

‘Sure.’

Tahomaru releases his breath. “There was another promise I made a dozen years ago…rather recklessly.”

…Maybe it is good that they have ended up on the opposite sides. It means one of them is not on the wrong. And may fate decide which one, when they eventually clash.

Their eyes lock with understanding. Go. You are free.

The sound of steps breaks the momentary silence.

“Setsuna…!” On the other end of the stairs, Maeda draws his sword.

Tahomaru covers the girl with his body and pushes her toward the loophole. “Go!”

~

“You should have let me kill her, lord. Through her, evil will come into this world once again.”

Tahomaru sighs, too drained to engage in another argument. He says harshly, “Will it be better if evil uses someone who is innocent and utterly clueless?” Like my mother was.

Maeda’s hardened face slacks, his mouth hanging open.

He slowly draws in the air. “Please, allow me to atone for this treachery with my own blood.”

“I decline.”

At that, the old samurai takes the glove off his left hand and opens his empty palm. 

There is a big swollen scar resembling a spider, or maybe a lilly. Tahomaru looks up at him, puzzled.

“It was a gift.” Maeda’s voice sounds bare. “From the same man, the warlock who would later tempt your father with his blood magic. It was just a small piece of rock. I accepted it only to destroy it, but that very night, Setsuna attempted to kill herself. No...in fact, she succeeded.”

~

A short and dark winter day was dying under the impenetrable vaults of the clouds scattering ghostly snowflakes when Maeda dismissed his attendants for the night, done with his daily tasks. In the castle town below, warm lights were coming aglow, simple rhythmic music and hearty meals of the taverns sheltering common folk from the cold breath of darkness. Life was flowing like usual there, unshaken by the hardships, for such was the strength of the uncomplicated things: like wild weeds, they took little time to sprout again. Here, on the higher terraces of the castle hill, however, reigned a somber silence. This old citadel that had witnessed many battles and heroic deeds was slowly sinking into heavy slumber.

Once the simple comfort of the routine actions could no longer shelter his own mind from the breath of the void, as it happened with every nightfall lately, Maeda felt his gaze being drawn toward the western tower. There, in the columbarium containing the ashes of his ancestors, first wife, and elder sons, now stood the urn with the ashes of his last heir. His lineage had come to an end. He did not care, though. All things grand had become abstract and incomprehensible to him overnight. All he could think about was the bright face of his son the way he had seen him the last time, with his bright smile and the dimples in his cheeks as he had challenged his sister to the tree climbing contest she could never win but would stubbornly agree to each time. 

Suddenly, Maeda’s gaze was redirected toward the main building still occupied by the living: a clear note of his daughter’s biwa stirred the silence, followed by a lengthy pause. Then came another note, and another, slowly stringing together an unfamiliar narrating melody.

With the corner of his eye, he saw Ando pause for a moment before entering the stables, his youthful face growing sad and soft—that particular kind of expression those carrying a hopeless secret love had. Maeda wondered if Setsuna ever noticed. Probably not. She had always been somewhat withdrawn, paying little attention to her surroundings beyond a few things that really mattered to her. 

If he could choose, Maeda would wish for his daughter’s heart to answer those pure feelings. Although their lineage was not impressive, Saito who had adopted his nephews in their early years was a good samurai, a skilled commander of cavalry (which was a landed rank), and most importantly not the one to engage in plots and murky deals. If not to assure his bloodline then merely for her safety, Maeda should have found her a good match soon, before age, karma, or some random chance finally claimed his life, leaving her alone and unprotected. Yet he did nothing. What if his desire to protect only caused her more pain? 

So he was reflecting, attuned to the lonely notes softened by the thin cover of the snow. Although she had a lovely voice, Setsuna would rarely sing when not in front of an audience, preferring the strings to resound in complete silence. Sometimes she would play her favorite pieces, sometimes just improvise freely. This melody must have been the latter for Maeda could not recall ever hearing it. But then, no famous piece performed by different musicians ever sounded the same—such was the magic of biwa, for through it spoke the heart and the soul of the performer.

…Suddenly the measured, reflective notes burst up with speed and passion. Maeda flinched. Full of the vehement energy, like a heart racing in battle, the melody shook the night, and it seemed to him that a wave ran across the clouds, disturbing the tight blanket and allowing the moonlight to rip through. The ephemeral silver rays picked up snowflakes from the darkness as the biwa strings rang like swords colliding in a furious manifestation of the will to live, the state that could only be achieved on the verge of death. Maeda knew it then, recognizing the pattern of the epic song, although not the rendition itself since his daughter had never performed Atsumori before.  

Of course, she had not. It had been her rebellion against the foretold. Then why now…?

Maeda closed his eyes, the particularly famous passage from the Heike Monogatari appearing before his inner vision. On the shore of Ichi no Tani, the sixteen-year-old Atsumori of the Taira clan was retreating to embark on a ship, his clan having lost the battle, when he noticed that he had dropped his precious flute. Fatefully, while returning to retrieve it, a young and naive boy in his very first battle, he encountered the most ferocious and fearsome warrior, Naozane Jiro Kumagai, master samurai of the Minamoto clan. 

He looks behind and sees
That Kumagai pursues him:
He cannot escape.
Then Atsumori turns his horse
Knee-deep in the lashing waves,
And draws his sword.
Thrice, three times, he strikes,
Then, still, saddled,
In close fight they twine
Rolling headlong together
Among the surf of the shore.

Kumagai was stronger and emerged victorious. But as he knocked off Atsumori’s helmet to deliver the finishing blow, he was struck by his young age and refined beauty. Wishing to spare the boy, Kumagai asked his name, but the youth refused, simply saying that he was famous enough that Kumagai’s superiors would recognize his head and assign him a reward. “Behead me as you must. Take my head to the leader of your clan and ask my name.” As battle raged around them, both were expected to behave as samurai, and Atsumori would not have had it any other way. And so, agreeing to their karmic destiny, Kumagai while crying beheaded the youth, promising to offer prayers for the repose of his soul. 

When he saw Atsumori’s flute, he remembered hearing it on the night before the battle, and was overwhelmed by the tragedy of having to end such a young and beautiful life. After that, Kumagai renounced the world and became a monk, never ceasing to pray for Atsumori’s escaping the Wheel of Life and Death. 

“To kill and to die is a warrior’s destiny. Acceptance of your destiny is said to be a virtue, a universal principle that prevents chaos, but what if it also leads to the acceptance of evil?”

The voice wove into his thoughts, Maeda not at once realizing that it came from the outside. Only when he opened his eyes did he notice the stranger. Engrossed in his reflections, he hadn’t heard anyone approaching—not even this man of an imposing stature who stood by the gate, his head tilted toward the sky.

“...Truly, there is no freedom on this earth. In a better world, all sentient beings would have been free to follow their hearts, not their prescribed roles. In such a world, the futility of Atsumori’s death would not have had to occur, and Kumagai would not have had to suffer from guilt and regret for the rest of his days.” 

Shaking off a weird, dreamworld-like haziness that had chained him, Maeda finally found his voice. “Who are you and what business has brought you here?” 

The black eyes locked on his, deep like emptiness between the stars, before the man turned to Maeda properly and bowed as a commoner was supposed to. 

“Oh, I am but a wanderer who comes and goes with the wind, for such is my role. I find myself at various places when need be. Thus I conclude that you may be needing something, and that it is my role to give it to you.”

The man was no monk, his loose black hair and thick beard denoting a rather crude life, yet he spoke perfect high-style Japanese, and in vague riddles like those practicing Zen did, too. Maeda should have ordered the stranger to give definite answers yet he found his mind oddly attuned to this sort of exchange, something deep inside him jerking awake for the first time in a long while. No, he did not need comfort nor compassion. But the black eyes of the stranger were sharp, not offering any. 

Instead, he took out a small pouch and randomly picked a small stone out of it. Was he a fortune teller? 

But no; without sparing the stone a glance, the man reached out, offering it to Maeda.

A dark piece of rock, sharp on the edges, like a chipped off fragment of a larger stone, it felt heavier on his hand than it looked.  

“What is this?”

“Something that could give you the freedom of choice even in this world.” There were subtle glints in the man’s eyes akin to those of a fox. 

Maeda felt a chill in the marrow of his bones, not from alarm but from some eerie premonition.

“How can a piece of rock bring the freedom of choice?” he heard himself asking nonetheless.

“Oh, the stone is merely a connecting thread. There are many powers beyond this world; some of them powerful enough to challenge the predestined order of things. If there is anything you wish more than life, just sprinkle this stone with your blood and ask them to change fate.”

…He remembered it later that night, when he saw Setsuna with her throat cut open. In the end, having finished her final melody, the wordless tale of the young boy’s death in his first battle, she had let go of her years-long delusions and decided to accept fate as it was: unchangeable. 

He did not. 

Maeda’s hand clenched the stone so tightly it cut through his flesh and broke into pieces. His blood must have initiated the magic.

A desperate parent, he made his daughter live longer than she should have. And indeed, he brought about terrible consequences.

~

“…I should have been stronger that night. It was a test, and I failed it. I knew no good would come from cheating on fate. But what could be worse than her immediate death, I thought. Now I know. Her becoming a traitor, a killer of her kin, and the villain’s accomplice in his mad plans. That night, I made a mistake I must atone for, even though it won’t change anything.”

Tahomaru can feel the blood leaving his face. His throat parched, his mind spiralling down into panic—for how in hell can he fix something huge like this? —he suddenly thinks of Jukai. Of the quiet light in his eyes—the light of humble realization, and of having made peace with his past not by rejecting life but by accepting everything it threw his way with eagerness and passion. ‘For death is simply a waste when there are those whom I still can help.’  

“Exactly. It won’t change anything,” Tahomaru says, exerting every effort to keep his voice cold and firm. He is the Lord of Daigo. He is the one who must lead the way, even being young and inexperienced, torn apart by questions and doubts and the shadows of his own past. “In these harsh times, I want you to think on a larger scale than your small family matters. The future of the domain must be your priority, not the ease of your soul. You are the only one who possesses the experience and authority needed in our circumstances. If you want to atone, you should focus on reviving our land. We have but a year to make it strong enough to withstand the nearing perils and retain freedom. You will continue to advise me.”

Maeda bows, a deep shadow creasing his brow. “I am unworthy of such an honor. Please, reconsider.”

“I shall not.”

~

The twilight takes over the castle, humid and warm, the deep indigo of the sky sprinkled with early stars. Tahomaru finds himself standing in solitude on the highest terrace by the old temple, on the spot where he talked with Maeda merely a week ago, having just returned from the dead and determined to deal with any trouble. It has turned out to be the longest week of his life. If he had known the things that would follow, would he have found the courage to leave the confines of that quiet village? 

Future is not meant to be known. Yet Masashi had known his lot, and he still found the courage to go and meet it head on.

Maybe that knowledge and calm acceptance were exactly the reason why he could spend his short life without fear or doubt, living each day to the fullest?

Inside the temple, the monks are reciting sutras for all the fallen, and will be doing so the whole night. The monotonous choir is droning away as Tahomaru makes his way back, down the stairs and through the torii gates, the stone foxes following him with silent stares. He halts under the trees outside and closes his eye. Drawing deep measured breaths, he allows the long, toilsome day to cool off and become memories. Irretrievable memories that he can do nothing about but accept. Everything fades: a hollow abyss in Maeda’s eyes, Lady Mizuko’s inconsolable crying, and Saito’s grey face as he looked upon the bodies of his adopted sons. 

Yet his mind can’t find solace in the routine of the mental exercise. Instead of letting go, Tahomaru finds himself vainly revisiting his every action, starting with the decision the night before, when Maeda insisted that he pick himself personal attendants. Ando and Otani could have accompanied him instead of staying there on guard. He just tried to protect them. He did not want them to die for his sake one day, yet that was exactly what led them to death. 

He should have spoken to Setsuna first, too, before rushing to meet Taizo. Damn, he should have set her free right away. She was just a woman urging to reunite with her beloved. Now, there is blood on her hands… 

These were all the results of his choices. Tahomaru clenches his teeth tight, yet a groan still rips through his throat, a heavy weight in his chest crushing him down to his knees. 

What if his command to attack Daishoji Fortress was a mistake, too? What if he has misjudged, and it only leads to another tragedy? 

He squeezes his fists.

There is no answer. Shadows envelop him, and all the voices drift away. He is alone. That evening from his childhood, when he was left by his friends in the darkness, once again appears in his memory. Followed by the dojo duel when, so full of himself, he rejected their last attempt to reach out to him… ‘Go and eat. I still have training.’

He felt insulted by Taizo’s predictions of deaths and calamities devaluating all his efforts, plans, and aspirations just like that. Maybe he felt a tinge of fear, too, though he would have never admitted it. 

‘...These cousins will die at a woman’s hand.’

Tahomaru stiffens at the belated realization.

No one could have calculated this long chain of cause and effect. But Taizo foresaw that. Eight years ago, at the dojo— 

Does it mean that his, Tahomaru’s, choices are but an illusion, indeed? That his every action and every mistake were written in the scrolls of time long ago? 

‘I know the future. I have a plan. You have none.’

Is he a fool who has engaged in another battle he cannot win? 

Chapter Text

“You will not be safe there.” Worry creased Jukai-sensei’s brow with deep lines. “Even when the odds are favorable, the battle is like raging seas: ever unpredictable. The sailor may think that the boat is under his control until it suddenly isn’t. You cannot really control the storm.”

“I understand. Still, I gotta do it.” Dororo stood straight, prepared to deflect any argument.

“I will not persuade you to step off the path you have chosen. I did so before…only to be proven wrong.” The shadows in Jukai’s eyes briefly cleared. “But neither can I join you. I have long since lost the right to take up a sword.”

Lady Nui joined them outside. “Tahomaru sent you here for us to take care of you, but I see you will not have that. You put us in a difficult position, Dororo.” The reproach was softened by a warm, if pained, gaze of her eyes.

