19; touken ranbu; but this is not the beginning; chapter one
but this is not the beginning | chapter one | t for violence
mikazuki/tsurumaru
2.3k words
in-progress
chapters will be posted every other sunday. ao3 mirror available here. cover art for this chapter can be viewed here.
Tsurumaru, even corrupted, is the right person. Mikazuki rescues him and comes to love the wrong words. They tell each other a story of devotion and redemption, but it’s in the silences that they destroy each other.
but this is not the beginning
Mikazuki finds him alone on the porch by the inner citadel, leg folded up to his chest, knee tucked under his chin. Moon-viewing festivities echo from some corner of the world, and here they are on the opposite end. There’s nothing new about the heavens, nor any change in the positions of the stars, but this man, with a coat of white down, ashen hair and eyes like suns-Mikazuki doesn’t know him.
“May I?” Mikazuki asks, gesturing to the space by the man’s side.
All he receives in response is a short, abortive nod.
It gives Mikazuki pause, but there’s no hostile line in the other man’s body, no rigid angle of discomfort. Instead, a melancholy curve to his entirety, bracing inward for impact.
Those fragile lines, that seamless white-and oh, what a man, wearing the most vulnerable of colors on the battlefield. Mikazuki wants to speak, even it feels as if his very breaths will cause a crack, but he’s beaten to it by a wry chuckle.
“So, what do you think?” The other man tips his head forward, a small gesture to the heavens. “Of the light.”
To that one word, the response flows from Mikazuki’s lips almost unbidden, and he smiles because the syllables ring so solidly in him that they must be true. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? This light from so far away-that there is something in us that keeps such a thing from passing through.”
Then their eyes meet, and Mikazuki thinks of this: a door once tightly shut, opening to let the morning through. A quiet room finally illuminated from the inside-out. The first hesitant whisper, a destroyed void, and dust taking flight, turning into the smallest fireflies.
Their gazes hold for a brief moment, and then the other man turns away.
“Excuse my manners,” Mikazuki says, once he remembers to speak. “I am Mikazuki Munechika, of the Sanjou school of swords.” He notes the familiar arc of the man’s sheathed blade and smiles. “You must be…”
But this is not the beginning.
The saniwa rests Horikawa’s scabbard on the shorter mount, hands briefly lingering on its worn surface before drawing away. Maybe it follows that the longer mount is for Izuminokami, but the saniwa only whispers a goodbye into that space before turning to leave.
It’s no funeral; while Horikawa left something behind, nothing of Izuminokami remained, and if they couldn’t be buried together then there would be no burying at all.
“Come,” the saniwa says, turning around. Though he takes a step forward, he only stands there in the middle of the room, feet submerged in a puddle of light. Morning streams in from the window on the farthest wall of the room, and just with those, the scabbard and the mount and the sunbeams, the room already feels full.
Waiting by the doorway, Mikazuki follows the bright lines cut into the room. His gaze starts from the tatami mats and heads for the sun. Finally, the saniwa begins to walk away, but Mikazuki’s eyes catch on something just beneath the windowsill: another mounted scabbard, nearly invisible in the grey of morning shade.
Long; much more so than a wakizashi, but certainly not an oodachi. Ornate metal fittings of black and gold curl around its ends. Two thin golden chains hang limp from its side, and the entirety of its length is the white of old bone: cracked, worn.
None of these things matter.
Mikazuki cocks his head as the saniwa meets his gaze, and then he turns back to the scabbard, all in silent question. Before he realizes it, he’s already in front of the window, hand dipped into the scabbard’s surrounding shadows. He wants to touch, to know, but in that instant he met the saniwa’s eyes he found only a half-buried plea-and if the plea is his master’s, then Mikazuki will answer, even if the answer must be nothing at all.
He runs his hand by the scabbard’s length, fingertips a hair’s breadth from its surface. Once they reach the empty space where a blade is supposed to be, Mikazuki finally draws away to follow the saniwa out the door.
“He’s not the first,” Kogitsunemaru says, while Mikazuki is in the midst of updating the records.
It takes Mikazuki a while to understand. That Izuminokami and Horikawa, the first two losses under his watch as lieutenant, are not the first comrades they’ve lost-it’s no surprise. War misplaces things, non-living or living or dead. No pattern to it but for the constancy of consequences.
But the thing is, “That is strange,” Mikazuki answers, continuing his written account of the battle at Ikedaya. Deployed two wakizashi, three tachi, one oodachi. Lost one tachi: Izuminokami Kanesada… “On the record, no other swords have a date of death. Izuminokami’s is the first.”
