Chapter Text
Hajime
Five years old Hajime was focused on the single rice grain on his shaking chopsticks. He tried to raise it to his mouth, holding the rice bowl underneath it, but his hand was shaking so much that the rice grain fell back.
« Again. »
« Yes, mother. » replied Hajime with a nod, repeating the whole operation.
He managed to grab more rice this time and felt a hint of pride. He was so hungry that his tummy was aching and growling. He raised his chopsticks again and more than half the food fell back, leaving him only with a few grains to take to his mouth.
« Again. »
« Mother... Can I use my other hand, please ? » asked the boy shyly.
If he were to continue that way, he'd probably take ages to eat that already cold rice.
« How dare you contest my orders, Jirô ?! » shouted mother « I said, again ! »
« Yes, mother. Pardon me. » apologized Hajime with tears in his eyes.
His sister Kastu was sewing in the corner of the room and she lifted her gaze to see how his progress was going. He raised his chopsticks again, trembling. The tears filling his eyes and his respiration becoming shallow were making his hand shake even more and the chopsticks eventually escaped his grip and fell on the floor.
« Enough. » said mother « if you're not willing to make an effort, then you are not worthy to eat. » she said, taking the tray away « Go. »
« But mother... » protested Hajime in a broken low voice.
« I said go ! » she shouted and Hajime bowed in respect to his mother before running to the room he shared with his sister Katsu.
His brother Hiroaki was older and he was allowed to have his own room, but Hajime didn't care. He prefered sharing it with Katsu anyway. Alone, he started sobbing in a corner, trying to ignore the growling of his stomach. He looked at his right hand and started slapping it with his left.
« Why won't you work ?! » he cried.
« Jirô ? » he heard behind the shoji.
He stood up quickly and wiped the tears from his eyes before hiding his hands behind his back.
« H.. Ha. » he answered.
His sister entered the room, handing him chopsticks and a bowl of rice.
« I stole some when she wasn't looking. » she said with a gentle smile. « Eat. »
« Thank you, Katsu-neesama. » bowed Hajime, taking the bowl from his sister's hand.
He grabbed the chopsticks in his left hand and managed to catch the rice with ease. He was so hungry that he was shoving it in his mouth as quickly as he could, not even chewing it, and he coughed, which made Katsu chuckled.
« Eat slower, you little piglet ! » she laughed.
« S...Sorry... » replied Hajime, face red.
« You know, you'll have to stop using that left hand of yours. » she said with a gentle smile « I won't always be able to steal some rice from mother and I don't want you to starve. »
« I know... » whispered Hajime, starting to sob again « But something's wrong with the right one... It doesn't work properly... »
« If you practice, you'll learn. » said Katsu, plunging her eyes into her little brother's identical blue pupils « Do it for me, alright ? » she brushed her finger on Hajime's face, wiping the tears « and stop crying all the time. Men don't cry. Do you see father and Hiroaki cry ? »
« N... No... » he sobbed.
« Then don't do it either. You're a man and you'll be a samurai one day. Samurai are strong, they never compromise. And they do not cry. »
« H... Ha... » nodded Hajime, wiping his tears.
He decided that he would be strong, just like father and Hiroaki. And he would be right-handed, as expected from him. From now on, he will use his right hand for everything. Not only eating but playing, doing chores or whatever his mother wanted him to do. He would make Katsu proud.
Fourteen years old Hajime was once more sitting at the table with his family, but nine years of practice taught him to efficiently use his right hand for everyday tasks, and he was eating his food with ease in silence. The house was always so calm now that Katsu left, married. And he knew that it'd soon be his turn even if he had less pressure since he wasn't the heir. Hiroaki and his wife were living with them, but they weren't really speaking to young Hajime, leaving him on his own most of the time.
« I heard from your sensei. » said father, abruptly.
Hajime raised his gaze to meet his father's and waited politely for him to continue.
« He told me you weren't improving in the slightest. » he continued harshly.
« Pardon me, father. » replied Hajime with humility.
« He said he would not train you any longer and that you have no talent. » he said, ignoring his son's apologies « Can you imagine the dishonor you bring on our house ? »
Hajime remained silent and kept his eyes on his food in submission. He was trying the best he could to be a swordsman like his father and his brother, but the movements were feeling so unnatural to him. He was often mistaken, putting his left hand above the right on the shinai and everything was easier then. But the sensei would land his bokken on Hajime's hands with force everytime his hand placement was inadequate, leaving his hands red and aching. In the end, he was pretty happy that it was over.
« From now on, I'll train you myself until you are good enough to be presented to your sensei without shaming our name. » said his father in a tone that wasn't open to discussion.
« Thank you, father. » bowed Hajime, knowing that his father would probably be even harsher than his sensei.
And he was right. The training with his father and brother was torture. The placement of his hands was still as bad as when he was in the dojo, and they were hurting his fingers all the time, leaving them red and sometimes in blood.
« You're too weak to be a samurai. » said his father one day. « I will not train you anymore. You’re a failure. »
Hajime kept his eyes low, ashamed to not be able to bring proudness to his father. He would never be a samurai. When he was alone, he felt the tears invade his eyes for the first time in nine years and he wiped them away quickly.
A man doesn't cry. A samurai is strong. He never compromises.
He reported his gaze on the shinai at his feet and looked at it as if he was seeing it for the first time.
Never compromises...
He picked up the shinai and passed it in his obi, on his right side. He looked around, hoping no one was there to see him, and pretended to unsheathe it with his left hand. The movement came naturally, as if his sword had belonged to his right-side all this time. He repeated the movements he learned at the dojo, his left hand guiding him, and he knew.
He could be a swordsman.
He would be the best left-handed swordsman there ever was.
And he would never compromise again.