“I’m really sorry, Lady, Sensei.” Dororo bit her lip. “But you’re not responsible for what I do, so it’s not really your fault…”

She heard a soft sigh. Nui kneeled to her eye level and adjusted the red surcoat of her son on the girl’s shoulders. “The nights are still cold, so do not take this off.” 

Dororo bit her lip harder, sudden warmth welling in her eyes. She shifted her gaze, blinking it away as Lady’s hands scarred with burns lingered on her shoulders. 

“You have said that you want to help Tahomaru, and I have chosen to believe you. But it is not your only goal, is it? What do you want to achieve?”

Their conversation was almost drowned out by the cheering of the armed crowd gathering on the river bank. Aki was waving with her prosthetic hand, urging Dororo to join them already. Dororo knew that her mother had been left in tears at home, with a bunch of younger kids to watch over. Ever since she had been injured, Aki took all the decisions on her own. And now the girl who had lost her arm by the sword had chosen to go into fight without a second thought.

Her fingers squeezed into a fist. “I want a better life for all these people.” 

“Are you sure you can achieve a better life by starting war?”

Dororo winced. “We are not starting war! We’re only taking what’s ours by right.”

“That being…?”

“Our freedom.” These lofty words sounded too ridiculous in her mouth, Dororo knew that. But she met the gaze of the hazel eyes firmly. That’s right. After all, peace is nothing without freedom. 

Peace that comes at the expense of fear—constant fear of another whimsy of those in power—be damned! That fear was the same even in the most peaceful domains. It made people forget that they were born humans, not some lower creatures who must live their lives with their necks bent low, live only to serve and to obey, and to never creep out of the shadows.

Having tried to build another kind of society in one village, Dororo understood: there was no coming back to how things had been. Now, she knew it was possible. It was no longer a dream but a tangible reality, a seed that had sprouted. And for it to grow, to strengthen, and in time to spread over the entire Kaga and maybe even beyond, she was prepared to fight.

The only thing in question was the means of the fight. 

Brute force of her father had led him to a bitter end. So had Itachi’s bargaining. She had to balance both if she wanted to succeed. She had to do it cleverly and accurately… 

~ The story of the raging sea ~

“...We’ll start with strong resistance to catch the samurai off guard! Let them guess how huge a force is hidden behind the walls, and what gives us such confidence,” Dororo was explaining her plan to Seki and the other men at the dawn of the next day, as the last shadows dissipated, and the Daigo samurai prepared their attack beyond the walls of Daishoji Fortress. “Confidence is the key! Or they call our bluff and realize we don’t have the force to go through with it.”

“So, you’re not suggesting we fight them to death?” Seki’s forehead was furrowed in confusion.

“Of course not. It’s the first impression that matters. We’ll wait for the right moment and then voice our price! Let it be ridiculously high—it will inevitably drop as we negotiate. Like, cut the taxes twice, allow you to keep weapons, no recruitment of the villagers for wars, and whatever else you could never dream of. That’s how haggling at the markets works. And once we’re haggling, consider it as well as done!”

“Why are you so sure?” 

“Isn’t it obvious? The samurai are tired after the big battle, they are too few, and they need this fortress undamaged, which means they wanna avoid a siege. They will agree to end this quickly.” 

“And what if they screw all the agreements once we’ve surrendered the fortress, or just burn down our village afterward?” another man said.

“And who will feed them? Look, not so many villages in this domain are still standing, and even less will be able to produce rice this season. The samurai need you more than they let you know. I tell you it’s gonna work. Just stick to my plan.”

Her hands on her hips, Dororo did her best not to shiver as the harsh morning breeze grazed her skin, with no warm wool to protect her anymore. After she’d taken off the jinbaori and passed it to Aki (wherever the hell she’d gone with it), something within her changed; as if the tingling warmth of before had turned into a flickering flame. She felt cold, yet she was burning. The fire was vibrating under her bare skin, urging her on, making all these dozens of tough and seasoned men listen to her. 

“Why should we take risks like that?” some continued to argue, though. “The Asakura attacked us, so did the ronin scum, but it was not so bad all these years under the Daigo! The young lord seems kind. If they oppress us, then we’ll fight back. But for now let’s just open the gates and hope for the reward! After all, we’ve spared them the fight with Imagawa’s men!” 

“Listen…” Dororo took a breath. They still didn’t understand. How could she explain what she felt with her whole being, felt like a rush of energy telling her now is the time to act, a perfect chance—and perhaps the only chance they would ever have—to change things? Dororo brought all the resolve, all the conviction to her voice. “Listen. All we, ordinary people, ever do is fight against oppression. When the samurai push us too hard, we just push back. But that leads nowhere. We only accept or reject whatever they want for us. Look, what we should do is put across what we want ourselves! They’ll never make a better life for us, because they don’t get us! Our hardships, our needs. Heck, they hardly even see us as living humans! The lord, you say… The lord is just one guy surrounded by dozens of greedy samurai clans. What he can do on his own is just maintain order, not change it. We must push them, too! Push harder! Make them bend! Your hopes won’t create anything. Only your actions will!”

Dororo paused as she ran out of breath, and heard only the strong and clear notes of her own voice reverberating in the silence. 

Then it exploded with the sound of the samurai horn.

There was no more room for arguments. The men grasped their weapons firmer. Their shoulders straightened. Their eyes flashed with grim resolve. 

Dororo set her mouth tight. Whether she was right or wrong, was soon to be decided. 

~

Everything went too fast after that. Dororo tried her best not to give in to the cold rush of fear as the air moaned with dozens of arrows, and the first shrieks of pain cut through the noise. The attack was short; the samurai quickly backed off from the walls, overwhelmed by such a confident response, a few of them injured but none killed. The villagers exploded with loud cheering, the choir echoing against the stone walls and doubling in volume, completing the impression of a force huge and fierce. The plan was working. 

Until it suddenly wasn’t.

Dororo didn’t notice it at once, having trouble keeping the guys’ attention as the chaos of the fight took over the fortress, and the timorous villagers of before grew confident with each minute, shouting to each other what to do as if they had been doing that their entire lives. Without the flashy and imposing surcoat, Dororo was too small, and the battle was too loud. For a moment, she let herself regret taking it off. Only for a moment. 

Sure, she could’ve remained “a person of special status” and enjoyed the benefits of her position, having put her trust in Tahomaru and Br— Hyakkimaru, now that they truly ruled over the domain. She could’ve let them handle all this. It was easy to believe, after all, that they were strong enough to change the order of things just by issuing some law; that they could make all the samurai agree to be on equal terms with the peasants from now on. 

But it was not how this world worked, was it? No samurai would simply agree to such things. They would plot and rebel, like Imagawa, and wrestle the rule from the brothers. 

No, I gotta do it myself. This is my role. This is my—

“...War!” The word she cut from her thoughts blazes her mind like a flash of lightning. The voices thunder in the morning air, shaking the remaining mists over the wall. “It’s war! Go to hell you samurai scum! We ain’t bowing to you no more!”

A few bows snap next to her, and another wave of excited cheering Get him! Shoot that bastard down! washes all the other sounds away.

“Seki, the fuck are you doing?!” Dororo shouts, anger rising hot in her throat as the perfect plan begins to crumble before her eyes. She claws at the fisherman’s arm and tugs with all her might in a belated and vain attempt to stop him. “You ignored me when I said it’s time to negotiate, and now you’re shooting at the messenger they’ve sent to us?! ”

Seki pries her fingers off his sleeve. There is no anger in his eyes; only a fool’s complacency is written on his stupid face. “Chill, kid. You’ve done well, shaking us up and all. But war is a grown up men’s business. Better go hide inside now, it’s about to get hot here!”

“Like hell I will!” Dororo slaps away another man’s palm trying to drag her aside. She recoils from further attempts, her back against the wall of the watchtower. 

“What’s your problem?” one of the men butts in. “Weren’t you the one who said this fortress can resist even against an overwhelming force?”

“Unless I did, you would’ve dropped your weapons and given up right away…!”

“Well, we ain’t giving up no more. We’ll fight till the last bastard’s fled or dropped dead. Right, guys? It’s our land!” 

“That’s right!”

“You…you morons!” Dororo’s voice cracks in an attempt to outshout them. “I’ve told you we’re not fighting them for real! You think you took weapons, got a fortress, and now you’re immortal?! I’ve seen armies ten times as big and skilled get crushed by the samurai! They’ll just send a real army, because this fortress is too important! You can’t defeat them by strength alone. But guess what, you don’t even need to defeat them if you got some wits! It’s about what we can make them agree to , not about killing them off! We need them just as much as they need us…!”

“Enough, now.” Seki waves her off. “We know how to handle this. Guys, gag her or something and put her into the stables.” 

Ah-huh, you can try. Dororo nimbly climbs onto the watchtower. “Dang it, Seki! You’ve got no fucking strategy! You have to negotiate before they attack, you witless rooster…!”

But nobody cares to argue any longer. Blinded by their fast success, high on their power, the peasants return to their positions on the wall, and Aki has long since disappeared from her side, Dororo has no clue where. Is she even alive—or has she been hit by a random arrow whooshing now and then over the wall…?

…And what is the shittiest of all is that Taho probably got her intention right. That’s why the samurai were acting so cautiously, restraining from attacking full-force even when the things got really heated. They even offered negotiations themselves, after Seki and the other idiots had screwed Dororo’s plan. And now, as the villagers tried (thankfully, failed) to shoot down that messenger, all the bridges have gone in flames… 

The samurai, having probably realized the same, finally abandon their half-assed attempts and withdraw to prepare a decisive attack. From the rooftop, Dororo can see the reinforcements that had joined earlier—another hundred mounted samurai or so—leave in the southern direction, perhaps to approach the fortress from the back using secret trails in the hills. “They’re fleeing!” the fishers and the peasants hoot in stupid excitement. 

Meanwhile, the main force advances toward the fortifications afoot, using stationary shields improvised from the heaps of branches tied together to get as close as possible and avoid being hit. Dororo sees the fires light up in the misty shadows of the pine grove. She knows what will follow, knows it as clearly as that the rolling wave will imminently crash upon the shore. And just as well, all she can do is watch it happen. 

Indeed, it is impossible to stop the elemental force she has so incautiously set in motion.

I may be smart and all, I may come up with the smartest plan ever. Heck, I could be even smarter than the freaking Sun-something Tahomaru and his generals were citing. But in the end what am I, without Father’s money and Taho’s coat? Just a kid nobody will listen to… 

You were right, Sensei. Why did I ever believe that I could control the storm? 

Almost as if in a dream, Dororo watches a hundred flaming arrows emerge from the morning mists like silent fireworks, to scatter and disappear in the glowing dawn for a moment— 

“Hide, you dumbasses…!”

—only to descend upon the fortress in one heavy cloud of iron and fire.

‘Someday…the wars…will stop…’  

Horrendous red flowers burst into bloom all around her, the cursed flowers of death that flourish amongst shadows and grief, and no other color remains in the world. 

Only red and gray.

‘Are you sure you can achieve a better life by starting war?’

Is this indeed what she’s done?

~ Nagaimachi village ~

“What is it you are listening to?”

The night is calm and quiet in the deserted village. Underneath its dark-blue silk, the river flows steadily, silent motion in the dark undisturbed by Nui’s fluid, silvery voice.

Jukai keeps his eyes closed. If he stays silent, she will not pry. They both know better than to poke the ghosts that should not be awakened. 

And yet they do it, more often than not.

“The waves, thundering.”

Nui sits down on the grass beside him. For a while, she listens. “I do not hear it. But the sea is near. Just across the river and that hill.”

“The sea is always near…even when I am far away from it.” 

Jukai feels her questioning gaze. She watches him in quiet expectancy, providing him the opportunity to continue, yet no sound leaves his mouth. 

What could he say?

—That there was a time when he thought that the knocking of the hammer on the nails would remain the only echo resounding in his empty chest? Relentless. Monotone. Drowning out the wailings of the tortured. But then the waves washed that sound away, replaced it with the ever boiling pain of guilt: subsiding only for a moment to crash the next moment again, like the unresting ocean tide…

—That sometimes he wonders if there is even a heart inside—or only the waves beating against that cliff? They drain the strength from his limbs; make him unable to move when he probably—

“Should I have stopped her?” the question escapes him with another exhale. “Or should I have come with them? What if my interference only causes another evil? I thought I had resolved this question, but when it comes down to it, I am as lost and disabled as back then.” 

“I guess there is no true resolution,” Nui says. “Not in this world.”

“Perhaps. But I am still in this world. Shouldn’t I keep seeking it?”

She doesn’t reply right away. For a while, they watch the darkening horizon, not a word passing between them. 

“Dono,” the woman’s voice wavers when she speaks up. Jukai can hear hesitation but also the resolve. “Can I ask you about the time…before back then? ”

His shoulders stiffening, he says, “Yes. You can.”

“Why didn’t you refuse to serve Lord Shiba?” She pauses before adding, “I know you would not do that by choice, nor from duty alone. Did he force you by threatening someone dear to you?” 

The weight constraints his chest. The thundering of the waves overlaps with the heavy, painful beats against his ribs. “That is another long story that will only make me more despicable in your eyes.” 

“I do not look for reasons to despise you,” she says softly. “I merely want to understand a human soul that treads a perilous path in this world. And I want you to have someone who understands you, too.”

“Then you must not look for a way to justify my crimes.” He turns to her, and he knows there is nothing soft nor warm in his gaze. The man he once was—his past, or his true self buried underneath the sea water and the layers of new skin and calluses—looks up at her from the stormy darkness of his eyes. “I could not do that by choice? But I did; and by that time, there was nobody I could even call dear.”

