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Rain falls steadily onto sloping surfaces, drumming rhythmically above his head.
Onikiri kneels on the cold wooden floor, eyes closed, serene. He is on the porch of the estate, and the clouds blanketing the sky are steel grey.
The servants of the estate have renewed the eaves. Yet now, before the seemingly unending downpour, the wood creaks and groans akin to the dying breaths of an old behemoth. The rain keeps falling. Wind whistles past.
Onikiri finds it hard to think.
He is contemplating. His expression blank, his mind a lake's surface, reflecting truths as clear as a mirror.
In his mind's eye, the lake seems calm, yet unfathomable. He sees his visage reflected upon the surface in crystal clarity; dark eyes framed by silky black hair, tied low behind his back. He sees what he currently is, yet no matter how he tries, he cannot see beyond the reflection into the true depths of the lake.
In his mind's eye, he reaches one pale finger towards the lake's surface.
"Master Onikiri?"
A noise breaks the tension, a stone thrown at a mirror. The once clear reflection ripples, and what once seemed a perfectly framed truth shattered into a thousand pieces.
Onikiri jolts.
"…Master Onikiri?" repeats the maid, hesitantly touching his shoulder.
"Lord Yorimitsu is asking for you."
Ah, his master is calling.
Mechanically he registers himself nodding in acknowledgement, turning, and rising. He isn't sure if that's what he did because the soft rustle of his white robes was drowned out by rain. For a second it feels like he is slipping back into the miraged lake that exists as a barrier between him and the foggy unknowns that swim underneath, fluttering like a caged beast wanting to be free.
Onikiri turns away from the dream-like state of pondering and holds tightly onto the present, onto his duty, and the cold and righteous justice of his lord.
For his lord's justice is absolute, it is a blade he could swing in his hand and shatter doubts into a thousand pieces. There is no need for pondering because all he needs to do is obey.
"Do you know, Onikiri, why amongst the species of plants and animals, amongst the yokai that come in a myriad of forms and are born with superior strength and unnatural abilities, why even though there exist immortal beings as cunning and powerful as the great spirits in this world, it is still man who is recognized as the pinnacle of all living things?"
Onikiri hesitated, "No Master."
Minamoto no Yorimitsu put down his brush and the lines of poetry he scribbled. They were waiting for the Emperor's letter to the purge of Mt Oe, looking outside the half open window to the courtyard.
"It is because man has both spirit and wisdom: The spirit of progress, and the wisdom to achieve it."
"Take a look at the horses," he said, as a servant led his black war stallion from the stables outside. "Although its experiences in war and interactions with humans have granted it wisdom, it does not possess the spirit to become stronger."
"Instead, it is content to lie in a stable and be fed hay, to wither its youth away in illusionary safety." Yorimitsu sneered with a hint of disdain. "Thus, just like some people, it will never achieve anything substantial."
"Similarly, the war hounds suffer the exact opposite problem. They rush ahead, reaching towards fresh meat with fangs out, all too eager to grasp benefits and become stronger. But in the end?"
Onikiri is silent in contemplation. The words of his lord are scathing, but often profound. As his retainer, it is his duty to comprehend his will and act upon it.
"They are without sufficient preparations. They squeeze their tiny brains for small victories, then think themselves the smartest of all. Truly, the fool thinks himself wise."
Winds blew past, scattering Yorimitsu's long, jagged hair. "While the wise man knows he is but a fool."
Minamoto no Yorimitsu's ability allows him to lead his men amongst the ringing of blades, his straight back the symbol of glory towards humanity. In war, he is undefeated, each strike stabbing true into the enemy. Onikiri is his guard. Onikiri is his sword. Onikiri does not need doubts.
As the call to war draws ever closer, so too stir the spirits that lurk from the darkness of mankind. Yet in his mind's eye, the lake surface is calm, the unknown beneath suppressed by the clear reflection of the gentian crest of the Minamoto. It seethes and rumbles, but the seal holds tight, always unwavering.
The Emperor's horns only rumble on the eve of bloodshed. This is a saying amongst the poor who live in the slums around the city edges. Here, where those of lowly birth are consigned to die, the resounding bellow of the army's war cries are a sign to run the opposite way and never come back.
Paradoxically, it is also these places where none want to be, that soldiers flock towards because the eve of battle is a time for gathering supplies and nervous tension. Their enemies are not humans after all, but rather "beings of darkness and shadow born out of the evils of mankind."
That's what the general said, sternly glaring into the eyes of each of the new soldiers. They shifted uncomfortably - whether from the cold weather or the general is unknown.
