22; touken ranbu; but this is not the beginning; chapter three
but this is not the beginning | chapter three
t for violence
mikazuki/tsurumaru
4.1k words
in-progress | chapter one | chapter two
ao3 mirror available here. cover art for this chapter can be viewed here. history notes (rather long ones) available at the end of the chapter.
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
The screens are removed from the citadel, and the sliding doors are put back in place. The chime by the saniwa’s room is stored away for next summer.
Seated once more on the veranda, Mikazuki oversees the fieldwork. Tsurumaru, no longer at his side, is tending to the crops with Ookurikara, the two of them crouched over sweet potatoes.
To say that Mikazuki isn’t concerned is a lie; Ookurikara isn’t exactly sociable, and this is Tsurumaru’s first time doing citadel chores since his arrival. But when Ookurikara buries an immature root, murmuring terse instructions as he works, Tsurumaru nods and replies-that he speaks at all is already reassurance.
“You know,” the saniwa begins, suddenly behind him, “I appreciate what you’ve done.”
Mikazuki nearly jolts at the soundless arrival, and a chuckle escapes from him unbidden. The saniwa’s words, however, end with an unspoken ‘but’ that has the hairs on his nape rising. “I did say I would find a way,” Mikazuki responds.
The saniwa smiles meaningfully. “Just wanted to stay that you guys seem too old to be doing the eloping-at-midnight thing.” He lowers to a sit as well and starts lightly kicking his feet. “And you can give Tsurumaru back his scabbard. Just keep an eye on him, as usual.”
Finally speechless, Mikazuki laughs. Tsurumaru’s eyes briefly flicker to the sound before returning to his work.
“Will he be joining the ranks on battles and expeditions?” Mikazuki asks.
The saniwa’s brows tilt down, but he maintains his smile. “Maybe not yet.”
“I see.” And Mikazuki really does. “Then, sparring practice?”
“I’d be fine with that too, I’m sure you know.” With an exasperated sound, the saniwa crosses his arms behind his neck and leans back onto the floor. “It’s not me you should be concerned about.”
Mikazuki thinks of Ookurikara’s watchful gaze, Mitsutada’s hesitant hand. Concern-at least Mikazuki knows he isn’t the only one. “I understand.”
The saniwa glances at Mikazuki before turning onto his side.
Though still discouraged from interaction with most of the other swords, it barely takes time for Tsurumaru to regain his voice.
Mikazuki and Tsurumaru only enter the dining room once it’s been emptied after a meal. Neither punishment nor a security measure, the seclusion is Tsurumaru’s own choice, perhaps out of discomfort with his own corrupted form. Mikazuki gazes at his pristine white and believes it no longer a concern.
Today, as always, the two of them eat alone. Yet Tsurumaru’s words, still soft from disuse, fill the room.
A bite of rice still in his mouth, Tsurumaru asks, “So what were you guys talking about earlier?”
Mikazuki sips on his soup. “When?”
“While I was doing fieldwork with Kurikara.”
The name, though unfamiliar to Mikazuki’s ears, rolls off Tsurumaru’s tongue as if it was always there. “Ah, you refer to my conversation with the saniwa?”
Tsurumaru hums an affirmative and swallows.
With a smile, Mikazuki answers, “You.”
“Me?” The corner of Tsurumaru’s lip twitches. “Have I been good, sir warden?”
The sardonic note gives Mikazuki pause, but he responds with mirth. “You have, which is why we have a surprise for you later.”
Not unkindly, Tsurumaru barks out a laugh. “I look forward to it.”
The meal later ends, and they return to Mikazuki’s room, their light conversation continuing over tea. Eventually the dim firelight hushes them, and once more Tsurumaru finds his perch by the window.
Again, that distant gaze, staring into a scene no one else knows. When Mikazuki calls, Tsurumaru responds with a prompt, inquisitive noise.
Though record books sit on the table before him, Mikazuki forgoes reading them to sit by the window as well. “If I may ask,” he begins, after a beat of silence, “what happened to you before we met at the shrine?”
Tsurumaru turns to him, saying nothing. The shimmer of red in his breath is enough response.