~

Jukai was the name the doctor who had saved him came up with. It was the approximation of what they heard when his brother would call him echi-okai, “you”. Don’t let the Aliens know our real names, he had said. We must keep them secret. 

Jukai’s real name began with Atuy, meaning “sea”, and went on listing the qualities desirable for a boy such as “strong”, “persistent”, “unyielding”, and so on. It had been given to him just before the battle. There had been no usual ceremony, and he had had no time to memorize the whole sequence. He hadn’t even had the chance to ask, why “sea”? There was no sea nearby, only the woods and the mountains; and nobody from their village hidden in the humid depth of the forest had ever seen it, since the Aliens now occupied the shores. 

Yet before, his name had been just a temporary moniker (a short word that meant “dung of a dog”), one of those a child be called at birth to ward off the oyasi evil spirits. Although bizarre, the new, real name was a thousand times better. He was very proud to receive it so young, on par with his older brother.

Father had put a dagger into his hands and said, Now you’re a man, too. Protect the kids and the elders should we not return. 

His face had been painted black, his beard braided, and there had been a huge bow in his hand that could pierce a wild boar through. 

Surely you’re joking, Father, his big brother had said. Wormeaters are shitty warriors. Even girls could bring them down. Let the girls guard the village, and take us to battle! 

His own newly received name started with Suma (which made more sense meaning “stone”) and went even longer. Atuy had decided to just keep calling him Brother.

…Father, of course, had refused to take them to battle. So now Brother was sulking on the porch, uselessly dropping his dagger and watching the blade pierce into the wood, then retrieving it only to drop again. “Even the women went to fight. Why should we stay here to herd the kids?”

“Let’s sneak out,” Atuy suggested. “I wanna take a peek at the Wormeaters.”

“That’s my little brother!” As if he’d been waiting for someone else to voice that idea, Suma immediately cheered up and sprang to his feet. “Right! Let’s go! Take your bow, Setashi, maybe we can still shoot some before they’re all dead!”

He had the right to feel offended, now. So he put his hands on his hips and fixed a defiant gaze on his brother. “I’m called Atuytoantanayeki—” 

Well, perhaps he should’ve known better than to start because he had no remembrance of the name in whole. 

Yet Atuy was spared the humiliation as Suma ruffled his hair, his dark eyes warm, cutting him short with a chuckle, “Okay, okay. Let’s hurry now, shall we?” 

Atuy was not particularly interested in shooting Wormeaters but he was curious about them. He had never seen a single one. Had their skin really turned as yellow as the egg yolk? He did not think so. The elders would tell lots of fairy tales. People of the neighboring tribe who lived on the lowland had been weak, they would say, that’s why, many generations ago, they had been enslaved by the aliens from beyond the sea who worshiped evil spirits, and had served them ever since. The evil spirits would not let them eat meat or even fish, so they had to survive on grass and worms and thus became even weaker. If that was true, surely Wormeaters could not be good warriors. It would have been very stupid of them to barge in on their tribe’s land. But so they had, and it either meant that they had no brains at all, or that the stories lied. 

What the brothers saw when they went down was anything but the weak Wormeaters. A dark boiling stream ran upward, flooding the ravine, thundering like a rockslide and roaring like a horde of hungry beasts. Certainly, beasts they were, each ridden by an evil god clad in dark metal, wielding a bow, or a spear, or a sword longer and brighter than anything Atuy had ever seen or imagined. 

“These are not Wormeaters,” Suma hissed, clenching his bow. His hand was shaking. There was no color in his face. “Their masters, the Aliens on the horses ! Let’s go! We gotta lead the kids and the elders into hiding!”

The village was in flames by the time they reached it. Atuy felt his limbs slacken and his chest emptying before he could understand what had happened. And when he understood, he could no longer do anything about it. Something struck him from behind, hot and hard like lightning, and darkness veiled his sight. 

That must have been the magic of the Aliens. Because in that darkness, he heard harsh alien words, probably the incantations summoning the evil spirits. They were to drag them into their dark realm beneath the earth to torture for all eternity. He heard the thunder of dozens of beasts shaking the ground, too, until he could hear no more. 

When he woke up, it was to a strong pain in his side and a dull ache in his entire body.

“Are you awake?” his brother whispered next to him. They were lying in the darkness, yet there were reflections of warm fire on his face and in his eyes.

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?” There was no warmth in Suma’s voice, however. Brother must have wanted to make sure that no evil spirit had taken over his body while he was unconscious. 

“Atuy—” He halted. Of course, he failed to recollect the full name. Had he survived only to be killed by his own kin as possessed by the evil spirits? “Sorry, Brother, I can’t remember.”

“As if you would,” Suma sighed with relief. His face relaxed. “It’s truly you. So it worked.”

“What worked?” His mouth was too dry to talk. 

“The healer treated your wounds. He used some needles and potions and even his own blood. Must be the sorcery of the Aliens. Shush, be quiet. Listen. I took you down the river, to some village. I knew they’d probably kill us but you would’ve been dead anyway, after bleeding out like that… So, I did. Thank gods, that man doesn’t seem to care who we are. Well, I can’t understand their language, so maybe he does.”

“Aren’t they Wormeaters?” Atuy shifted his gaze but could not make out anything in the shadows of the unfamiliar dwelling. His body felt too heavy and sore to turn or to attempt sitting up. 

“Who the hell knows. To me, they look and talk just like Aliens. You better heal quickly so we can go.”

“Where?” Maybe he was still in a dream. Nothing made sense. Surely they could not be lying under the warm blankets, alive and not even tied up (except his bandages) in the house of the bloody Aliens . His body would not move anyway, though. His tongue barely did. 

“To search our people, of course. There must be other tribes deeper in the mountains, over the ridge. Remember father told us about the old fort?”

“But our…” Atuy could not bring himself to finish the question.

Suma’s voice cracked. “All gone.”

He hastily pressed his palm to the younger boy’s mouth to prevent the sound from escaping it. But Atuy could feel no sounds rising in the emptiness inside him. There was nothing but a huge suffocating wave surging to flood his body with another kind of pain. It was guilt, he realized. If only I didn’t urge Brother to go and take a peek at the Wormeaters… We should’ve stayed and protected our home. We could’ve saved at least someone… There was no tribe anymore. The Aliens had finished everyone, Brother went on to explain, his whisper trembling with hatred and horror. Every infant, and the oldsters, and even the dogs. They must have assumed that the brothers were dead already, lying in the shallow stream where Suma had managed to push them, with an arrow stuck in the older’s back and blood coloring the water underneath them. The arrow had hit above Suma’s shoulder blade, actually. The doctor had only cleaned the wound and stitched it. Unlike Atuy’s wound left by a sword, his wasn’t serious. 

“Once you heal, we’ll set this village aflame and leave. They’ll pay for what they did.” Brother’s eyes were darker than the darkness surrounding them. His words were but a sough of wind across Atuy’s skin, quiet even though no Alien could have understood them anyway.

“But what if they’re not the ones who attacked our village?” Atuy whispered. 

“Who cares! They’re all the same.”

“The healer…helped us.” 

“Just as he helps the Aliens,” Brother said. Yet there was hesitation in his voice. “If he is not guilty, the gods will spare this house.” 

~

Whether by some joke or by fate, but his Japanese name also turned out to be a glorification of the sea, the sea he had never seen. It consisted of two characters, those odd overcomplicated symbols the Aliens called kanji . By the time Atuy—now Jukai—healed enough to rise from the bed and walk around a bit, he could understand a few words to make some sense of his surroundings. The doctor—Seiji—a rather young and lean, beardless man, was patient and kind while teaching him to speak their language. His wife Aya seemed even younger. She smiled a lot, chirping something in their smooth rapid speech while feeding him rice porridge, fruits and sometimes fish.

They did not eat worms, and their skin was not yellow at all, just had a slight golden tinge to it—probably from the bright sun of the open space. 

His brother had not stayed long enough to learn that they did not worship evil spirits either, praying only to the good goddess Kannon, asking that she send them a child. 

Suma had left two weeks after. I can’t stay here like nothing happened, he had said, his face hard and joyless. I can’t eat their food and I can’t stand their smiles. I must go search the rest of our people, warn them that the Aliens may attack them next, and that they should prepare. You are still too weak for this journey. Stay here for now, at least these two won’t harm you. But be cautious. 

Atuy could not stop the tears from streaming down his cheeks. When will you return for me? he had asked.

As soon as I find them. Be strong and don’t cry. If I don’t return—

Brother!

If I don’t return, he had repeated harshly, it would mean that the journey is too dangerous. So don’t rush after me. Grow up first, become stronger than I am now. Make sure to grow strong, and do not let them weaken you. Never forget that they’re our enemies, even if they smile and feed you tasty food. Never forget what they’ve done to our home.

Atuy could only nod, gulping tears, as Brother had grasped his shoulders quickly, more a shake than a hug, then turned abruptly and went off into the night.

~

Out of the thick forest where the green darkness reigned, and the mountains were breathing mists over the sacred stones and the caverns with the skulls of their ancestors, Atuy had taken nothing but his name and his dagger. Now, the name had become but a memory of the name, and the dagger felt foreign in his weakened hand. That wouldn’t do. He had promised his brother to get stronger. But he had no bow to shoot, there were no wild animals to hunt, and he tried to stay away from the village kids who knew no weapon and tussled with each other like toddlers with no real strength behind their punches. 

As Jukai came to understand soon enough, eating meat was indeed prohibited by their religion and the law.

So, he could only use his dagger to carve tools and toys. But at least this way he would not forget how to use it.

The village of the Aliens was nothing like the bunch of huts of their tribe huddled close together under the trees, with the big fireplace in the middle where the people would gather after the hunt, sharing the meal and retelling the old tales about gods and heroes and witty animals that helped them in their quests. Here, people worked together on the fields but always ate by themselves, in the houses ligned up along the streets. In place of the quick stream with rippling water was the river wide and slow that flew quietly among the high reeds, traversing bright meadows and square paddies. The mountains were still looming on the east, but on the west stretched flatlands, opening into such a vast and free expanse of the horizon it took Jukai’s breath away and burned his eyes. In the woods, he had never seen how big the world really was. 

He watched the sun sinking into the golden haze and wondered if that’s where the sea was, and why the sun would not boil all the water in it. The Doctor would retell him tales and beliefs of their people, and describe the bluest blue that he had once seen when traveling to the Hashidate port. The images of the waves rolling onto the shore would wash the flames of that day from Jukai’s mind, and while they talked, he could forget all about the forest full of the ghosts of his kin, and about the babies pierced through that his brother had described him, and about his guilt. He wished Suma would return and they would better go to the sea together. 

Sometimes, he asked the figurine of Kannon to make it happen because Aya had told him she was a kind and compassionate goddess that helped those who kept faith. 

Faith… As the seasons changed and the new life was filling up holes in his heart, Jukai found it more and more challenging to keep it. A lot could have happened in the wilderness. Probably, his brother would not come back. 

Would he ever grow strong enough to return to the woods on his own and to face their ghosts? 

Jukai only looked where the sea was. But he knew that behind him, the dark mountains were silently breathing.

~

Suma returned in two years, a tall and resolute teen with fire in his eyes. 

“I’ve come for you,” he said as he met Jukai by the river, in the darkness of the early June night. His gaze flashed from the shadow of his straw traveler’s hat. His clothes were Japanese, too, perhaps to blend in and not to attract attention on his way. 

It took Jukai, now nine years of age, a moment to grasp in his memory the word he hadn’t used for so long:

“Yupi! ”

Brother.

“Shush, be quiet. You’ve grown rather big, haven’t you now, Atuy?”

“I thought you—” 

“Yeah, I know. I could have, multiple times. But the spirits of our ancestors have been watching over me.” The new expression in his eyes was stern and solemn. Suma was no longer an angry boy who had sulked on the porch, but a youth of fourteen, strong and handsome in appearance, like a hero of the fairy tales of their childhood. Only he was real. 

“Brother…” was the only word Jukai could repeat as his knees gave out in sudden weakness. 

“You didn’t forget how to speak, did you?” Suma squinted.

“N-no! My mouth just feels funny because I couldn’t speak our language for so long. But I’ve learned Japanese!” he said proudly.

“Who cares about their barking? You won’t need it anymore.” Suma crouched down and took his shoulders firmly. “You did well to survive. Sorry it took me so long. I missed you, little brother.”

Jukai beamed at him, warm throughout. 

“...There are lots of our people in the old fort in the mountains, and they are still strong!” Suma was telling as they sat side by side on the riverbank, two shadows amidst the reeds, his arm hooked around the younger’s shoulders. “That’s exactly why it was so hard to find it. The Shaman said that it is because of the magical veil that only lets those with the same blood inside.”

“For real?!”

“Of course, for real. Only when I despaired and turned inward could I feel the spirits guiding me. Shaman said that there’s some strength in our blood. Remember Mother told us that our great grandmother was a seer?"

Jukai did not remember but he nodded nonetheless. 

“We can even become his apprentices,” Suma said. “He’s taught me some things already.”

“What things?” Jukai’s breath caught in his chest as the half-forgotten mystical world of the forest shadows was appearing once again before his eyes.  

“How to sense the same blood, for one. Say, if you were no longer here, I could’ve found you wherever they took you. It is a faint feeling but once you get the gist of it, it’s only a matter of practice. He knows so many things! You can’t imagine what else I’ve learned there!”

“Will you teach me, too?”

“Sure.”

Jukai listened in awe as Suma hastily whispered about the huge stones of the hidden fort, and the magic, and the ancient wisdom of their people the shamans preserved and passed down from generation to generation. Driven to the mountain forests, few in numbers, their people had not lost the will to live, had not forgotten who they once were, and had not forgiven what had been done to them. They were living with the goal: to take back what had been stolen from them, and to revive the beautiful country of ancient times where lived people fearless and free. Jukai wanted to listen more and more even though he couldn’t understand some words—either because he had never heard about those things, or because in two years, he had indeed lost the habit of his mother tongue. Mesmerized, engulfed in the familiar warmth, he all but forgot that Father had sent him to fetch more water to boil—there was a patient that had just had a surgery.

