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"Swords," you say, in the cold lab where scientists and engineers run back and forth, monitoring the low hum of machines scattered across the large sterilised warehouse. The woman in charge of the programme nods.
"You’ve been briefed about the changes in history, this… mass amnesia nationwide," she prompts, and you nod. Reassured, she continues. "Yes then, these swords- they have spirits within them." Gesturing to a nearby machine, you watch the signals scurry across a small screen, readings of- of what? Life? The spirit she means? None of these make much sense to you; you only turn back to her and shrug.
"I’m going to take these swords back then?"
"Well… Not really, but they will exist back where you will travel. It’s not going to make sense until you get there."
And she’s right. Surprise surprise. Not that you’re much deterred, you already swore that you’d do anything to help. This forgetting, this change, it’s not right. It’s enough to make you forego your previous civilian life, as much as you liked the peace of it. Practicality is important. Whatever harshness, you think you can face it, for years on end if necessary- or at least that’s what they’ve warned you about.
"It can drag on," they had said at the interview.
"Bring it," was your instinctive reply.
You first meet Kasen Kanesada in the main hall of the building you will call your home for now. He’s an odd one- tall, with lavender hair and kind eyes.
"It is so good to meet you," he says, rising, bowing. You are not sure how to deal with the formality so you incline your head, and try not to look like a fool. As he looks up at you however you wonder if in not looking like a fool you look too aloof and arrogant instead. Neither is an impression you particularly wanted to make.
"Ah, you are…?"
"Kasen Kanesada." He inclines his own head, his smile perfectly composed. How does one learn such languid posture, you wonder, how do swords even attend etiquette lessons? "If you are unaware of my history, my name comes from the Kanesada clan who forged me- and the thirty-six immortals of poetry. They were classic examples of literature."
That explains the fluttering sakura blossoms and rock gardens, you think, maybe a bit irreverently, and manage to smile at last.
"It’s a beautiful name," you say, "so you know poetry?"
He shrugs one shoulder, and manages to look beautiful doing that. “I do enjoy it. I enjoy the arts in general. Beautiful things- one lives for such things, don’t you think? Life is fleeting, messy and bloody. Beauty makes it worth the sorrow.”
You arch your brows. Wow. This one’s a deep one. Somehow you’ve always found these types to be… well, sort of annoying. Too soft for your liking. You grew up with ugliness, and you know it’s a dog-eat-dog world.
"Of course," he continues, trailing off, "that is…"
You wait for him to continue, wondering what he’s going to say. He falls silent for a bit before resuming.
"Of course there is the matter of the other thirty-six I might have been named for instead. They weren’t poets, as I recall, simply people murdered by my master. Such an interesting number, don’t you think? Thirty-six. I wonder what the significance could be."
The politely curious smile on your face cracks.
So. This is the life you’ve thrown yourself into. You hope the horror doesn’t show through too much on your face as he turns a bright look on you and inquires if you’ve seen the rest of the residence you will spend so much of your future weeks in.
—
It turns out later Kasen Kanesada is a master of fucking around with people. Nevertheless you turn to him more and more as the weeks go by and you start meeting the other swords.
He’s not wrong, you think. You start to see what he means when in the mornings you come across the small bonsai he leaves outside your door, when you sit and have tea with him and look over the gardens to forget the battles you fight.
Slowly you start to live for these small beautiful things.