“If you do not want to tell me, it is alright.” Mikazuki smiles and lowers his gaze to the tea in his hands. “I only hope to let you know that I do not have to be a warden, but-”
“It’s fine,” Tsurumaru interjects. He finally takes a sip from the cup sitting at his side. His eyes slowly shut as he drinks, and when he opens them his gaze is clear. “Well, it’s healthier to get it off my chest, right? Just tell me where to start.”
Here-
The battle at Bubaigawara proceeds as history knows it, with Nitta advancing beneath the Imperial wing. Hojo’s forces retreat, a drying tree curling into its very roots. Nitta pursues the trail into Kamakura.
The swords set up camp close to Daibutsu Pass, the midpoint to Nitta’s drives into the city. The scouts regularly come back with no news until Nitta’s main force heads for Inamuragasaki Cape; though Nitta does avoid the Hojo defenses at Gokuraku Pass, the revisionists meet him before he reaches the shore.
Tsurumaru’s blood sings, but he stays silent.
He remembers this day, of course, from his own past. He remembers everything before it; that grave robber of a boy, fourteen and already neck-deep in deaths, then thirty-one and with a son he’d send onto the same path. This son already regent of the clan at eight, never learning how to rule. Then the next regent, and the next, each year counted and every name etched into his bones: Sadatoki, Takatoki, Sadaaki, Moritoki…
He thinks back to this day and remembers Toushouji Temple, a gathering in one of its somber rooms. Imminent, unavoidable defeat for the Hojo. Rushed talk in low voices.
What were they talking about? Tsurumaru can only recall hours, spent sitting at his master’s side while the entire clan waited for the fall. Then Moritoki’s son, such a little thing, born into war-into that quiet room, with his bright, uncomprehending eyes.
“Can we play?” Masutoki had said, his tiny hand finding Tsurumaru’s. And it was always play for him, this boy who smiled at a blade, who caught beetles in the temple gardens while Imperial soldiers closed in from all sides.
This boy who died in a dark, little cave behind the temple, along with the rest of his clan-this clan that left Tsurumaru in a cave which soon smelled of rot.
He remembers lying there for a long time, surrounded by shadows, the warmth of the blood pooled around him fading away. It nearly feels like a coffin until light breaks from the cave’s mouth, and he knows those sounds: fire from a burning temple, and then the approaching noise of soldiers-
Suddenly, light, breaking into the darkness. A hand parting the tent’s entrance and letting the morning through.
It burns into Tsurumaru’s tired eyes; he can’t remember if he’d slept at all. Still, he knows what morning means, and he sits up just as Shokudaikiri peeks in. “Tsurumaru?”
“I’m awake,” Tsurumaru says, stretching to his feet. The cadenced march of the wrong soldiers echoes in his mind. His blood sings once more in response, growing louder with each of his steps, until its melody threatens to destroy the rhythm altogether.
Tsurumaru stands in the garden with his sword and scabbard fastened to his side. Behind him, sparks of autumn begin to light the trees.
“I appreciate the surprise,” Tsurumaru begins, thumb lingering on his scabbard where it meets the hilt. “But I didn’t think you’d just, uh, hand it over to me.”
Seated once more on the veranda, Mikazuki stifles his laughter behind his sleeve. “Would you appreciate something more unexpected, then?”
Tsurumaru looks at him then, and Mikazuki is struck by the image-on the leaves, young gradients from green to orange, and then this same color already alive in Tsurumaru’s eyes. The endless white of a calm, covered sky and then him beneath, with his sheathed blade and mended coat of down. Tsurumaru’s pieces all in the right place. He smiles. “No, this is good.”
Mikazuki forgets his breaths completely.
Tsurumaru holds his gaze for a moment longer before turning away. “You used to be the lieutenant, right?” He draws an imaginary sword and begins going through the motions of battle, but his light strafes and easy parries turn it into a dance. “Until you had to keep an eye on me.”
“Formally, I still am.” Mikazuki clasps his hands together in his lap. “Besides supervising the internal affairs, however, Hasebe has taken over most of my duties.”
“So you can keep an eye on me?” Tsurumaru hums, feet leading into a lunge and parry. “I kind of feel responsible.”
“Don’t be.” Mikazuki smiles, a gesture Tsurumaru only slightly reciprocates. “What makes you think that I don’t enjoy what I am doing now?”