He remembered it in a flash when his brother stood up and urged him, “Now go, pack some clothes for the journey, the nights are still cold in the mountains. Grab some food, too, but be quick and quiet. I’ll wait here!” 

“Wait, Brother, I can’t.” Jukai scrambled to his feet abruptly, his head dizzy. “Mother is unwell after just giving birth, so I’m assisting Father in her stead… Can you imagine, Kannon has finally sent them a son? He’s so funny and doesn’t even cry much. Wanna look at him? I gotta help with a patient now, but you can come in and rest. They’ll be happy to see you. There’s still rice from the dinner—”  

Suma’s eyes flared wide. His hand moved so fast Jukai did not see it coming as the slap cut across his face, so hard his ears rang and his vision went white. 

“I told you not to let them weaken you, didn’t I? But you call the enemies—” his face broke with anger, his voice dropping to a hiss, “— mother and father now?”

The pain stung Jukai’s skin and his insides. He stood on his spot, gaping, his jaw trembling as the blood trickled down his chin. 

“So? Won’t you tell me you just grew used to your acting?” There was still hope in Suma’s enraged voice. “That you don’t really think of the Aliens as such?” 

But Jukai could utter no words, struck with the terror of realization. It was his fault that their tribe had been wiped out to the last infant, and then, he had betrayed even his late parents. What could he say to explain? Two years were a long time. He’d only been a small kid, and these people were kind and caring. They loved him dearly, and he quickly grew to love them, too. 

He had been too small. Too small to realize that the “weakness” his brother had warned him against had meant love all along. 

“Jukai, hurry up, son! Is everything fine?” called a voice from his home, causing him to flinch.

Suma’s eyes narrowed. In the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat they were utterly black. “Choose. Now.”

Jukai could feel the sweat turn cold all over his body under this alien gaze. The chilly wisps of the night wind that flew down from the mountains crawled across his skin. He just wanted to get inside, to the warm shelter of his home. Besides, there was nothing to choose: he really had no time to waste since the patient could not wait. Smearing the blood with one hand, Jukai picked up the bucket. 

Suma’s face shuttered. 

“You worm, the traitor of your blood. I should’ve let you die that day.”

Jukai recoiled. He was running up the riverbank before his mind could clear from the dark fog of fear and stop him. And when it did, it was too late: his brother had already merged into the shadows. 

Jukai thought he would never see him again.

But later that night, he appeared inside the house, a shadow moving in the darkness. His gait mimicked the fluidity of a predator stalking its prey. The moonlight flashed from the dagger in his hand, and glistened in the black pools on the floor. It was blood, the blood that still trickled from his blade to the erratic thumping of Jukai’s racing heart—until he flicked it off with disgust.

Breath caught in his throat, Jukai backed away. He barely noticed his back hitting the wall, the way his own dagger trembled and slid out of his numbed hand. There was nobody to defend anymore. 

The people he loved, even the newborn infant, were lying in the moonlight like wooden dolls. Motionless. Drained of color. Jukai could only stare, his eyes unable to grasp, his mind unable to comprehend. No sound could find its way past his clenched throat. 

Suma looked over at him, his face calm and disdainful, his black eyes glistening like those cooling pools of blood. “This is your lesson, Setashi ,” his lips curved, spitting out the forgotten kid’s name that meant “dung of a dog.” 

The darkness swallowed him just like it had spawned him—in complete silence.

~

Jukai did learn that lesson. He learned that the world was a cruel and unfair place where even the good gods were powerless. His adopted parents had to die for their kindness, for giving shelter to a child and for loving him like their own. They shouldn’t have ever helped him.

The sight of the burning village of their tribe had grown dim in his memory, like a dream or an old tale; yet he knew there was no escaping the sight he witnessed now through the eyes dry and sharp. He allowed no tears to fall as he arranged the bodies on the futon, close together. He wiped off the blood from their necks and wrapped them in clean sheets. Upon them, he placed the wooden figurine of Kannon the Compassionate One cloven in two that had been stomped to the floor like a defeated enemy—the only noise that had shaken this night and stirred Jukai’s sleep.

They could be sleeping just like that, quiet and peaceful, yet the absence of life, the absolute stillness made the scene a horrible mockery, far scarier than the gory aftermath of the battle that had destroyed their tribe and that Jukai had never actually seen, knocked unconscious. More so because now, there had been no battle. His brother had taken their lives in silence, with the unwavering hand of a butcher. Unlike Jukai, they hadn’t even had the chance to wake up. 

Jukai knew the villagers would not believe him, should he ever try to explain what had happened. He was a strange alien who stood out among the kids, too tall and strong for his years. The villagers had long gossiped about his origin, only the Doctor’s authority keeping their assumptions somewhat at bay. Yet Jukai would still hear it, now and then. His blood was that of the hairy half-animals who hid in the wilderness and ate bears and deers, they would whisper with animosity in their eyes. It was only a matter of time until his wild nature would take over. One day, he would inflict death upon his family.

They had been right.

His hands numb and unsteady, Jukai packed a bag in the darkness. In it, he put Father’s instruments, scrolls, and mixtures, Mother’s favorite hair brush, and the wooden rattle he had made for the baby. He had carved it himself, with the dagger he had received from his real father two years ago… 

Jukai paused on the threshold. The dagger was still lying there, in the corner by his futon, where he had dropped it helplessly. It was clean and unstained yet otherwise the same as his brother’s. 

It was a fine tool. He was going to need it for carving instruments and for hunting. Jukai strode back and picked it up.

The oil and the thickened blood merged on the floor. The fire flashed, and another home of his disappeared in flames along with a part of his soul.

~

Jukai spent years wandering between wilderness and human habitation, hunting and fishing, selling plain tools he carved to gain some money, and doing low works for a bowl of rice and a shelter. He followed the river flowing to the sea, and never turned back. 

Ever since that day, his every sleep was full of the nightmares of his brother appearing from the shadows and slaughtering everyone beside him. Like a bloodhound, he would find him anywhere, led by the sense of the blood, if he so wished. So, Jukai never sought another family. He kept distance from any kind and nice people and only dealt with those who did not care for him the slightest bit. It was not difficult. Serving physicians who only loved money, he took what he could from their knowledge and nothing more. 

The call of the sea contained in both of his names, as if the riddle given to him by fate, was the only thread that led him. And so, one day Jukai found himself standing on the edge of the earth, looking upon the raging waves from the high cliff. 

The seething water was emerging from the endless misty void, hissing and thundering, trying to break the rock in some unfathomable ire. He stood at the world’s end. There was nowhere to go anymore. 

It was Lord Shiba’s tiny domain.

~

“I spent my days in apathy, desiring nothing, feeling no hatred and not even fear anymore. I no longer had any destination to walk, so I just served. Obeying is the easiest way of existence. You don’t take actions or responsibility, you just obey. You may hate the orders and consider your life miserable, but you do nothing to change it. Because you don’t want freedom. You wouldn’t even know what to do with it. 

I was just a physician at first, though. Shiba paid well, so my routine soon became rather easy and monotonous. Thus I began my research, dissecting the corpses, mostly of criminals and outcasts that were denied the proper funeral rites. Studying the human body, the mechanics of life, trying to figure out the ungraspable force that set the living apart from the dead, was the only interest that made me even open my eyes and rise up in the morning.”

“You accepted your fate and did not seek revenge,” Nui says, her eyes glistening with tears. “It is not what a cruel murderer would have done.”

“Cruelty does not always originate in rage,” Jukai replies. “Sometimes it is born from numbness of the soul. And that was what I became: a numb, cold body drained of the fire of life. Irony, isn’t it? I turned into the very thing I was studying. Gradually, I was forgetting human emotions.”

“Didn’t you ever fall in love?”

“Yes, I did. But I wished I didn’t.”

~

Maybe his soul was a numb, hollow place, but Jukai still was a man with his carnal desires. There was a woman, Haruko, who sold fruits in the market. She had kind maroon eyes and a lovely smile. Jukai had known her ever since she’d been a young girl of sixteen helping her mother, and he had been a twenty-something man who still cared to shave off his thin beard. 

He had never touched her over the years. 

He had never as much as returned her smiles, ignoring the flame that would spread throughout his body at the sight of the dimples playing on her cheeks, her gentle fingers pushing aside the silky bangs, and at the sound of her voice engaging him in casual conversation. He feigned disinterest in her flirting and pretended to care only about the money she paid him for the medicine for her mother’s frequent colds. 

Afterward, he would visit whores in order to sate that fire, and he would make sure she saw him heading to the vicinity of the port whorehouse. He would drink, and gamble, and waste the money he received from her on cheap women; he no longer tried to disguise his barbarian nature by shaving and taming his hair.  

But Haruko would still look at him with those warm, sad eyes that told him she saw, somehow, through his act. Maybe that was what love brought: wordless communication of two souls undeterred by the physical actions.

Love… He didn’t need that word. 

Even though Jukai was no longer a boy awakening from the nightmares in the middle of the night, his body clenched with dread, he still knew: there was death lurking in the shadows.

~

Not for a day did he forget his brother’s face. Yet when Jukai saw him again, now a grown man in his thirties, with a thick beard and the eyes hardened like dark stones, he could barely recognize him.

His stature embodied the calm that hadn’t been there before. Power seeped through his every gesture, hidden only so much so as not to stand out. Even his speech was now Japanese, impeccable like that of a scholar. 

“So, are you tired yet of your miserable existence?” Suma asked with the same disdain, his fingers touching idly the jars of medicine on the shelves of Jukai’s humble room; but there was some expectation, too. “You could have walked alongside me, learning things far greater than these cheap potions. Instead, you chose to become a slave of the filthy animals. For them, you will always be just that.”

“Why did you learn their language?” Somehow, that was what stirred Jukai’s dreary mind with something close to curiosity.

“Because you made me realize, back then: the enemy is not to be underestimated. Not just their weapons and their war tactics, no. First of all, their culture. I had to study them, I had to comprehend their power—the power to corrupt and enslave hearts. That was your lesson to me.”

Jukai’s voice didn’t shake as he said, “Did it never occur to you that the reason was not their culture but simple human attachment?”

“It did, eventually. Back then? No.” Suma’s eyes remained calm, now fixed on his. Under this gaze, real and not distorted by his nightmares, Jukai felt dizzy. “I was a stupid teen who had lost his brother, his only family remaining in the world, and to the enemies to boot. I knew how to fight humans by then; I did not know how to fight feelings. My eyes were still full of the images of the infants speared to the trees, the old women cut open, and the old men chopped and beheaded. So I did what a fool would do: I exacted revenge in the same way, letting my rage reduce my spirit to the same level.”

Jukai felt a lump of long forgotten emotion form in his throat. Somehow, he was not prepared for his brother to open up to him. Mute almost like that night many years ago, he just stood there as Suma continued:

“And for that, I do not take pride. If it makes you feel better, I have paid a great price for those murders.” His look turned inward, shadows of the lessons unknown to Jukai briefly unfocusing his gaze. “The law of karma, as the Japanese call it, manifested itself pretty quickly. I was able to overcome it once the nature of that law became clear to me, though, with the help of my teacher. That was another most important lesson I must thank you for; for it taught me the very fundamentals of life. You sit in this hellhole, surrounded by the wretched ghosts of the bodies you dissect, and seek some grand truth in their rotting remains. So will you share with me, little brother, what truth have you found?”

“There is no punishment and no reward, only the effect of our actions and some random events which we can’t control,” Jukai said impassively. He had treated lots of people, and most of them were ordinary, rather nice commoners who hadn’t deserved their sufferings, while many cruel bastards and criminals lived on, perfectly healthy and lucky. “People don’t get ill because of their sins; they get ill because they were reckless, underfed, or simply because they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Karma is nothing but mechanics. So is life itself. The heart pumps the blood through the vessels, nourishing the tissues and cleansing them from waste. The warmth is produced when the body burns food to create energy, almost like fire in the oven burns wood. Disrupting that system in any way causes illness and death. The mechanics of life are as fragile as they are complicated. I have learned the most I could. But even the things I don’t understand now will eventually be understood. We just need more advanced tools and lenses.”

“Your observations are correct, and yet your conclusion is wrong. You have arrived at the dead end that the mind of a clever but ordinary man eventually brings him to.” Suma’s black eyes bore deep into his, as if penetrating into his very head. “Looking only under his nose, he mistakes the product of consciousness for its source. Then, he concludes that there is no more to learn and no more to seek, and nothing is worth pursuing under the stars, for everything is the same dust. You chose to linger among them, studying the dust, having rejected your own blood. Why?”

“Blood is but a fluid that transports air,” Jukai said. “The same red, replaceable liquid that sets all living things in motion.”

“Blood is the flowing water of the soul,” Suma rebutted, his gaze hard. “That is what you have rejected, and keep rejecting, with no ideals to keep your spirit aflame and no destination to walk. Had you come with me, you could have learned to see deep into the nature of things and beyond the brittle film of the earthly illusion.”

“How can illusion contain any ideals worth pursuing?” Jukai asked despite his lack of desire to drag the argument.

“How can a game be worth winning?” Suma asked back. “We have come here to learn and to grow, to burn and to light up the fire of a new reality, not to sit and wait for our bodies to eventually grow cold and for our spirits to leave them.”

“I have seen many people die,” Jukai said, “but never have I seen any spirit leaving their bodies.”

Suma curved an eyebrow. “Isn’t that because you have chosen to remain blind?” 

Jukai replied nothing.

His brother turned to the exit, the stale air in Jukai’s small dwelling shaking from the abrupt motion. “Come,” he said, pausing, “let’s go outside. There are too many annoying ghosts in this room, and the lesser oyasi sneaking around like rats. It’s nauseating.”

