Chapter Text
“Marco! Get back here, you forgot somethin’!” Maffeo’s voice echoed across the docks as he cupped his hands around his mouth, trying to shout over the sounds of creaking wood, gulls, and sailors hauling ropes.
Marco Polo barely turned his head. “Pfff! Whatever you say, geezer! I’ll figure it out!”
The young traveler laughed loudly, waving dismissively as the ship’s anchor was hauled up. The thick chains rattled and scraped against the hull as the vessel slowly drifted away from the harbor. Marco leaned against the rail, the salty wind tugging at his hair and clothes.
On Marco Polo’s travels, there was always something… strange about his adventures.
Despite his reputation as a brilliant linguist and traveler, trouble seemed to follow him like an overly loyal dog. He'd always get himself into stupid situations that normal people would avoid. His intelligence helped him out of most situations—but it certainly didn’t stop him from stumbling into them in the first place.
A sudden gust of wind whipped across the deck. Marco Polo instinctively placed a hand on the ships’ railings. Whistling, on another adventure as always.
Something light fluttered through the air.
Before Marco could react, a worn sheet of paper smacked directly against his face.
“…Mmf—!” He pulled it off, squinting at it with mild annoyance before curiosity quickly replaced the irritation.
The paper was old—slightly crinkled, the ink faded in some places. It had clearly traveled far. Marco held it carefully with both hands, smoothing it out against the railing.
Lines of carefully written characters stared back at him.
A poem…?
More specifically… a haiku. A Japanese haiku.
Marco cleared his throat dramatically, as if he were performing before an audience rather than standing alone on a ship deck.
He read it aloud, slowly.
The imagery was delicate… As if directed to somebody he hadn't known. This was clearly of importance!
The imagery was gentle yet vivid—autumn winds whispering through falling petals, a quiet sense of longing lingering beneath the words. It felt almost like a message meant for someone far away. Marco Polo tilted his head ever so slightly.
“…Huh.” For such a small poem, it carried an unexpected weight. The kind that lingered quietly in the chest.
His eyes moved toward the bottom of the page.
A signature.
“Tachibana Ukyo.”
Marco tapped his foot thoughtfully against the deck. The name sounded distinctly Japanese. He tilted the paper slightly, rereading the poem again.
“…Yeah, this definitely wasn’t meant to end up stuck to my face.” He snickered to himself.
Despite his reputation for carelessness (yet smart nature), Marco wasn’t the type to keep something that obviously belonged to someone else—especially something as personal as poetry. With that same impulsive nature that guided most of his travels, Marco made his decision.
“Well,” he said casually to no one in particular, folding the paper and slipping it into his coat, “guess I’m heading east.”
Weeks later, Marco Polo found himself stepping onto unfamiliar soil.
Japan.
More specifically—one of its quieter, more isolated regions.
The air smelled different here. Crisp... Almost sweet with the scent of trees and distant water. Traditional buildings lined the roads, their curved rooftops and wooden frames completely unlike the stone cities Marco was used to.
Tall trees arched overhead, their branches weaving together to form a thick canopy that softened the sunlight into scattered golden patches across the ground. The quiet here felt almost unnatural.
And yet, despite the change in scenery…
His search was going nowhere.
“Excuse me! Do you know someone named Tachibana Ukyo?”
Another shopkeeper shook their head politely.
“No? Hmm… thanks anyway!”
Marco stepped back out into the street, scratching the back of his head.
“I swear, finding one guy in this country is harder than finding a needle in a haystack…”
He wandered from shop to shop, repeating the same question. Most people only gave confused looks or polite shrugs.
Eventually, as Marco turned to leave one small roadside stall, the elderly vendor hesitated.
“…Tachibana…?”
Marco perked up instantly.
“Yes! That’s the name!”
The vendor slowly raised a finger and pointed toward the outskirts of the village.
“There is… a dojo. In the forest. People say a samurai lives there.”
Marco’s grin spread wide.
“Well that sounds promising.”
Dry leaves crunched beneath Marco’s boots as he walked deeper into the forest.
Tall trees arched overhead, their branches weaving together to form a canopy that filtered the sunlight into soft golden patches. The quiet here was almost unnaturally calm.
Marco whistled softly to himself, pulling the folded poem from his coat.
Even now, he still found himself rereading it.
The metaphors were simple—but intentional. Each word felt chosen carefully, like brush strokes in a painting.
Whoever wrote this clearly cared about poetry.
And as someone who appreciated language and expression, Marco found that admirable.
Eventually, the trees thinned.
A single traditional house stood quietly in the clearing.
Next to it was a small dojo. “So this must be the place.”
Marco approached casually, entirely unaware—or unconcerned—about proper etiquette. He walked straight up to the sliding door and knocked on it with the back of his knuckles.
“Hello? Anyone home?” For a moment, nothing happened.
Then,
A faint cough echoed from inside. The soft sound of sliding wood followed as the door slowly opened.
Standing in the doorway was a tall figure with long blue hair that flowed past his shoulders. His expression was calm, but pale—almost fragile.
Marco immediately raised the piece of paper like a trophy. “Found this!”
Ukyo’s hand instinctively moved toward the scabbard at his side. A trained reaction.
But the moment his eyes landed on the paper, his movement froze.
“…Eh?”
His gaze sharpened slightly. “How do you—”
Ukyo began speaking in Japanese, his tone cautious.
“…You foreigners wouldn’t know what—”
“I can speak Japanese too, Mr. Tachibana!” Marco interrupted cheerfully.
Ukyo blinked. Once, then twice.
“…You can.”
Marco puffed his chest slightly, looking proud of himself. “Perks of being a polyglot.”
Ukyo studied him for a moment, his eyes narrowing just slightly—not in hostility, but curiosity.
“…Why did you come all the way here just to return the poem?” Ukyo asked.
Marco shrugged. “I don’t like stealing stuff.”
He gently waved the paper. “And it sounded important.”
Ukyo looked at the page quietly. “It’s just words on paper. It had no sentimental value to you.”
His voice was calm—but distant, Ukyo states: “How shallow is your dedication?”
Marco tilted his head. Then he shook it.
“Wrong.”
Ukyo raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Words have meaning,” Marco continued, tapping the paper lightly. “And people who think otherwise make the entire world dull and without meaning.”
Silence settled briefly between them. Ukyo stared at him. Then, unexpectedly—
A faint smile appeared. “…I’m surprised someone like you is an enthusiast for poetry.”
Marco grinned.
“Do you… make some yourself?” Ukyo asked.
“Of course I do!” Marco said proudly. “Poetry is how someone expresses themselves.”
Ukyo lowered his hand from his sword.
“…Then you and I are alike.”
For the first time since arriving, Marco realized something.
The samurai standing before him looked… tired.
Not weak—but burdened.
And yet, his eyes carried the quiet gentleness of someone who understood beauty in small things.
Marco smiled. “Well, Mr. Tachibana—looks like returning this poem turned into a meeting.”
Ukyo softly closed his eyes for a moment. “…Perhaps it did.”