Kogitsunemaru blinks. “Did you add one for Horikawa, too? A date of death?”
…and one wakizashi: Horikawa Kunihiro… “Of course.”
“Did Mitsutada tell you what happened?”
“It seemed that he needed more time to recover, so Taroutachi gave me the report instead.”
Kogitsunemaru shakes his head, stretches to his feet to rifle through the record books on the shelf at Mikazuki’s side. “Mitsutada’s the only one of us who’s seen both incidents. Unlucky of him, really.”
…who left behind his scabbard. Mikazuki puts his brush down. “Ah, so you mean to say that a sword has been broken before?”
“No, Izuminokami’s the first.” Kogitsunemaru looks up from the book in his hands, and this time his gaze is nearly pitying. “I meant that Horikawa isn’t the first of us to be corrupted.”
An excerpt from Taroutachi’s report:
…bridge began to burn, so Shokudaikiri, Izuminokami, and Horikawa split off towards it to prevent further damage. I am not certain about the sequence of the following events, but I believe Izuminokami broke in the middle of battle, and Horikawa dove into the fire soon after to retrieve the pieces of his blade. The flames then took on an unearthly shade of red. Note that this is only a theory, based on the scene we came upon once we had regrouped: red fire on the pieces of the fallen bridge, and then Shokudaikiri silently kneeling a distance from the bank, Horikawa’s scabbard at his side. I could not hear what he was saying…
As the saniwa repairs Mitsutada’s blade, Mikazuki tends to Mitsutada’s wounds. Washing off blood, dressing wounds; everything is a formality.
“How are you?” Mikazuki asks, as he unwraps a bloodied bandage from around Mitsutada’s shoulder.
Behind them, the sharp clang of metal being straightened-the unnatural bend to Mitsutada’s bruised wrist ever so slightly fixes itself. Mitsutada flinches. “I’m alright,” is what he says anyway, smile crooked.
With his own small smile, Mikazuki replies, “That’s the spirit.” He runs water warmed by the nearby forge over Mitsutada’s wounds and pats his skin down to dry. “If it’s alright with you, I would like to ask for more details.”
Mitsutada’s gaze flickers, twitching away and quickly returning. “It’s alright. I’m sorry Taroutachi had to report in my stead; I was the one leading the company, after all.”
At that, Mikazuki only shakes his head. “Let yourself rest.”
“…So-”
Mitsutada’s shoulder, fallen at an angle, cracks itself back into place. Beads of sweat gather and fall from his chin.
“-what did you want to learn more about?”
Mikazuki winds a new bandage around Mitsutada’s shoulder, if only to help him imagine away the pain. “Who was the one before Horikawa?”
They lead the horses into a slow trot towards Kyoto.
“It’s rare to see you on expeditions these days,” Uguisumaru says, gaze on the map in his hands. Their objectives for today are raw metal and a general check-up of the city. It feels strange to go there now, knowing what happened, and the trading post isn’t even inside Kyoto proper, but they are only doing what they always do, and Mikazuki has a goal.
“A break from my duties as lieutenant is necessary, every once in a while.” Mikazuki laughs, casting his gaze over the horizon. The forest along the path isn’t dense, but it’s deep and quiet, the shadows cast by trees looming like old walls. “I’m certain Hasebe doesn’t feel all too bad about the position, either.”
“I can’t tell if you’re teasing him or being kind to him.” Uguisumaru slants him a smile, but his bright gaze lingers. “If you’re as I know you, however, you wouldn’t have done anything that required taking care of horses.”
“I’ve come to like them. It’s hard to dislike such gentle creatures for long.” A vivid red flickers from between the distant trees. Mikazuki angles himself towards it, feels the red of his own blood thrum in response. “Ah, are there any shrines in this area?”
In the long moment Uguisumaru spends looking at him, Nikkari retrieves his own map and answers. “Fujimori Shrine is nearby.”
“Oh! Is that it?” Akita points to a flight of stone steps cutting across the grove, still a fair distance away. He turns to Mikazuki and pleads with his widest eyes, “I’ve never gotten a fortune from a shrine before…”
Mikazuki nods. “Then we’ll go. I have something I’d like to pray for, myself.” He eases his horse faster down the path, and Akita cheers from somewhere behind him.