The light was harsh, stinging Jukai’s eyes. He rarely went out during the day, working till the sunset, and for that reason the port village looked unfamiliar. The sun was casting shadows at the wrong angle. The sea was too vivid, and Shiba’s tiny excuse of a castle on the hill stood out sharp against the bright sky, with the crows and the gulls swirling around it—there were always some heads rotting on the spikes by the walls, either of the defeated enemies or simply random criminals. 

“Look at them,” Suma said in their native language, overlooking the scenery. “They kill each other in constant hunger, they rape their women and children, our poor land has become red from the blood they spill every day. They chop the heads of their victims and present them to their lord for payment wrapped in white cloth, hair combed and dead faces pomaded, considering it an act of culture. They created poetry to mask their ugliness, they call the ways of death and torture noble so as to absolve their savage nature. They only pretend to be humans.”

Goosebumps erupted on Jukai’s skin at the sound of these forgotten words. He found himself understanding them with relative ease, yet to attempt to talk would have been a challenge after all these years. He replied in Japanese, “Simply killing for food or to assert dominance is the way of animals. Killing and embelishing it with art and philosophy is the way of civilization. That’s all the difference.” 

“For them, it is indeed so. If such is the only civilization they are capable of creating, they deserve to be eliminated like mad beasts.”

“There are no forces of our people left in this country, and even if there are some small dwellings in the wild, they will be destroyed sooner or later,” Jukai said. “I’ve learned that our people still live in large numbers only on the island of Ezo and other northern lands. But here, we are all but extinct. Your ideal is but a dream, your hatred vain and pointless.”

Suma just shrugged his broad shoulders. “I didn’t expect you to say anything else. But you are mistaken: our people are still numerous, even if separated and scattered to the seven winds. We will see the enemy’s downfall. The time will come soon. In the state the Daigo domain is now, they can’t even subdue the smaller neighboring clans, like Sakai or Yanagimoto, or even this Shiba, and are barely able to feed their samurai. In fact, with no powerful gouzoku clan the whole Kaga is only loosely controlled, with the ever brewing conflicts on the border, and brigands and pirates on the north tearing it apart. But out of the most important domains, I’d say Daigo’s is the weakest link. The lowlands of Ishikawa will be my starting point. The spark that ignites the fire. Then, our people will rise up and demolish the rotting remains of this realm.”

Jukai stared at him. “You have lost your mind. What can you do against the whole country?”

“I have devoted my life to seeking the ways. I shall never stop. I shall never give up. They have destroyed our country, and so they will pay the same price, one day.”

The fire of his words was unknown to Jukai. It did not reach his soul nor did it spark the ashes inside him. He could not feel the rage that his brother was feeling.

“I see. You don’t hate them. You don’t even hate me. The most basic human emotion has become unavailable for you.” There was no more disdain but sadness and a touch of…guilt? in Suma’s voice. “No wonder you don’t get what life truly is. Ramat has indeed left your body back then, offended by their dirty blood. I shouldn’t have let that happen. At least you would have died unstained, like all the heroes of our people. But it is too late now; with no ramat you are but a walking corpse.”

His words were bitter, and his eyes were dim, as dim as the shadows of the graveyard.

Jukai only shrugged. He didn’t even remember what that word meant.

~ 

Suma left, and Jukai knew: this time he left for good. 

What he hadn’t known is that it was still possible for him to feel even emptier inside. 

He did not hate his brother. It might have been better if he could. Or it might have been even worse.

But there was nothing in the shadows anymore. Jukai felt all his limbs go slack, the decades-long tension he hadn’t even been aware of leaving his body. Was he finally free? Could he still have his own little life, a family—or was it too late for that, and he indeed was a walking corpse?

What was he without the danger justifying him keeping distance from the living human beings?

Jukai didn’t have a chance to find out. Those days, Lord Shiba was more ferocious than ever, grieving the loss of his heir. A village had rebelled against his rule, and the lord had sent his son to suppress the uprising. Yet little did he know that the uprising had been orchestrated by the neighboring Yanagimoto clan. They had captured the heir and tormented him before he was rescued. He died later, Jukai unable to prolong his life. 

Shiba sent more troops, and so did Yanagimoto. War blazed the quiet fields and the fishing villages. At last, the enemy was beaten and fled the domain, and the uprising was dealt with. But the cycle of violence could not be stopped so easily. Now, the revenge was to fall on those poor ones who had failed to escape or to die on the battlefield. Torture was their fate, slow and merciless, until their tears and blood would fill the hole in the lord’s heart.

“...But I am to save lives, not to take them.” Jukai stared at Lord Shiba, numb with horror.

“You can’t save a life without knowing how it is taken. Didn’t you fail to save my son?”

Jukai bowed low, yet his voice was firm. “I am a doctor, not a Buddha.”

“Then you are a shitty doctor. Your place is among that Yanagimoto trash. Be content that you’re still allowed to walk and to breathe on my land. Go and do it, and maybe I’ll let you live. But make sure they don’t die too soon. Cut them into a million pieces and toss them into the sea, for the sharks to eat. They all will become nothing but the sharks’ shit!” He cackled, his face contorted in madness.

Jukai walked out, the forgotten steel of resolve hardening his heart. They could kill him, yet they wouldn’t make him become a butcher. Maybe he could flee… Yes, he should. Far from here, to a faraway land where he would try to start anew. He did not deserve Haruko anyway, after all the insults and the pain he had caused her. 

Outside the gates, the heads of the rebels already adorned the bridge. With the sunset bloodying the pale faces it was a horrid and effective display of the lord’s understanding of karma. 

Nearby was another pile of corpses, not those of the rebels but of the villagers killed in the last Yanagimoto attack. People were gathering around, weeping, trying to find their close ones in the bloody mess. They were about to burn the bodies, a priest reading sutras in a rapid monotone. 

Jukai, a heaviness in his chest, approached to check for those who might still be alive. He had managed to save a couple of people yesterday, unconscious but still breathing. This time, he didn’t find any. Most of them had been slashed by a sword and bled out, the wounds numerous even if not necessarily lethal. Many were missing limbs as though some crazy samurai had been trying the quality of his blade on them. There were women, children, some of them used before they were killed. 

And among them, Jukai saw her. 

Raped. 

Tortured.

Slaughtered.  

His vision blurring, his mind emptying, he barely felt his legs give out and his knees hit the hard pavement. 

There was no light in the maroon eyes staring into the void. The lips would never be touched by another smile. The melody of that voice would never resound under the sun again. She had been unlike any other woman in life, but death made everyone appear the same: pale dolls made of cold flesh and heavy bones.

Nothing but mechanics, his mind reminded him. Then repeated these words, again and again and again, trying to muffle the thought that twisted shards in his chest:

All these years, he’d been afraid of the cold punishing blade of his brother striking in the night, the blade that was too fast to stop.

Instead, death had come to her from the hand of a scumbag slashing and grabbing and destroying at random, in the light of a bright day, and Jukai hadn’t even been there to try and stop it. 

Only the effect of our actions and some random events that we can’t control.

There was one thing, however, that he could control better than most people: the mechanics of life and death.

He would be there to make them pay.

Oh, he would. 

The hate was born like fire bursting through his frozen veins.

~

‘They kill each other in constant hunger. They rape their women and children. Our poor land has become red from the blood they spill every day.’

Red was everywhere, on his hands, under his feet, in the sky blazed with bloody sunset. He heard their wailings and pleas for mercy but all he could hear was the animal roar. They begged for their lives as if they hadn’t killed innocent people just before, as if they hadn’t listened to their pleas for mercy this very day. 

At length, Jukai stopped listening, and only heard the knocking of the hammer in his hand.

Relentless. Monotone. It brought no satisfaction.

‘Ramat has truly left your body.’

If it had, then what was burning and tearing and twisting him inside out? Wasn’t it the last agonizing remains of it dying in his body right now? Or was it just a fluid or an organ he hadn’t yet discovered?

Soon, he would become an inanimate object, too, just like all these bodies. 

Soon, but not yet. 

The torture had to be slow.

Jukai was an accomplished physician. He knew how to inflict severe pain without causing death, or how to kill instantly and painlessly, if only in theory. As the samurai kept delivering the survivors, he could bring his practice further, stepping beyond the mystery of the thin line that had gnawed at him his entire life. Making the living into the dead turned out to be an infinitely easier task than trying to hold back death, even for just another minute. Life was frail indeed. The ways to finish it were numerous.  

However, he was a master of prolonging it. 

“No, please! Kill me! Just kill me…!”

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

The gnarled silhouettes of wind-bent trees stood out against the ebbing light. The water took on an even darker cast as the sun descended behind the forest of crosses that he had planted on the field of the recent battle. First, carrions would have their feast. When he finished, he would toss the severed parts to the sharks. Every life on this earth fed off death. Every body moved and breathed just as long as it consumed the bodies of others and turned them into the energy of life. Nothing but mechanics. 

Jukai could feel the insanity descending upon him. What was left of his mind stayed focused tightly on the hammer and the dagger in his hands. Knock, knock, knock.

Soon, he no longer felt anything. 

No hatred.

No pain.

Knock, knock, knock.

“No, please!” was another sound that ripped through the mute void, an anguished and desperate outcry of a woman running up to the body he had just finished with. 

What was in that voice? 

Did that woman look like her? 

No, she did not. But when a samurai pierced her through, the blood that burst from her chest was the same burning red, and her eyes froze in the same stupor of death.

“Hang this up here, too.” 

There were still vacant crosses. Not many, just a few. But Jukai did not move. He could not feel his own body anymore. Instead, his mind blazed with sudden clarity: for whatever reason, he still was alive.

And the woman was not.

She’d become ‘this.’

Yet another innocent life. Taken for no reason. There was no justice, no gods, only devils on this earth. And he was one of them: yet another scum in the garbage, yet another mad beast on the land soaked with blood. Brother had been right, he should have let him die that day. All Jukai was left to do was to fix his mistake.

But, throwing his body from the high cliff, he knew that even the whole ocean would not wash the blood off his hands.

~

His destiny had been carrying him like a fallen leaf, down the stream that ran toward the sea, sometimes rushing down the waterfalls, sometimes stalling among the reeds but never ceasing until he was washed down into the all-consuming ocean, like all scum eventually was. 

Jukai thought it was finally the end of his sad and pointless journey. 

But as it turned out, even in the eternal turbulence of the sea there were paths that continued. 

At first, he saw only the shreds of dark-grey sky and felt nothing bodily at all. Then he noticed, as if from afar, his stomach clenching, and the acid bile working its way up his throat. His body lunged upward—but was thrown back down as the ground moved under his feet.

“Watch the waves. It helps,” a man in a dark robe said, helping him sit up.

The waves were rising like dragons to obscure the sky, and then dropped into the abyss. The huge ship was creaking and groaning, rocking like a giant swing, and whitewater sprayed over their heads. The mighty roaring of the sea was such that even the wind of karma that blows people to hell could not be greater. 

Then Jukai knew. He was on his way to hell, indeed, and this was the boatman, with the cross on his chest to remind Jukai of his heinous crimes. It meant he had been mistaken, and his brother had been right. There were spirits, and afterlife, and everything he had come to consider yet another construct of culture to cover the grim and cold mechanics of existence.

Only the ache in his body and the growing nausea disproved his conclusion. He was alive. Why? Jukai attempted to stand up again but was only able to get on all fours until there came another jolt. He remained in a seated position, his back against the rise of the stern deck, clenching some rope tightly. 

“Aren’t we like toddlers unable to stand on our own? A man likes to believe he controls something, but even this big a ship is but a chip in the dark heart of the ocean.” The voice of the man was serene, unaffected by the mighty upheaval of elements. He spoke accented yet understandable Japanese, but his features were unlike anything Jukai had ever seen, his eyes blue like the void of heaven, his hair and his short beard pale like sand. “The only thing that we can control in our lives is our faith and our trust in God. If we trust Him and His plan for our lives, He will bring us everything we have ever dreamed of and more.”

“Dreams are nothing but stupid illusions,” Jukai said, his voice a croak. “I wish he had brought me death instead.” He thought of the dark bottomless abyss below which he had been, for an unaccountable reason, denied to pass in. It must have been calm and cold, untouched by the storms raging on the surface. Why couldn’t he just drown and disappear for good?

“He shall, one day. Keep faith,” the man said.

“Where are you taking me?”

“This ship is going to Holland, but where your path is taking you no one but God knows.”

“Our paths are defined by our actions, not some divine plan,” Jukai said, fighting another wave of nausea. “Whether you die on the sea or on land, it is all the result of your karma. Or so the Japanese believe.”

“Are you not Japanese?”

“No. Only a part of me is.”

‘You worm, the traitor of your blood!’

“Then what does the religion of your people say?”

Jukai closed his eyes and pointed his gaze inward, into the darkest depth of his own wretched self. The memories came forth from the echoing void, warm like the rays of the sun filtering through the young foliage and catching in a myriad drops of dew. His tribe believed that there was a spiritual life force, called ramat , within every object and living being. All things in nature, they said, every last stone and leaf and drop of water, were fully alive. As he kept his eyes shut and listened to the waves roaring, it was as though the Sea had a voice. 

He could hear it. Yet he couldn’t understand what the Sea was saying. 

Why was it raging? 

Why hadn’t it let him die? 

“The gods send the life force and the gods take it away,” Jukai said eventually, his words muffled by the storm. “All ramat belongs to the Kamuy .”

Yet the man seemed to have heard him. He smiled as if in recognition. “Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own?” He strained his voice for the words to carry over the roaring wind and the splashing water. “We must treasure His gift and persevere for as long as we breathe, my brother. Our times are in His hands.”

Jukai’s eyes burned with sudden tears. 

He wept as the raging Sea held him from falling into the abyss and rocked him in its arms, like a parent who held his stupid yet beloved child. 