Until a boisterous voice broke the stalemate.
"Even if Shuten Doji himself shows up, we’ve got Lord Yorimitsu!" the voice laughed.
The general’s look could strike a man dead, but the newcomer, a tall soldier with four fingers, was not afraid. Instead, he stabbed the butt of his spear into the dirt and declared proudly.
"No matter if it's the most cunning Hoshiguma Doji or the most powerful Ibaraki Doji, he's going to kill them all!"
Onikiri often finds relapses in his memory. Recollections of swordplay might suddenly change into a clashing of claws, and storm clouds suddenly resemble billowing pillars of ash. Sometimes when he closes his eyes, he sees a grey sky. The air is choked with sickly miasma, woven through with screeches of pain and rending of flesh. He sees himself with claws on his fingers and robes white like a mourner's, run through with the length of his master’s silver sword.
Then he opens his eyes and the recollection is swept away by jumbled thoughts of nothing in particular. He blinks, the memory is gone for sure, and he is back to the present, within his master’s tent, preparing for war.
His master was strangely attentive when he brought up this matter, though for what reason, he could not possibly fathom. When Minamoto no Yorimitsu notices that he has once again spaced out, he commands Onikiri to put down his sword and sit beside him.
“Literature is not just for the nobles, write a few verses when you have time, to sort out your thoughts.”
Onikiri nodded, contemplated, obeyed.
His hands, pale and delicate yet calloused from years of holding the swords, picked up a brush with an instinctive familiarity that surprised him. He has not held a brush much, before.
Wherefore shall our graces lie
Shattered by your hungry seas
Sung by angels, sought by hells
Lasting brief as happy dreams
“Profound.” His master laughed, and took his brush. In bold, sharp strokes of black ink, he completed the poem for him.
Carve out the steps to everlasting life
Gaze upon the way to that golden road
The path to eternity is paved with sighs.
“At times, one’s whole identity can be inferred from handwriting,” said Yorimitsu, putting down the brush. “Look carefully at the brushstrokes, the pressure, the spacing. All of these can reveal aspects of one’s character.”
Onikiri nodded and held up the sheet of paper, blowing on it to dry the ink.
His own handwriting feels strangely unfamiliar.
Someone asked, "What'd you reckon bout the body count?"
The grey haired veteran spat out a mouthful of phlegm.
"Against the rag tags? Negligible. But against one of the great spirits?"
He frowned.
"Even if we've got Lord Yorimitsu and that cursed blade of his, I wouldn't bet on it."
There was a masked figure on the roof of the buildings that only Onikiri could see. He approached, silent, before brandishing his sword at their neck at lightning speed.
Cold steel was only inches away, but the other party turned around slowly, casually, as if surveying the displays of a particularly interesting animal.
"State your purpose." said Onikiri.
The masked figure's smile did not reach their sharp, almost fox-like eyes.
“You don't know who you are, do you?”
On nights when the moon shines a little too brightly, when the flickering shadows of tree branches stretch a little too desperately away from the lights of homes, when the night insects are a little too quiet, the common folk would lock their doors and windows and pass around their own versions of the tales of the great spirit Tamamo no Mae.
Tamamo was a fox. Male or female, the old people can never agree on an answer. The craziest of them would even claim that they were genderless, to the scathing glances of parents who thought otherwise. The majority stubbornly refer to them as “he”, because well, “It’s always Lord Tamamo, not Lady Tamamo, you reprobate.”
The only thing they can agree on was that he was always very beautiful.
They say he works as an individual, and unlike the other great spirits, does not rule over a territory. He is wreathed in mysteries, knowing hidden secrets that no one should know, in places where no spirit should be. Most importantly, however, he has the ability to change shape as easily as breathing.
"His claws are terrifying, they're three inches long and even bigger in his true form." the nursemaids would say to scare their children.
"10 years ago, he burnt down the capital in a rage. The entire place was swallowed in a sea of foxfire that spared no one, not even children."
When Onikiri inquired of his master about the great nine-tailed fox, Yorimitsu had told him to call him as he is, Tamamo no Mae. "He is unpredictable and hides behind many masks. We already do not know which of his stories are real and which are lies, and if we lose even his identification, then we will have truly lost a dangerous enemy in the dark."
Onikiri nodded. Then frowned.
Was his true name always Onikiri? When he was forged by the blacksmith, was there the intention to cut down spirits woven through his steel? Was he always intended to be the demon cutter?
But Onikiri is the name that his master bestowed him, and he will not question his master.