It takes only a few minutes to reach the base of the stairs, and they’ve all already dismounted from their horses when Uguisumaru finally speaks. “It’s never been in you to want so strongly.” He accepts the reins of Mikazuki’s horse as Mikazuki hands them to him. “What are you searching for?”
Akita is already halfway up the steps to the shrine, a harried Yamanbagiri chasing after him. To the side of the path, Nikkari and Jiroutachi are taking an inventory of their supplies, horses grazing an arm’s length behind them.
“Never?” Mikazuki hums. “Weren’t we all young and longing once?” He runs a hand through Matsukaze’s mane and chuckles as he turns away. “I’m only looking for something lost.”
In the intense light of the forging fire, Mitsutada’s yellow eye becomes dull.
“I thought you were going to ask about Horikawa himself,” Mitsutada says. A laugh rattles from inside him and falls flat, the invisible weight of it dragging him down.
The hairs on Mikazuki’s nape stand, but he keeps his tone light. “I suppose I’m killing two birds with one stone.”
Another clang rings off the walls, reverberating into the space of their lungs. “Funny you mention birds,” Mitsutada says. His shoulders straighten but his back curls into itself like a leaf, and altogether he only looks more brittle than before. “He was someone I knew from my time with the Oda clan. I don’t know much about him since he didn’t stay for very long, but I know he was forged in the Heian era. Lost several masters to war, too.”
Here, the motive.
“And his corruption?”
After a pause, Mitsutada answers. “It was during the Genko War campaign. He disappeared midway through the Siege of Kamakura.” Clang, clang, like approaching footsteps. “He wasn’t visibly corrupted before we began, but I can’t be sure if he was still himself then. It’s hard to completely avoid killing humans in the midst of battle but he was sweeping so viciously through the throng-I don’t think he was even trying to hold back.”
Mikazuki thinks of it, that bone white scabbard spattered with blood. Unconsciously searching, he turns to the window, and finds only night on the other side.
Mitsutada shrugs his shoulders, the gesture empty. “We managed to prevent the revisionists from interfering with Nitta Yoshisada’s siege, and we found him again once we reached Toushou Temple. But he just… began to rot.”
Akita freezes at the top of the stairs, his laughter dying right in his throat.
Behind him, Yamanbagiri’s hurried steps begin to hesitate. “Akita?”
Steadily, Mikazuki trails after them. He tilts his head towards the noontime sun, obscured by the torii gates along the stairs. Like this, he smells it, the threat of summer rain, the aroma of hydrangeas and burnt bone, and he knows. The electric crackle of unholy fire echoes from inside the shrine and he knows. This is what he has been looking for.
Here-not the criminal, because no one is at fault. Here, all only unfortunate: the crime.
Mikazuki finally catches up to them, and he nudges Akita behind him as he steps to the forefront. There, at the end of the path, flanked by stone lions and kneeling among the shrine’s shadows, Mikazuki finds him.
“He tried to destroy Nitta’s forces, but we managed to stop him. We lost more than half our troops in the process, though. Then he disappeared.”
“His name?”
The physical pain of it is visible on Mitsutada’s face; his eyebrows draw together, and his mouth twists. He answers.
Him, the missing blade, the distant shadow. A tattered coat of down decaying into soot, arcing downwards from his back like wings. Dark red flames trickle out of his eyes, cloud around him in a bright fog-the still, regal figure of a crane, left in a shrine to decay.
After a brief prayer to the gods, Mikazuki begins walking forward. “I cannot purify you. For that, I can only apologize.” He moves past rows of stone lanterns and draws his blade. “But if you will allow me, I will bring you back, Tsurumaru Kuninaga.”
Tsurumaru, motionless all this time, finally opens his eyes. He stands, arms limp at his sides, and moves.
- masterlist + requests - watch - join -
- Fujimori Shrine (藤森神社) is currently located in Fushimi-ku, Kyoto (Ikedaya Inn is also in the city). Tsurumaru came to stay there some time after the Battle of Sekigahara in 1600 before he was found by the Honami (本阿弥) clan of sword polishers.
- Toushou Temple (東勝寺) is the Hojo family temple, which is in Kamakura.
- Tsurumaru stayed with the Hojo clan until its annihilation in the 1333 Siege of Kamakura (which happens to be 5-1 in-game), the last battle of the Genko War. This battle ended the power of the Hojo clan, who were at the time the regents for the shogunate. Nitta Yoshisada (新田 義貞) was a supporter of Emperor Go-Daigo; it was under his lead that the Imperial forces defeated the Hojo clan.
thank you for reading! leave a comment? <3
mikazuki/tsurumaru
2.3k words
in-progress
chapters will be posted every other sunday. ao3 mirror available here. cover art for this chapter can be viewed here.