~

“It was a long and perilous voyage halfway around the world during which I was completely reborn,” Jukai says, back to the quiet predawn hours at the riverbank. The night shadows are growing thin around them as nature begins, very tentatively, to fill up with the noises of the morning. It’s been a long story, indeed. “I had enough time to learn their language and customs, but I was still unprepared for all the wonders I saw when at last I stepped onto European soil. Some things I perceived as barbaric, and some struck me with awe. Their medicine lacked the oriental integrity but was more efficient in other ways. Their science allowed them to build life-size automata dolls that could write, draw, play music, producing the startling illusion of humanity. Immediately I knew: fate, or God, or karma had brought me there with purpose. As if to show me firsthand the difference between life and mechanics… 

“I learned the craft from the best masters. But no matter how perfect, prosthetics still needed the living body to get it to move. Even the most elaborate automata who could play chess with real people were still moving only in the ways the living human beings had designed them to. They were not fully free and would never be. A human, however, was, even if he preferred not to notice his freedom. When I understood it, I knew for sure that there indeed was the ungraspable force every religion was talking about. My brother was right. By denying the existence of the soul, I just tried to run away from my own. I felt guilty for the fate of my tribe; for loving my adopted family and for bringing their death; for loving my brother and for not loving him enough. All of this was too heavy a burden that I pretended not to carry, shielding myself with emptiness. But after all the deaths I had wrought with my own two hands, by my own choice and intent, it all came crashing down on me like a wave. All I could do to somehow breathe in all that guilt was to help people, everyone who needed help. Your knowledge could change the world, some of them would say to me. But I was not doing it to change the world. I was only doing it to gain the right to die.”

Nui puts her hand on his cheek, her eyes alight with the glow of dawn. “Now that I know your past, I only admire you more.”

He inhales, habit and emotion battling in him. “You should not. I am still the bloody murderer and will always be.”

“You have saved my two sons, and you have saved me. Not just from dying but from giving up on life, from betraying that spiritual life force in me. Maybe the sea didn’t wash the blood off your hands, and no amount of prayers and good deeds ever will. But who am I to judge? All I know is that I am free to give you my love whether you accept it or not.”

Jukai can feel the pressure of tears in his eyes, but allows none to fall. He has cried enough. 

He smiles instead. 

The sun rising from the mists draws their long shadows across the surface of the water, and the new day eventually cuts through the shadows of the past. 

Yet some of them are still dimming the light in Nui’s eyes. 

“The squad that destroyed your tribe must have been the samurai of my late husband’s father, Daigo Iemitsu,” she says, her gaze following the quiet flow of the water. “That was before my birth. When I still lived at my family’s mansion in Awazu domain, there were talks that he had been cursed by the Emishi shamans for his deeds, and for that reason fell ill and passed before his time. Some said that he was haunted by the mountain ghosts till his last day, went mad, and eventually killed himself. As children, we feared mountain ghosts a lot.”

“The rumors may be not too far from the truth," Jukai says. "My brother possesses great power, and his teacher, the shaman, must have been even more powerful.” 

He thinks of their second-to-last meeting and their talk about karma. It was just around the time Daigo Iemitsu passed, or perhaps several months before. When Jukai returned to Japan more than three years after, Lord Shiba had already been crushed by the new and ambitious Lord of Ishikawa, Kagemitsu. But the latter could not keep Shiba’s domain for long, the Yanagimoto troops defeating his exhausted forces in their turn and claiming the port they had long tried to take. Those were the years of chaos that brought to Jukai’s door many injured, limbless people, before Daigo would attain his sudden power and subdue all the neighboring clans. 

‘Out of the most important domains, I’d say Daigo’s is the weakest link. The lowlands of Ishikawa will be my starting point.’ Was Iemitsu’s early demise Suma’s doing, indeed? To avenge their tribe, his brother wouldn’t likely kill directly, not after he had experienced the karmic consequences of his first murders which he had mentioned. But to orchestrate a long-term plan involving supernatural powers so that the enemy eventually destroyed himself, leaving his domain in chaos, is exactly how he would have acted. 

Nui nods. “My late husband considered those rumors seriously. He sent a punitive expedition against the Emishi once, promising the highest reward for the shamans’ heads, but the squad returned without finding even a trace of your people or the ancient fort. The samurai said that various misfortunes befell them in the mountains. That was when the lord began to suspect that the deal might not have been completed, and his power did not spread everywhere. He never attempted another expedition and considered the Emishi question unimportant as long as they remained dormant.”

“How long will they, I wonder,” Jukai says, Suma’s passionate words echoing in his memory. ‘I shall never stop. I shall never give up.’

Nui seems to think the same thoughts, sadness in her eyes. “Your brother was right. Our country has truly become hell on earth. We pretend not to notice it behind the elegant covers of culture and the established rituals, but blood is being spilled every day for the smallest of reasons, and people live in fear and misery. We have failed to change it. Now, it is our children who are fighting for the right to live a better life. Dororo… Tahomaru… Hyakkimaru…  It is as though they are here to burn and to light up the fire of a new reality.”

“If it is so, then what can we do to help them, besides just being there when they need us?” Jukai says. “Can we even understand their vision of the future? Our words of wisdom have become meaningless for them.”

“Maybe we should just accept that our part is done. Now, they are teaching us.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing. But now I wonder if it is wisdom—or only the voice of my guilt and failures?” 

Nui grows silent beside him. 

Suddenly, Jukai feels a wisp of wind sift through the reeds and touch his skin.

A chill crawls up his spine as the disturbed memories sweep him countless years back in time, yet the voice that comes from the morning shadows is different. It rips through the fog like a bell. “Stay still, you two. Don’t even try to move.” 

Aki, her small silhouette appearing from the reeds, is aiming her bow at them. Jukai suppresses the instinctive movement of his body to cover Nui. The string is pulled too tightly, the muscles of the girl’s little arm trembling with the effort. 

“I’m sorry, Lady, Sensei… I’m taking you hostage.”

“Aki-chan… What happened?” Nui’s voice resounds calmly. 

“We took the fortress from Imagawa. But Dororo made us fight the Daigo samurai next, and now only you can stop the war. She had some smart plan, but who’ll obey a girl? So, I’ll bring you there and tell the samurai to put down their weapons lest you be killed!” The tears are flowing down the girl’s cheeks, but the bow is held firmly in her prosthetic hand. 

Jukai’s chest fills with leaden heavyness. The battle is like raging seas, indeed… He didn’t wish to be right in his warning. 

“You do not need to bring me,” Nui says softly, but as she stands up, her eyes sharpen with resolve. “I shall go with you of my own volition. Let us hurry.” 

Jukai rises, too. “Let me get horses.”

As he catches the woman’s gaze, he sees in it the answer to the question they have been pondering over this entire night:

No part is done while we can breathe.

Even in the eternal turbulence of the sea, there are paths that continue.

Chapter Text

The day was oppressively hot, not a hint of breeze stirring the dense foliage overhead. Biwamaru walked slower, savoring the respite of the deep shade his path had dove into as it meandered up the slope. Every so often, the trail gave way to a series of weathered stone steps, their edges eroded and entwined with creepers. He could smell the sweetness of the blooming nature, as well as the musty damp of its remains rotting in the shady gullies, his nose painting an elaborate picture in his mind. 

His ears weren’t as helpful: nothing but the cicadas’ shrill song filled the air. It was the sound of the blazing sun climbing so high in the ultramarine sky it seemed to disappear; the sound of the green overhead so rich it made you thirsty to look at. It was the sound of the endless summer days of his youth.

Biwamaru wondered if the voice of his biwa could even carry over this all-consuming noise. 

When he had traded his sword for that instrument currently weighing heavy on his back, he had also expected to trade battle for music. The ringing of the blade—for the ringing of the strings retelling the battles of old. But as it happened, hopes had given life to a peculiarly twisted reality. Perhaps somewhere inside him, the battle still lived. And thus, usually, his path would bring him to the places where his hidden blade had more use than his biwa strings.

Maybe the day would come when that would change, too. Biwamaru wondered what story, what epic tale his biwa would be telling when that happened; he was yet to find it. The only thing he knew was that his own story was to remain untold. After all, such was the greatest exchange in his life: the destiny of a renowned hero—for the destiny of a nameless sideline watcher (who hadn’t even had the eyes to watch.) And he was quite happy with that bargain.

The narrow path wound up through the trees until it leveled out in an open space surrounding a small lake. The cool, fresh air engulfed him like a wave. 

Biwamaru pointed his attention across the water to where the rocky wall thrust up against the green, sploched with caverns resembling the eyes and the laughing mouths of the giants. He could not see it now, yet his memory still kept the peculiar scenery that people feared and revered from the depths of time. The path curved to circumvent the lake and continued upward, transforming into a steep flight of stone steps carved directly in the rock. At the top of the hill, hidden in the thick forest, was the ancient Natadera temple. 

Upon his previous visit, the sanctuary lay in ruins, ravaged by a recent conflict, and only hungry ghouls roamed the premises. Biwamaru sniffed the humid air. He could not sense any malicious spirits now. The place must have been purified.

He was too tired to climb right away, though. Suddenly aware of the intense thirst, Biwamaru went down to the water. 

“I knew you would return one day,” came a voice from the direction of the caves. 

Biwamaru turned. The aura of the man was so serene and steady that he hadn’t even noticed him sitting against the rock until he’d spoken. 

“And I knew you would lose our bet.” The priest smiled. “You owe me some jars of your famous koshu , Lord Toshitsugu.” 

“I lost indeed, and since I am as bald as you now, call me Shunji.” The shape of light shifted a bit, a hand reaching up to rub the head. “I am a lord no more, but I am still a man of my word. Come, old friend, I hope this one jar I took with me will do.”

…The two middle-aged monks sat at the mouth of the cave, sharing the sake aged for one thousand days at low temperatures underground, a process which allowed it to acquire a pleasing flavor of honey and clover. Biwamaru enjoyed drinking the rich aroma even more than the liquid itself (which, according to Shunji, had a beautiful golden tinge of the full moon of October rising above the mists.)

“Mariko was the kindest woman. I’m sorry for your loss,” Biwamaru said. “It is a pity that she had to leave so soon.”

“Who in this world is but a fleeting guest?” Shunji shrugged, but a slight dimming of his soul betrayed the pain he had not yet been liberated from. 

“Staying in an empty home must be hard, especially once all your children have grown. I understand.” 

“Oh what can an old bachelor like you understand?” Shunji elbowed him. 

They laughed together, refilling their cups. 

“With Mariko gone, I lost the last bits of understanding of what to do with my power.” Shunji sighed. “A ruler should not doubt the necessity of ruling. So I left it all to my brother Toshinaga, shaved my head, and went wandering.”

“Was he happy?” 

“Oh, he cried and cursed me. But I know he will be fine. He has a son, and I only have daughters. But more importantly, he has a passion to create new things. It always bothered me that in order to create something you have to ruin something first. In time, I became unable to even order to build a new road to my mansion, since it would require cutting down a part of the forest and destroying a few rabbit holes and a couple dozen ant realms, not to mention burdening the local people. To rule, you need a fervent determination to shape the world according to your own vision, even if it means mercilessly dismantling what currently exists, a quality that I confess to lacking. It’s fine enough for me as it is.” 

Biwamaru nodded. “I knew it. I saw you through. That is why I never doubted you would end up renouncing the world, and I would win our bet.”

“You just listened to my drunken complaints about women,” Shunji laughed. “To hell them all! I’ll shave my head and leave to Mount Hakusan, just like Taicho the wise one! ” he imitated his ardent younger self.

“That, too,” Biwamaru chuckled.

Famous monk Taicho had been the first to climb one of the Three Holy Mountains of Japan soaring over Kaga and the neighboring provinces. He sought the mountain deities that were believed to dwell there. Instead, while meditating on the highest peak, he was visited by a manifestation of Kannon, which inspired him to build a temple by the Rocks of Nata, the temple that now lay in ruins.

“So, have you?” Biwamaru asked. “Climbed Hakusan, I mean.”

“Of course not. You know my knees were giving me hell already back then, in our days in Shogun’s army. I stopped by the Twelvefold Waterfall, concluding it was as good a site for meditation as any, and seated myself on the bank in refusal to move any further. I have been a ridiculous lord of a tiny domain, the master of sake and the conqueror of meadows. Now I am a ridiculous pilgrim who only travels between two rivers and three hills.”

“I have crossed a hundred rivers and a thousand hills,” Biwamaru said, “and am yet to discover anything that does not exist in between these three. The rustling wind. The silent stones. The flowing water. Everything is the same everywhere around; the green is the same green, the white is white, and the red is red. I am better at meditating on my feet, though.”

“You have always been the restless one.” 

They smiled in reminiscence, and drank some more. 

But the serene pattern of Shunji’s aura was soon replaced by one of grave seriousness. 

“There, by the Twelvefold Waterfall… As I slipped without knowing into deep meditation, I had a vision. A deity of great beauty appeared before my eyes, carrying an infant in her arms. Perhaps it truly was a manifestation of Kannon. It was revealed to me that I have to give my youngest daughter to a lord who will soon ask for her hand. If I do so, her life will be full of sorrows, but her faithful worship of Kannon will lead to the defeat of a great evil. When I came to, I thought that my mind had played a trick on me, and the vision had been nothing but a vivid dream. But later that fall, the son of the late Iemitsu visited my brother to reestablish the relationship between our clans, and saw my daughter. Indeed, the suit followed very soon.”

“What did you answer him?”

“That I am no one to accept or decline; I am but a hermit no longer concerned by the ties of this world. She is free to marry whomever she wishes, be it a madman’s son or even one of the demons they keep locked in that old temple. I didn’t voice this last part, of course.”

“And what is her wish?”