Tsurumaru ends his dance on a slow, quiet step. With a steady sweep of his arm, he returns his invisible blade back to his side. “Sometimes you get this tired, faraway look, like you’d rather be someplace else “
“Do I?” Mikazuki’s response comes without a moment’s thought. “I have no place I would rather be but here.”
Nitta advances through the cape, and at once the city begins to burn.
They wait for his forces to pass before following him into Kamakura. They split into two parties as they enter and lay low for two days, coming to regroup by Jougyou Temple.
“Revisionists are coming from Nagoshi Pass,” Hasebe immediately reports, once he, Ookurikara, and Ishikirimaru arrive. “If they continue at this rate, they’ll be at the Hojo family temple by early morning.”
Tomorrow, the darkness of an absent dawn; one Tsurumaru once waited for. He nods. “Let’s rest up, then. We’ll go intercept them later tonight.”
They squeeze sleep into four restless hours, broken by one hour shifts spent keeping watch. Tsurumaru squanders his chance at rest to listen and lie in wait. The footsteps he wants don’t come for a long while but the light, even crunching of grass jolts him awake; Kasen’s, drawing closer to the tents.
Then soft, brisk strides, accompanied by a familiar clinking of armor-Ookurikara moving to take up the post.
Tsurumaru allows a few minutes of silence before following him outside.
“Yo, Kurikara,” Tsurumaru greets, plopping down on the grass next to him.
Ookurikara, arms crossed and leaning against a tree, only glances at him briefly. “What.”
“Can I ask you a favor?”
Though Ookurikara doesn’t respond, the silence is enough for Tsurumaru to continue. “Could you lead the party, later? For the interception.”
This time, when Ookurikara looks at him, his gaze stays.
“I’ll just check on Shakado Pass,” Tsurumaru explains. It takes effort to keep his voice light “It’s just a bit north of Nagoshi, so there might be revisionists there, too.”
“That’s not safe. We can split up again.”
“It’ll be fine! I’ll just be scouting the area, anyway.”
Ookurikara only glares at him in response.
Tsurumaru tries to smile because he’s not lying. “Come on, Shakado Pass is farther from the temple; if I do find revisionists there, they’d be lesser in number than the contingent coming from Nagoshi.”
Piercing, yellow eyes. “Bring someone with you.”
Again, that song of static. “I can’t.”
Ookurikara’s gaze shines like steel as he rises to his feet. “Tsurumaru,” he calls, the volume of his voice matching Tsurumaru’s own-and when had he gotten so loud?
“Please,” Tsurumaru says, standing as well, lowering his voice once more. His words sound muffled to his own ears, coated with static, and it’s only when he hears the clatter of metal that the weight in his grip registers as a half-drawn blade. His hand trembles as he stops himself. “I have to do this.”
But Ookurikara turns to the side-”Don’t!”
Tsurumaru draws his blade just as Hasebe strikes.
Their swords screech against each other and lock at the hilt. Low, rumbling static from the depths of his lungs-fear cracks across Hasebe’s severe face, and in that moment of weakness, Tsurumaru lands a blow on Hasebe’s chest with the heel of his palm. Hasebe staggers back with a choked groan. Kasen lunges.
But Ishikirimaru is already there, halting Kasen’s blade with his own. His soft voice penetrates all the noise, the song, the marching.
“Let him go. We cannot save him.”
Static.
Tsurumaru searches the forest’s darkness, and he runs into the deepest black he finds.
Mikazuki greets with his usual ‘good morning’, and this time Tsurumaru responds with a snort of laughter. “You don’t have to keep doing that, you know.”
The only response Mikazuki gives to that is a smile, because it’s true that he doesn’t have to.
They reach the dojo to find that sparring hasn’t yet started. Tachi again, today; Mitsutada, Ookurikara, and Ichigo are by the entrance, and Shishou and Akashi have just arrived. Kogitsunemaru, however, is conspicuously absent.
“He doesn’t seem like the type to skip,” Tsurumaru says, glancing around the premises one more time. “Wasn’t Akashi supposed to be the designated bum of this group?”
“I believe Kogitsunemaru will be sparring with the second batch of tachi from now on.”
Tsurumaru tilts his head, but he hums in acknowledgement and says nothing else.