Tsurumaru, even corrupted, is the right person. Mikazuki rescues him and comes to love the wrong words. They tell each other a story of devotion and redemption, but it’s in the silences that they destroy each other.
but this is not the beginning
Mikazuki finds him alone on the porch by the inner citadel, leg folded up to his chest, knee tucked under his chin. Moon-viewing festivities echo from some corner of the world, and here they are on the opposite end. There’s nothing new about the heavens, nor any change in the positions of the stars, but this man, with a coat of white down, ashen hair and eyes like suns-Mikazuki doesn’t know him.
“May I?” Mikazuki asks, gesturing to the space by the man’s side.
All he receives in response is a short, abortive nod.
It gives Mikazuki pause, but there’s no hostile line in the other man’s body, no rigid angle of discomfort. Instead, a melancholy curve to his entirety, bracing inward for impact.
Those fragile lines, that seamless white-and oh, what a man, wearing the most vulnerable of colors on the battlefield. Mikazuki wants to speak, even it feels as if his very breaths will cause a crack, but he’s beaten to it by a wry chuckle.
“So, what do you think?” The other man tips his head forward, a small gesture to the heavens. “Of the light.”
To that one word, the response flows from Mikazuki’s lips almost unbidden, and he smiles because the syllables ring so solidly in him that they must be true. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? This light from so far away-that there is something in us that keeps such a thing from passing through.”
Then their eyes meet, and Mikazuki thinks of this: a door once tightly shut, opening to let the morning through. A quiet room finally illuminated from the inside-out. The first hesitant whisper, a destroyed void, and dust taking flight, turning into the smallest fireflies.
Their gazes hold for a brief moment, and then the other man turns away.
“Excuse my manners,” Mikazuki says, once he remembers to speak. “I am Mikazuki Munechika, of the Sanjou school of swords.” He notes the familiar arc of the man’s sheathed blade and smiles. “You must be…”
But this is not the beginning.
The saniwa rests Horikawa’s scabbard on the shorter mount, hands briefly lingering on its worn surface before drawing away. Maybe it follows that the longer mount is for Izuminokami, but the saniwa only whispers a goodbye into that space before turning to leave.
It’s no funeral; while Horikawa left something behind, nothing of Izuminokami remained, and if they couldn’t be buried together then there would be no burying at all.
“Come,” the saniwa says, turning around. Though he takes a step forward, he only stands there in the middle of the room, feet submerged in a puddle of light. Morning streams in from the window on the farthest wall of the room, and just with those, the scabbard and the mount and the sunbeams, the room already feels full.
Waiting by the doorway, Mikazuki follows the bright lines cut into the room. His gaze starts from the tatami mats and heads for the sun. Finally, the saniwa begins to walk away, but Mikazuki’s eyes catch on something just beneath the windowsill: another mounted scabbard, nearly invisible in the grey of morning shade.
Long; much more so than a wakizashi, but certainly not an oodachi. Ornate metal fittings of black and gold curl around its ends. Two thin golden chains hang limp from its side, and the entirety of its length is the white of old bone: cracked, worn.
None of these things matter.
Mikazuki cocks his head as the saniwa meets his gaze, and then he turns back to the scabbard, all in silent question. Before he realizes it, he’s already in front of the window, hand dipped into the scabbard’s surrounding shadows. He wants to touch, to know, but in that instant he met the saniwa’s eyes he found only a half-buried plea-and if the plea is his master’s, then Mikazuki will answer, even if the answer must be nothing at all.
He runs his hand by the scabbard’s length, fingertips a hair’s breadth from its surface. Once they reach the empty space where a blade is supposed to be, Mikazuki finally draws away to follow the saniwa out the door.
“He’s not the first,” Kogitsunemaru says, while Mikazuki is in the midst of updating the records.
It takes Mikazuki a while to understand. That Izuminokami and Horikawa, the first two losses under his watch as lieutenant, are not the first comrades they’ve lost-it’s no surprise. War misplaces things, non-living or living or dead. No pattern to it but for the constancy of consequences.
But the thing is, “That is strange,” Mikazuki answers, continuing his written account of the battle at Ikedaya. Deployed two wakizashi, three tachi, one oodachi. Lost one tachi: Izuminokami Kanesada… “On the record, no other swords have a date of death. Izuminokami’s is the first.”