“When she visited me, it was to bid farewell. I was deeply amazed by the strength of her determination. I expected her to be scared of that embattled land, the fierce samurai that rule it, and the rumors of curses surrounding them. After all, had she not spent her entire life in these quiet hills? But in the look of her eyes, I could barely recognize my timid child. Maybe Kannon truly leads her.”

Biwamaru hummed in contemplation. “Do the gods lead us, or do we lead the gods where they are needed most?” he mused.

Shunji remained silent for a long time.

His daughter had been wearing that distinctive air of the tender sadness of first love when she had visited him in this cave, a few early snowflakes speckling her long hair. 

Her face pale and dreamy, she had said, Father, I feel that we are bound by the ties of karma. He boasted of his victories, but his eyes were full of the shadows of what he had lost. I could feel his loneliness in the aching of my own heart. His parents had died, his brothers had betrayed him, and so had some of his trusted friends and retainers. 

So is the life of a warlord, Shunji had replied. Are you prepared for it?

She had looked at him with passion in her eyes and said, It must not be so. He is assured that the benevolent gods have lost the power over this land to the demons of war and death. I want to be by his side and support him, maybe then he will see that is not true. You abandoned the path of warrior for the path of Buddha, because your heart had been healed by the light of the Compassionate One. If we are strong in our faith, surely that light will illuminate our hearts, too. I shall bring Mother’s statue of Kannon with me. Will you bless me, Father? 

You are young and naive, Shunji had replied with a smile. But isn’t that the strength of youth? I am too old and weak for faith. I only seek liberation from the pain of regrets and disillusions in the simple perfection of nature. Silence, not prayers, brings me comfort; acceptance and equanimity lead me instead of hopes. You are growing and I am fading away. I am unworthy to be an example of any path. But if you need it, I give you my blessing. So take Kannon with you and go, my child. Go into the world and live the summer of your life with the full force you had nowhere to apply in these quiet hills.

…Lord Toshitsugu remained silent, his eyes closed, his breathing so slow it could not be heard, his aura calm and steady like the flame of a candle, when Biwamaru left to continue his own journey.

Perhaps, in his meditation he contemplated the same thought:

Do the gods lead us, or do we lead the gods where they are needed most?

Equally likely, his mind was clear of any such contemplation, only admiring the memory of the perfect golden moon of October rising above the mists. 

~ The story of the twelve stones. Part I ~

~ Great River Castle ~

Tahomaru takes a deep breath. Very calmly, he says, “Then?” 

Masanobu, the young samurai who just arrived from Daishoji Fortress, gulps nervously before continuing. “Then, Dororo-sama took some time to discuss something with her men, probably the plan of the defense. Since she had taken off your jinbaori, we could no longer see her clearly. We didn’t know what to do. We didn’t want to harm them, but there was your direct order, and the peasants were stubborn.” His words are coming out in a hurried stream, but the obvious attempt to delay the essential part sets Tahomaru’s overwrought nerves on edge. It is the moment when Maeda, who can’t stand excessive wordiness from his subordinates, should interrupt the messenger with a harsh command to be short and precise. But the old warlord remains silent. “At last, we advanced. General Takagi said that he would take full responsibility for himself should the worst happen, even if it means he would have to commit seppuku afterward. Although he had ordered to avoid hurting Dororo-sama at all costs, in the heat of the battle it would have been difficult to make sure to—”

“Skip the detailed report,” Tahomaru cuts off, his patience at an end. “I wish to know the outcome of the battle.”

“Yes, lord. Forgive me, lord.” Masanobu bows his torso as much as his half kneeled position allows him. “The battle did not progress any further. We only loosed off our first volley, setting some of the roofs inside the fortress aflame. However, the fire didn’t spread over the stone structures. We were ordered to keep shooting until the peasants would be scared into surrendering. We pulled our bows anew. That’s when she appeared.”

The way he emphasized the word, low and breathy, and paused afterward, draws Tahomaru into a reflexive repeat, “ She? ”

“At first, we thought she was Kannon herself,” Masanobu says almost in a whisper, a sheen of reverent awe in his eyes. The samurai gathered around lean closer, holding their breaths. “She was so calm and gentle, yet there was strength in her like that of a goddess!”

Tahomaru’s hand starts vibrating with an uncharacteristic urge: to draw his sword and blow the messenger’s head clean off his shoulders, should any more words be wasted on unnecessary dramatic effects. Or perhaps to reduce the man to the lower caste of entertainers and send to the theater would be a better choice? Such a talent should not be wasted. “Who on earth? Report clearly!”

“Your honorable mother, lord, Lady Nui no Kata. She was accompanied by a bearded man of a strong build and a little girl with a prosthetic arm.”

A synchronous sigh rises from his retainers. Tahomaru suppresses an exclamation of his own. Mother? Jukai-sensei and Aki? He nods to the messenger to continue.

“Her word was enough to stop the battle. Everybody, including even the most wild peasants, put their weapons down in shame. Then, Lady took upon herself to negotiate peace.”

“The losses?”

“We have lost two men, lord, and the rebels about ten. Dororo-sama has not been hurt.”

Tahomaru releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

“Here is the letter from Lady that I have been entrusted to deliver you, lord.” As if an afterthought, Masanobu pulls out an encased paper.

You fool, this is where you should have started! Tahomaru can almost hear Maeda’s enraged voice in his head. In reality, his counselor could have as well been replaced by a wooden mannequin, mute and numb to his surroundings. After this day’s tragic developments it is perfectly understandable, though. Tahomaru has ordered him to stay alive, yet does he truly hold that power over a person’s final choice? For how long will the old samurai obey?

Tahomaru pushes the thought away for the time being. He unfolds the letter. 

“My lord, dear Son. 

I hope this message finds you well. I expect the report has reached you that Daishoji Fortress has been successfully secured by your loyal subjects, who acted bravely against Imagawa’s renegade forces. 

Through the grace of the gods and the wisdom and compassion of your warriors and villagers, the misunderstandings that arose during the process have been resolved without further violence.

However, the villagers are currently facing many difficulties. They have expressed their suggestions to me with the sole intention of improving life in your domain in accordance with the teachings of Buddha. Please, consider their requests with a kind and generous heart that I know you possess. As we entrust our fates to you, I humbly implore you to not punish these proud but disadvantaged people for their vehemence, for I believe we all pursue the same goal.

Praying constantly for your wellbeing,

Your loving mother.”

Tahomaru feels the warmth still new to him spread in his chest. Mother… Thank you. Lady’s special intercession is a reason valid enough to let the villagers be and close this matter without hanging and beheading anybody. Finally, he feels the tension in his every tendon unwind.

“What are the negotiated terms?” folding the letter carefully, he inquires.

“They want their r–representatives to be included in your council, lord.” Now it is clear what news Masanobu has been trying to delay. His face is drained of color as though he is expecting his head to fall the next moment for uttering such outrageous things. “Also, they will continue to pay full taxes in exchange for protection from the neighboring clans, but they want to be allowed to keep an armed force of their own,” he finishes quickly.

“Which is only rational for the periphery villages,” Tahomaru says. It could have been worse. “This way they can protect themselves against brigands or Asakura’s sudden forays and maintain order.” And also ensure that we stick to our part of the agreement.

He expects to hear the usual gasps and exclamations of horror, yet neither follows. 

Tahomaru looks over his retainers. No one contradicts him. No one argues. Maeda is just there, nothing more than a motionless shadow. 

Even Shimura, his most stubborn and old-fashioned general, only speaks up once Tahomaru’s gaze falls on him, as if belatedly remembering his role, “Lord… Should such impudence be tolerated any longer?” 

“They are just fed up being treated like scum. If a rule should rely on the oppression of those below, such a rule cannot be deemed a truly strong one. A social agreement, on the contrary, will solidify our land.”

“Yes, lord.”

And this is it. 

In a flash of sudden clarity, Tahomaru understands what is going on. What has changed in their eyes.

He understands who they see as they look at him. 

He has destroyed a ten thousand army of demons. He has made Taizo’s army simply leave without fight, by negotiations alone. He has made the cocky Ikki rebels his genuine allies. He has brought the arrogant Imagawa into admitting his defeat, and the strong, independent Maeda to silent obedience.

This is how they see him. 

This is why they fear him. 

This is why they will follow his every word without questions from now on. 

~

The ceaseless flow of events finally eases to a halt as the long, heavy evening recedes into a moonless night. When Tahomaru reaches his chambers, it seems to him that an entire lifetime has passed since he was here last. 

“Please, go and rest, Umeko-chan. It is late, and I’m perfectly fine on my own.” Despite his words, a sudden weakness overtakes his limbs as his wet nurse deftly unties the knots and removes his armor. Tahomaru makes an effort not to collapse on the tatami as he is, in a battlefield manner he adopted recently.

“I would have sent Furi to you but I haven’t seen her for days.” Concern casts a shadow on the middle-aged woman’s brow.

“She was with me.” Tahomaru feels the blood color his cheeks. She still is. “She…expressed a wish to accompany us on this trip among the army attendees.”

“Oh,” Umeko seems more relieved than surprised. “This girl is stronger than she seems. But please, my lord, be kind to her. She has suffered a great deal.”

“I know,” Tahomaru says, the image of the bloodless corpse in the dark forest coming to his memory.

“You do?” Umeko breathes out, now genuinely surprised. 

“She lost her father… This is very trying to be left an orphan.” Again , he adds in his thoughts, unsure if Umeko is aware that Furi was an adopted child.

“Oh, right. Iwamoto.”

Tahomaru watches the woman. “Wasn’t it what you meant?”

“I meant…that it was perhaps even more trying for her to believe that you were dead.”

There is no breeze to cool Tahomaru’s cheeks. He wants to disappear under his wet nurse’s keen eyes. And she gets it, of course.

“I shall leave you now.” The tiniest of smiles pulls at her lips as she bows and exits the room.

Tahomaru palms his burning face. Perhaps she knows what happened between them back in autumn. Dammit, she even witnessed him in his terrible demonic form. Yet for her, he is the same boy who needs to be reminded to eat properly and can’t be trusted to tie his kimono knots in order. And will always be. 

It is grounding. And it is nauseating at the same time. For she will scold him for mundanities but will never blame him for the things huge and horrible like these...

Everyone who is left beside him will obey and trust his decisions. Even Maeda will not argue, will not question his ideas anymore, only a shadow of the strong warlord he was, held in this world by Tahomaru’s order alone. In the end, there is nobody who will share the cold lonely peak of power with him.

Father’s words come to his memory like a curse. ‘You shall have many retainers who will fear you and admire you, and attendants fully devoted to you…’  

Yet he can’t have friends, and his brother has left him.

Almost in a mocking reverse replay of that day, Tahomaru extinguishes the lamps in the corridor leading to his bedroom. The flashes of warm orange light die with quiet hissing, until all but one are gone, and shadows enwrap him completely. 

Here, in the core of the thick darkness, in the chamber where his brother has never been and will never be now, Tahomaru is left alone, and it seems like nobody will ever find him. 

‘...You will end up all alone, and you will die because of them…’

Well, at least one thing Taizo got wrong. Mutsu and Hyogo are dead indeed, and he is alone; but he is alive.

Isn’t he? 

Tahomaru shakes off the chill from his shoulders, a cold breath from the dark void touching his skin. The void that looked at him from the depth of Setsuna’s eyes, the eyes of the one who had died but was brought back by a demon. The void that reverberated in Maeda’s voice as he was making his confession. The void beyond the cozy shelter of this world, where demons keep imprisoned those who went too far in pursuit of illusions. 

‘Why am I here while they’re in hell?’

Why indeed? How many times should he, Tahomaru, have died—but didn’t? Today, yesterday, and the day before that… By an arrow from the dark; in the midst of the enemy army; by the swift knife… Death has been following him step by step ever since he shook off the stupor of guilt and decided to take part in the turmoils of life once again. As if saying, You are mine; do not forget that.  

Tahomaru closes his eye, unable to face this void. He thinks of the strong hands that held him so tightly from falling into despair. Of the eyes that had been so warm before they turned hostile.‘You are existing now. You are alive, Tahomaru.’

If I am, then why is it so dark and cold? Is it what life feels like, Brother?

“Furi,” he says out loud, not at all certain she will hear this call. There is nothing to protect his life from at the moment…except maybe this mute darkness. “Quit lurking in the shadows; you are only making them darker like this. Better serve me sake.”

“Yes, my lord,” a velvety voice answers without delay, sending a wave of shivers down his spine. With the corner of his eye, he sees the darkness shift and split, and an uncertain silhouette quickly exit the room—right through the closed door. As if she were always here, but only able to take shape when he summoned her. From…where?  

Furi returns with a proper announcement, kneels behind the door, then slides it open, bows and shuffles in, fully embodied now like an ordinary maid she used to be. Or to play.

Tahomaru watches her pouring sake into his raised cup. Despite the nature of the action, she appears exactly the same as on the battlefield, where he last saw her: not a maid but a strict, impassive attendant. The wavy hair is tied in a high ponytail, her clothing dark and plain, her face emotionless. 

She has answered his call.

Was it desperate enough?

Their hands do not touch, yet Tahomaru senses her skin emanating a chill. It spreads all over his body and penetrates into the very bones. He takes a hasty gulp.

‘The demon that guards you…’

Maybe Setsuna was right in her assumption. Maybe, just like her, he is only alive thanks to demonic protection. Whoever has made this deal…

The night is still, and the silence is thick about them. Tahomaru tries to decipher the sound of her breathing, yet the only thing he perceives is the sound of his own blood pressing to his temples. Furi sits unmoving, waiting for his orders, ready to refill his cup. Tahomaru wonders if he will fail to register her fading back into shadows, the same way he couldn’t clearly see her appear, once the little jar in her hands is empty and he has no more orders for her.

“Are you always here?” His voice is a crack in the silence. Tahomaru senses his face warm up. “Always…watching me from the shadows?”