There was the scent of wine on the battlefield, wafting under the ashen skies past the horde of bestial growling before their soldiers.
Onikiri was told that Shuten Doji loved wine. Their strongest enemy, that was prophesized to end the Minamoto clan some years ago. A divine child fallen from grace, neither righteous nor malevolent. A domineerring figure in an ominous field of war. If he applies the meanings of literature that was taught to him, it could mean something which does not belong with the rest of its kin. Perhaps, just like the sharp strokes of his master’s calligraphy, it could also mean an unrestrainable truth sheathed beneath a beautiful exterior. Like the shining edge of a blade loosened in its scabbard, with the implication of violence, but temporarily obscured.
For now.
Onikiri finds himself lost in thought staring at the battlefield. He feels it should mean more to him. An almost instinctive grasp, that yes, there is something there, but he just can’t quite put his finger on what it might be.
That is until the battle started and Onikiri sees the figure cutting a swathe through their ranks, hair red as the bleeding wounds of dying soldiers. A yokai, Shuten Doji.
He was tempered in the Minamoto clan, under the guidance of his master. Each strike of his sword is honed for killing, each swing of his blade promising doom for these demonic enemies of mankind.
He blocked the strike for Yorimitsu with no hesitance and felt claws ripping through his chest.
He owes his master his life, his soul, his everything. He is his master's blade. He should not be anything other than what his master tells him.
He should not feel this almost instinctive hesitance then, when his master swings towards Shuten Doji's head.
Yet when Yorimitsu's steel bit flesh, when the demon king's red blood, indistinguishable from humans, sprayed across his vision like a condemnation, Shuten Doji's eyes seemed to have looked into his soul.
"You are-!"
“Be not swayed by the pleas of your enemies, Onikiri.” His master’s deep voice rustled by his ear, as he kneeled, gasping from blood loss, submissive as Yorimitsu repaired the flaws in his steel and the open wound. “Lest you become infected by the very foe you have sworn to destroy.”
Every footprint made in the snow on the trek back to the capital, every step towards the anticipated celebration of their victory by every man, beast, and otherwise is inlaid with speckles of muddy blood. Some are bright crimson. Some are small. Some are still dripping from metal blades stained with the desperate struggles between demons and comrades that have long since become indistinguishable from each other.
No war is without blood. No victory is without sacrifice. Not even his master, learned in tactics and trained in the sword, could lead a victory completely without death. But Mt Oe was purged, Shuten Doji decapitated, and it was a good enough victory for the Emperor. Thus, good enough for celebration.
The victory banquet was a grandiose affair that covered every aspect of hospitality throughout the entire night. Music from the zither that leaves a honey sweet aftertaste on the tongue inched through the air like thick treacle, accompanying the painted ladies leaning over the shoulders of pompous men.
"As expected." Yorimitsu had remarked with contempt, when he was alone with Onikiri and not besieged by sycophantic tongues.
In the halls the servants came and went, serving wine and dishes of delicate artworks made of food. They looked irresistible to his famished self, but his master did not eat, so neither did Onikiri.
Onikiri couldn't help but notice that the banquet consisted only of generals and nobles, not the soldiers who participated. He had seen these people in ornate court robes, seen them accompanied by spring flowers and fragrant tea shipped from outside the capital. He had not seen them on the snowy road they made back from Mt Oe.
Have they seen the demons they speak so condescendingly against? Do they know how to wield a blade? Onikiri wondered. Do they also dream of fields of broken steel, sharp claws, and the sensation of flesh under nails?
When they allow themselves to relapse into the deepest parts of their interiority, do they also see a sky of smoke, the air choked with a clammy, sickly scent, of bodies that never stopped burning?
Yorimitsu left in an assertive swish of robes, his steady footsteps marking his departure from the sea of music and festivities. Onikiri silently followed him, his footsteps exactly in step.
He walked quietly on the lacquered planks. Always just behind and to the right of Yorimitsu so that his master's flowing hair is always in view, even as they head towards the yet unlit parts of the estate and the darkness of night is still free to stretch its influence.
If there are stars tonight, they are hiding. As if afraid of the shadows and the spirits that thrive in them, who stretch their wings and claws towards Onikiri. Trying to cover him in their embrace, but are driven back due to his proximity to the domineering light of the Head of the Minamoto Clan.
They are still there though, because even though his master shines like the sun in unwavering belief, Onikiri remains dull.
In his mind's eye, the lake was bathed in moonlight, imprinting a clear reflection of himself upon its surface. The bright moon and deep night rendered the Minamoto crest upon the top almost invisible. The unknown below mixed with the darkness, and just like Tamamo implied, Onikiri almost saw an even deeper shadow within.