Kogitsunemaru blinks. “Did you add one for Horikawa, too? A date of death?”
…and one wakizashi: Horikawa Kunihiro… “Of course.”
“Did Mitsutada tell you what happened?”
“It seemed that he needed more time to recover, so Taroutachi gave me the report instead.”
Kogitsunemaru shakes his head, stretches to his feet to rifle through the record books on the shelf at Mikazuki’s side. “Mitsutada’s the only one of us who’s seen both incidents. Unlucky of him, really.”
…who left behind his scabbard. Mikazuki puts his brush down. “Ah, so you mean to say that a sword has been broken before?”
“No, Izuminokami’s the first.” Kogitsunemaru looks up from the book in his hands, and this time his gaze is nearly pitying. “I meant that Horikawa isn’t the first of us to be corrupted.”
An excerpt from Taroutachi’s report:
…bridge began to burn, so Shokudaikiri, Izuminokami, and Horikawa split off towards it to prevent further damage. I am not certain about the sequence of the following events, but I believe Izuminokami broke in the middle of battle, and Horikawa dove into the fire soon after to retrieve the pieces of his blade. The flames then took on an unearthly shade of red. Note that this is only a theory, based on the scene we came upon once we had regrouped: red fire on the pieces of the fallen bridge, and then Shokudaikiri silently kneeling a distance from the bank, Horikawa’s scabbard at his side. I could not hear what he was saying…
As the saniwa repairs Mitsutada’s blade, Mikazuki tends to Mitsutada’s wounds. Washing off blood, dressing wounds; everything is a formality.
“How are you?” Mikazuki asks, as he unwraps a bloodied bandage from around Mitsutada’s shoulder.
Behind them, the sharp clang of metal being straightened-the unnatural bend to Mitsutada’s bruised wrist ever so slightly fixes itself. Mitsutada flinches. “I’m alright,” is what he says anyway, smile crooked.
With his own small smile, Mikazuki replies, “That’s the spirit.” He runs water warmed by the nearby forge over Mitsutada’s wounds and pats his skin down to dry. “If it’s alright with you, I would like to ask for more details.”
Mitsutada’s gaze flickers, twitching away and quickly returning. “It’s alright. I’m sorry Taroutachi had to report in my stead; I was the one leading the company, after all.”
At that, Mikazuki only shakes his head. “Let yourself rest.”
“…So-”
Mitsutada’s shoulder, fallen at an angle, cracks itself back into place. Beads of sweat gather and fall from his chin.
“-what did you want to learn more about?”
Mikazuki winds a new bandage around Mitsutada’s shoulder, if only to help him imagine away the pain. “Who was the one before Horikawa?”
They lead the horses into a slow trot towards Kyoto.
“It’s rare to see you on expeditions these days,” Uguisumaru says, gaze on the map in his hands. Their objectives for today are raw metal and a general check-up of the city. It feels strange to go there now, knowing what happened, and the trading post isn’t even inside Kyoto proper, but they are only doing what they always do, and Mikazuki has a goal.
“A break from my duties as lieutenant is necessary, every once in a while.” Mikazuki laughs, casting his gaze over the horizon. The forest along the path isn’t dense, but it’s deep and quiet, the shadows cast by trees looming like old walls. “I’m certain Hasebe doesn’t feel all too bad about the position, either.”
“I can’t tell if you’re teasing him or being kind to him.” Uguisumaru slants him a smile, but his bright gaze lingers. “If you’re as I know you, however, you wouldn’t have done anything that required taking care of horses.”
“I’ve come to like them. It’s hard to dislike such gentle creatures for long.” A vivid red flickers from between the distant trees. Mikazuki angles himself towards it, feels the red of his own blood thrum in response. “Ah, are there any shrines in this area?”
In the long moment Uguisumaru spends looking at him, Nikkari retrieves his own map and answers. “Fujimori Shrine is nearby.”
“Oh! Is that it?” Akita points to a flight of stone steps cutting across the grove, still a fair distance away. He turns to Mikazuki and pleads with his widest eyes, “I’ve never gotten a fortune from a shrine before…”
Mikazuki nods. “Then we’ll go. I have something I’d like to pray for, myself.” He eases his horse faster down the path, and Akita cheers from somewhere behind him.
It takes only a few minutes to reach the base of the stairs, and they’ve all already dismounted from their horses when Uguisumaru finally speaks. “It’s never been in you to want so strongly.” He accepts the reins of Mikazuki’s horse as Mikazuki hands them to him. “What are you searching for?”