“Not in the way you think, my lord.” Her speech is smooth and flat, like before, drained of the emotion of life. “From the shadows, I cannot perceive things as they are. I only perceive danger. Or your orders, voiced and sometimes unvoiced. All the other time…there is no time.”

The heart gives a thud in his chest.

“Are you a human?”

“Yes, my lord.”

She wasn’t like this before. To think of it, it was his unvoiced order that day, too—for her to blend into shadows and disappear from his sight. Nothing was as excruciating as facing his own faults, every day, over and over again.

“Then how can you do something like this? Is it also a part of the ninja training?”

Furi bows deeply. “I cannot answer this question.”

“You disobey my order?” There is no threat in Tahomaru’s voice; he just asks to confirm.

“So I do. There are secrets that are not mine to reveal. Please, forgive me, lord.”

Her eyes are filled with dim shadows, and she radiates an eerie cold, like a being not completely belonging to this world. But he does remember her skin warm. He does remember the heat of her body. The intensity of her blush, the stuttered gasps, and the eyes shining with the fever of life. For the first time since then Tahomaru allows himself to reminisce all that in detail. And his body immediately reacts to the reminiscence.

He commands his pulse to slow down.

“There is nothing I should forgive you for. I am only here because you saved me from certain death…how many times exactly?” 

Furi bows. “I am only here because you allowed me to serve you. I am only here as your shield. You do not have to thank a shield, my lord.”

A harsh pain pierces his chest, the words too fresh, too vivid in his memory. ‘I am only existing as your right hand. I have no desires of my own.’

“Stop it, please.” Tahomaru tightens his hands into fists, but it does nothing to quell the ache deep inside. “Just…stop trying to impersonate her.”

Furi looks up, her eyes wide. For the first time, he sees the disturbance in the calm.

“It is not so, lord.”

“Yes, it is. I don’t know why you are doing it but you don’t have to be her. You are not…my attendant. I don’t want you to be. If my wishes still mean anything to you…”

“They mean everything to me.”

“Then I want you to be yourself.”

Furi goes utterly still across from him. 

Tahomaru forces air into his lungs. “And I want you to stay on this side from now on. If this is what you want, too…” His voice hitches and is lost completely.

The shadows are denser in her eyes when she raises them again, but there are tiny reflections of light, too. For a moment, Furi just stares at him. Then she nods with hesitation as if unsure whether to follow this order. Or…whether she can follow it. 

Is she really in control of her power?

When she speaks, there is the tiniest strain to her voice, “Shall my lord have dinner now, or would he prefer to take a bath first?”

“A bath,” he exhales.

~

The forgotten wound on his back begins to sting once the warm water touches it, followed immediately by the gentle hands applying some disinfecting mixtures to it. The heat of the water steaming in the tub nearby envelops his body, making up for the coldness of her fingers.

“Forgive me for failing you, lord,” Furi says. “I must stitch it now.”

Tahomaru catches the small hand. 

“This scratch will be gone in the morning.” His rational mind is somewhat blurred from the sake, yet a stronger, clearer undercurrent resurfaces to bring to his attention things he’s been putting aside for too long.

The palm in his hand is indeed cool yet real. Tender. And, dragging the pads of his fingers across the skin, he can almost sense the pulsing of life underneath. A human indeed. Yet… The memories of the wild fight, of the bliss of temporary oblivion while cutting his way through the enemy army, and of her invisible protection flood his mind. She was not a shield, she was a deadly tornado enclosing him, almost being one with him; almost—inexplicably—bringing back the feeling of fighting alongside Mutsu . Unity in battle, yet of a more intimate kind; something beyond that; something he never got to experience with her and will never do now. “Let’s better talk about the hundreds of blows you deflected. How on earth did you do it?”

“I can’t clearly explain it, lord. I am not being completely myself when doing it.”

“Who else acts through you?” Tahomaru remembers the feeling of not being completely himself. Remembers better than he would like. At last, he asks directly, “Is it a demon?”

“No, my lord. It is not a demon.”

The stiffness of her voice tells him she won’t say more. But relief floods his body nevertheless.

Tahomaru eases himself into the tub, the hot water piercing him with pain that quickly turns to pleasure. He rests his head on the edge of the tub and closes his eye, feeling exhaustion from the long day and the sake slackening his entire body. Or…maybe not entire . Arousal returns with a wave of sweet shiver from the sensations of her gentle hands in his hair: brushing through the locks, untangling, washing them in the warm water poured from a scoop.

Tahomaru utters what has been eating his mind for a while, “You could have disobeyed that night, too.”

The fingers halt for a moment.

“I wasn’t lying to you. I was happy.”

“How could you be?” His cheek twitches as he evokes his own ruthlessness, harshness, and the cruel coldness of the only word he uttered afterwards: ‘Leave.’

“I knew I shouldn’t have been. But I was. You entrusted me…the light you had banished from your soul. Even from your greatest pain, I was able to derive my own selfish happiness.”

Tahomaru inhales sharply. He never knew she understood. 

He feels her hands warming up little by little, just as her voice is beginning to fill up with emotions as if regaining the colors of life. It still doesn’t make sense, however.

“You speak of my pain, but it was I who hurt you. There were marks on your body...”

“You did not, my lord. Those marks were left by your caresses, they only looked painful.”

“Why are you justifying me? I saw the blood.”

Against the porcelain paleness of her skin, the marks on her neck stood out so distinctly that everyone would see them come the morning. Mutsu would see them. Yes, she would, but Tahomaru did not care anymore. That day they had fought the rat ghoul, that day he had protected her for the first time as she hesitated—for the first time—to finish the creature. That’s what happens when you let yourself be swayed by emotion. There were many first times the following days... The first time he ordered to kill people, too. Every person who was there, on the cape. Later, it seemed to him that it all had started with that drop of blood on the white silk. 

“But of course, there would be blood, my lord. That was my first time. It was perfectly normal.”

“It was?” he gasps, not sure at what statement out of the two.

“Surely so.” Now, there is an undeniable hint of…amusement? in Furi’s voice, Tahomaru could swear. “You were devoting all your time to studying sciences and practicing martial arts rather than exploring the art of love, so you didn’t know. But I admit it was my fault. I only knew the theory but could not invoke your interest in practice. I wondered why Kagemitsu-sama had not chosen a wiser and more experienced woman. But who was I to question his decisions?”

Why had Father chosen this young and innocent girl for this role, indeed? Was she supposed to be that symbolic puppy the prince needs to kill in order to become a proper, cruel and merciless ruler? Or did he wish for him to have something pure by his side, a ray of light in the darkness that was about to engulf him? His father had always been like this. Ambiguous. Never as definite as he seemed. Or as he struggled to be, believing that the world he lived in claimed that from him.

But in truth, the world never claimed anything. The world has always been just the result of their own choices.

“So, you aren’t really competent in the art of love?” The corner of Tahomaru’s lips pulls up in a smile.

“But I know the theory,” she says defensively.

“Explain it to me properly, then, before we proceed to practice.”

~

From the shadows, she could not perceive things as they were. 

She could only perceive the light of his soul. So beautiful and fragile, it was the only light penetrating into the black abyss, the only thread connecting her with the human world.

And through her, the Shadow, her Guide. 

Like two magnets, one reaching out from below and the other from above, they were able to meet on the surface and join into one. Yet the pull from below was stronger. Furi could very well sink under the surface; the Guide could not break through it fully. 

No disembodied spirit could just break from the Underside. 

Gliding on that thin barrier, surfacing and resurfacing in any place and time, turning the very essence of her thoughts and intention into matter, was exactly the ultimate weapon Teacher had taught her, and at the same time warned her against. For it can very well destroy yourself along with your target. 

She understood it now: so strong was the pull from the Underside.

A shadow side of existence. The side facing the outer Chaos—just like this side is facing the Light of the Source that fills us with hope even among the utmost dark. There is no hope and no light on the Underside. The primordial, unordered Darkness that shines upon it is eternal, boundless, shapeless. No destination exists there, and no moment is divided from another. 

Before its unmeasured infinity, even the grandeur of the night sky is but a small drop in the vast ocean.

Being present on this side again was like entering a small room after having been tossed by the raging waves of the cold, dark sea for years. 

It is cozy. It is warm. It is stable. It is unbelievably sharp, and every little thing is distinct. Everything exists .

“You will not want to proceed once I reveal to you another truth about me.”

His gaze is darkened with the intensity of desire, so reminiscent yet so unlike that night, and his eyelashes flutter as he looks up at her hesitantly. “What truth?”

‘For them, we are all animals, not even humans. Filthy, wild barbarians…’ Furi knows he will no longer look at her with desire once he learns that.

“I am of Emishi descent.”

“Emishi…? The people of the mountains…” He frowns. 

She meets his gaze with the steel of her own. “Once, we were the people of the fields, and the rivers, and the shores, too.” Your ancestors made us like this. Crushed and slaughtered, drove us to the wilderness, enslaved those left alive… The old war that never really ended separates us regardless of our wishes.

But he says, reaching out to brush a curly strand from her cheek, a warm light glowing in his eye, “So, that is why you have such peculiar hair.”

~

Tahomaru watches her as he wakes up in the middle of the night. The delicate fragrance of the blossoming plums and early sakuras wafts into the room, carried by the chilly night breeze. The moon past its first quarter, surrounded by the stars, descends among the trees, enlivening the darkness with ephemeral golden light. Furi is sprawled on her stomach, her head resting on the sheets with the pillow cast aside, her tousled, voluminous hair in disarray around her head, her soft lips slightly parted. Although not the most graceful sight, its endearing innocence makes his heart beat faster.

‘There’s nothing dark in wanting someone.’  

Brother was right. It is on us to fill the darkness with light. Tahomaru slides the white coverlet down, tracing the soft shapes of her body and enjoying the little sighs she breathes as she resurfaces from her dream. 

“The cherry trees are blossoming
On Takasago's height,

—he murmurs into the warm, fragrant skin of her back and shoulders, tracing with his lips the faint marks of his earlier caresses,

“Oh may no mountain mist arise,   
No clouds so soft and white,   
To hide them from our sight.”

Furi opens her eyes and shifts, watching him for a moment—

And then jumps in shame. “My lord!”

He laughs, pinning her down and rolling on top of her. Furi begins to laugh, too. It is light and silvery and a bit childish, the sound of the summer wind playing with little wind chimes.

At this moment, she couldn’t be more herself. 

They make love again, slow and sensuous, without the rush of need of before, simply relishing in the way their bodies communicate beyond the medium of words. The sweetness of it makes his mind blur.

Tahomaru thinks about all the other things his brother described that night. He wants to try everything she would wish for, and maybe discover something new, something that is just theirs , too.

His chest is so full of excitement it seems about to burst. I want to live. I really do.

In the velvety darkness of the hour of the Ox, she falls asleep by his side again, warm and tangible, with the sweetest of blushes all over the moonlit velvet of her skin. A shadow of the bird descending in a wide circle is the only thing that stains it.

I do, but... 

Tahomaru’s look shifts and comes to rest upon the big raven that has landed onto the terrace. There is a piece of paper attached to its leg.

~

In the predawn stillness of the hour of the Tiger, he steps onto the empty bridge above the dark water of Mae river, wondering if Taizo played a prank on him. No one can be seen or heard nearby. The wind has died down, and the only sound disturbing the silence is his horse puffing on the riverbank where Tahomaru has left it. 

Below, the sharp reflection of the setting moon seems suspended over the abyss, a perfect oval on the glassy surface unshaken by the invisible torrents streaming underneath. 

A sudden wave of chill forces Tahomaru to tear his gaze off the mesmerizing sight. As he looks up again, he sees the shadows and the moonlight entwine in front of him to form a solid figure standing right in the middle of the bridge.

The message did not lie. Taizo’s teacher is there, at the appointed time and place, waiting for him.

Tahomaru’s temples begin to pulse as he approaches. He can barely breathe in the thickened, frozen air. Every step is a strain of will. Wondering what he would have perceived if he still possessed the soul vision, he realizes: the vagabond Maeda saw and described was but a mask. Now, the warlock is not hiding his strength; instead, for some reason, he’s chosen to put on a show.

Tahomaru isn’t the one to be intimidated by supernatural powers, though. They were exactly the reason he requested this meeting. 

“I have been told that you were seeking a meeting with me, Lord Tahomaru,” the warlock breaks the silence first, echoing his thought in yet another display of his abilities. “In what way can I be of assistance to you?”

‘A bear with the eyes of a fox.’ In that comparison, Maeda could not be more on point. The man is big but not awkward, and his eyes, black like moonless night, are slightly squinted as if in a mocking smile that is not really there. 

Despite the nauseating pain in his skull, Tahomaru meets his gaze firmly and calmly.

“I want you to show me the twelve stones you have collected. I wish to speak to the demons.”

“That place is in the hills rather far from here.” ‘Teacher’ is not in the slightest bit surprised by his request. The cunning eyes never leave Tahomaru’s one, as if reading something deep inside his mind. “West of Awazu domain, turn south and follow past Natadera, past Nata Castle ruins, deeper into the hills. As the road starts meandering, you will come upon a crossing. Leave the road and turn north-east. There, in the Forest of Wisdom, between a waterfall and an overhanging rock, you will find the Circle. However...” With a smirk, the warlock extends his hand and reveals a handful of small stones glistening in the moonlight. “These little pieces are always with me. They must be enough for a bit of talking. Do you wish to do it now?”

Up close, the warlock’s eyes are nothing like the velvet of the night sky. They are sharp and brilliant like these dark stones, twelve...eleven chopped off pieces of the ancient idols that should have never been carved from the bones of this land. That should have never been infused with demonic power. That should have never been brought back to life.

Yet here they are, and so is he, and the only thing Tahomaru needs to do is to take that final step and close this story once and for all.

“I can’t see why not.”