Welcome home, the darkness mocked.
In days gone by, long ago, Onikiri dreamt of a forest.
It was warm and filled with sunlight, even during winter.
Onikiri's favourite spot was a boulder in a glade, set in the middle of the forest. Like a small mountain amongst the trees, unmoving and unyielding. When he climbed to the top, he would almost be in the canopy.
When he looked up, he would see flying birds.
Hawks, hunting with their wings wide open, gliding lazily in circles.
Black crows, alone or in pairs, winging overhead.
There were swallows as well, flighty and mischievous, dashing quickly.
Once, there was even a magnificent eagle, soaring proudly upon the warm spring winds, and without the slightest trace of fear, disappeared above the clouds.
And Onikiri looked at them with melancholic eyes.
He thought how free they must be. How happy.
He wanted to go with them.
He wanted to fly too.
He wanted it to not be a dream.
He saw the person that he recognizes as the nine-tailed fox Tamamo no Mae again now, a masked figure upon a rooftop that only he could see.
Strong winds whistled through the ornate roof tiles, as Tamamo surveyed their resting army behind a painted mask. He taps his fan beneath his painted lips, considering.
Onikiri's words died on his tongue as he approached. This was a betrayal to his master, to not inform him of this.
He hesitated, "If it is true that I am not who I am, then what is it that you want?"
Tamamo no Mae looked towards the last dying rays of the setting sun, as the world quietens to herald the arrival of dusk, and said,
"I promised myself."
"No gods."
"No masters."
"No predetermined fates."
He doesn't look into the lake surface anymore. Looking into that clear expanse now spawned nightmares that makes him unable to tell illusions from reality. Sometimes he doubts there is
It wasn't true. It can't be true. It could not be true. It must not be true, it cannot, will not, could not, was not, true.
He is Onikiri. His master's blade.
He is not anything else. He should not be anything else. He will not be anyone else.
Because apart from this, he does not know what he should be.
A long time ago, Tamamo no Mae liked to rest on rooftops. He did nothing but stare into the cold landscape that stretched untamed beneath a boundless sky. There wasn't much except a smattering of huts in snow, but it was quiet, and above all, peaceful.
It was a long time ago, before the purges and the massacres. When man had no defence against the unnatural, when spirits could go wherever they pleased. It was a time when humans used to sacrifice goats, cows, or each other to protect themselves, when they prayed not for the health of the Emperor, but to whatever entity that led the demon parade. They prayed to be protected from teeth and claws. They prayed to be spared by his demons. They prayed especially to never be noticed by the great spirits.
A long time ago, before the onmyoji, before Kuzu no Ha, before even his dear Chiyo, Tamamo no Mae rested on rooftops and watched the passing humans. He watched their joys and sorrows, their laughter and cries. He watched mothers soothe babes in their arms, orphans steal food from stalls. Sometimes, he would even play a prank. A simple, harmless prank.
It was a long, long time ago, and nothing stays the same forever. Time is a river always flowing onwards, and like the turning of the sun and moon before that fateful shrine where they met, he will change with them.
He never saw a masked figure on a roof again as they carried Shuten Doji's severed head towards the gates of Rashomon.
Instead, they met a beautiful lady in white, standing delicate as a flower in snow.
Ibaraki Doji lunged towards the entourage, and Onikiri, forcing his hesitant instincts aside, swung at him. Steel sliced through flesh and blood sprayed.
And finally, as the dark droplets landed in his eye, stains tainting the purity of the reflection and the already fading gentian crest, the darkness beneath that silent lake broke through.
The memories were a mockery of his past, yet they proved everything that he ignored. In the depths of his mind, the dreams and instincts clicked together, finally settling in place, into the abscess in his mind where the seal used to be. Staining his left eye red, where it once burned with the crest of the Minamoto clan.
He didn’t want to believe it.
He didn't want to face the truth.
He didn't want this beautiful, dream like lie to end.
So in the end, as Onikiri stood with blood in his hands and his namesake sword loosely pointed downwards in his grasp, he turned back to Yorimitsu.
"Tell me it's not true, master." with a desperate plea in his maddened eyes. "Tell me. Ibaraki Doji bewitched false memories. A plot by our enemies to sow discord in our ranks. A spell of mental alteration. An attempt at mind control. Brainwashing. Please."
His master closed his eyes.
Onikiri stared.
Minamoto no Yorimitsu was silent.
Onikiri screamed.