Akita is already halfway up the steps to the shrine, a harried Yamanbagiri chasing after him. To the side of the path, Nikkari and Jiroutachi are taking an inventory of their supplies, horses grazing an arm’s length behind them.
“Never?” Mikazuki hums. “Weren’t we all young and longing once?” He runs a hand through Matsukaze’s mane and chuckles as he turns away. “I’m only looking for something lost.”
In the intense light of the forging fire, Mitsutada’s yellow eye becomes dull.
“I thought you were going to ask about Horikawa himself,” Mitsutada says. A laugh rattles from inside him and falls flat, the invisible weight of it dragging him down.
The hairs on Mikazuki’s nape stand, but he keeps his tone light. “I suppose I’m killing two birds with one stone.”
Another clang rings off the walls, reverberating into the space of their lungs. “Funny you mention birds,” Mitsutada says. His shoulders straighten but his back curls into itself like a leaf, and altogether he only looks more brittle than before. “He was someone I knew from my time with the Oda clan. I don’t know much about him since he didn’t stay for very long, but I know he was forged in the Heian era. Lost several masters to war, too.”
Here, the motive.
“And his corruption?”
After a pause, Mitsutada answers. “It was during the Genko War campaign. He disappeared midway through the Siege of Kamakura.” Clang, clang, like approaching footsteps. “He wasn’t visibly corrupted before we began, but I can’t be sure if he was still himself then. It’s hard to completely avoid killing humans in the midst of battle but he was sweeping so viciously through the throng-I don’t think he was even trying to hold back.”
Mikazuki thinks of it, that bone white scabbard spattered with blood. Unconsciously searching, he turns to the window, and finds only night on the other side.
Mitsutada shrugs his shoulders, the gesture empty. “We managed to prevent the revisionists from interfering with Nitta Yoshisada’s siege, and we found him again once we reached Toushou Temple. But he just… began to rot.”
Akita freezes at the top of the stairs, his laughter dying right in his throat.
Behind him, Yamanbagiri’s hurried steps begin to hesitate. “Akita?”
Steadily, Mikazuki trails after them. He tilts his head towards the noontime sun, obscured by the torii gates along the stairs. Like this, he smells it, the threat of summer rain, the aroma of hydrangeas and burnt bone, and he knows. The electric crackle of unholy fire echoes from inside the shrine and he knows. This is what he has been looking for.
Here-not the criminal, because no one is at fault. Here, all only unfortunate: the crime.
Mikazuki finally catches up to them, and he nudges Akita behind him as he steps to the forefront. There, at the end of the path, flanked by stone lions and kneeling among the shrine’s shadows, Mikazuki finds him.
“He tried to destroy Nitta’s forces, but we managed to stop him. We lost more than half our troops in the process, though. Then he disappeared.”
“His name?”
The physical pain of it is visible on Mitsutada’s face; his eyebrows draw together, and his mouth twists. He answers.
Him, the missing blade, the distant shadow. A tattered coat of down decaying into soot, arcing downwards from his back like wings. Dark red flames trickle out of his eyes, cloud around him in a bright fog-the still, regal figure of a crane, left in a shrine to decay.
After a brief prayer to the gods, Mikazuki begins walking forward. “I cannot purify you. For that, I can only apologize.” He moves past rows of stone lanterns and draws his blade. “But if you will allow me, I will bring you back, Tsurumaru Kuninaga.”
Tsurumaru, motionless all this time, finally opens his eyes. He stands, arms limp at his sides, and moves.
- masterlist + requests - watch - join -
- Fujimori Shrine (藤森神社) is currently located in Fushimi-ku, Kyoto (Ikedaya Inn is also in the city). Tsurumaru came to stay there some time after the Battle of Sekigahara in 1600 before he was found by the Honami (本阿弥) clan of sword polishers.
- Toushou Temple (東勝寺) is the Hojo family temple, which is in Kamakura.
- Tsurumaru stayed with the Hojo clan until its annihilation in the 1333 Siege of Kamakura (which happens to be 5-1 in-game), the last battle of the Genko War. This battle ended the power of the Hojo clan, who were at the time the regents for the shogunate. Nitta Yoshisada (新田 義貞) was a supporter of Emperor Go-Daigo; it was under his lead that the Imperial forces defeated the Hojo clan.
thank you for reading! leave a comment? <3