Before practice begins in earnest, the other swords gather by Mikazuki to greet him. Akashi affectionately calls the routine ‘grandpa’s daily tips’; Mikazuki does occasionally give advice, but the gathering is really only an opportunity to chat before training begins in proper.
“How will they spar when they’re just five, though?” Settled on the floor with his legs crossed, Tsurumaru watches the other tachi as they move to the open floor. “One of them sits out, and every fifteen minutes or so they rotate?”
Still standing, Mikazuki taps Tsurumaru’s shoulder. “Why are you sitting here?”
After a mystified glance, Tsurumaru slowly stretches to his feet.
Mikazuki then pats his back. “Now why are you just standing here?”
“Do you want me to do a handstand?”
“Only if you want to.” Mikazuki hides a chuckle behind his sleeve. He turns his eyes to where the tachi are still discussing sparring pairs. “But you shouldn’t keep them waiting.”
Tsurumaru follows his gaze, and Mitsutada nods in their direction, a light smile playing on his lips. As he does so, Ookurikara glances over as well.
“You’re joking,” Tsurumaru says, looking back at Mikazuki with a blink.
No longer stifling his laughter, Mikazuki shakes his head. “I hope this is unexpected enough. Now,” he pats Tsurumaru’s back once more, “go on. Training will soon start without you.”
He hesitates at Tsurumaru’s continued silence, always a beat too long. But soon enough a smile spreads on Tsurumaru’s face, reaching across his entire body; the bounce in his step as he walks away, the hand scratching at his nape, the nervous exhale right before his first hello. Although Shishiou’s smile is tense, he follows it with a welcoming cheer, and the all make up for it.
Mikazuki stays long enough to witness Tsurumaru draw his blade. This time, the arc of his hand is firmer, steadier, and although he no longer radiates light, the soft beams of afternoon stream in from the windows behind him, seemingly lighting him from the inside-out.
Then Tsurumaru charges, his sword meeting one that isn’t Mikazuki’s own. Mikazuki appreciates this dance for only a moment longer, and he leaves.
He spends the rest of the afternoon in the records room, catching up on current affairs. Hasebe’s logs read like notes; concise, nearly emotionless, meant as supplements to a memory. Mikazuki sees his own spoken reports parsed through Hasebe’s tone, and though Mikazuki remembers each episode of Tsurumaru’s gradual return himself, Hasebe forgets to write down the details that make the endeavor worth it-with Tsurumaru’s first reply, embarrassed laughter; with his scabbard, brighter colors.
At some point the words on the page begin to blur together, and Mikazuki has to close his eyes to let them rest. But when he opens them again, everything is draped in shadows, and only then does he realize that night has already fallen around him.
Tsurumaru is already in the dining room when Mikazuki arrives, seated at their usual table, chin resting on his propped up arm. He immediately looks up as Mikazuki enters, straightening in his seat upon recognition.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Mikazuki says, briskly walking over. He lowers to a sit and is relieved to find the rice still steaming; perhaps not that long a wait after all, but nevertheless.
“You left me,” is Tsurumaru’s only reply. Though the words are plaintive, he picks up his chopsticks eagerly, and a glint is bright in his eyes-
Mikazuki stares for a moment longer, and he knows he’s not imagining it; clear, yellow eyes, like the smallest suns.
“And now I have returned,” Mikazuki answers, taking his chopsticks in hand as well. He prompts Tsurumaru with a question about his day, and when Tsurumaru begins with a smile, Mikazuki thinks to himself that maybe Tsurumaru has returned as well.
Tsurumaru’s mind knows the path to Toushouji Temple, but it’s something else that leads him to the cave, hidden away in the forests behind the temple itself. For a delirious moment, he wonders if it’s his heart, longing for that place where it once belonged, but as he staggers down an unlit path of dead leaves and net-like trees he realizes-the shape of this path is a scar, an old fear Tsurumaru once thought healed tearing itself open.
Then, in the air of forest dew and distant smoke, the razor-sharp smell of blood.
As he runs, the pieces of this day all fall into place before him, every sensation playing back as it had happened to him once before: the orange sky spilling into his closed eyes, already too tired to watch what was happening before him. This same metallic tang to the air, filling his every breath.
His owners choosing to disembowel themselves rather than face defeat-and Tsurumaru had thought, back then, that he was lucky to be a tachi, as he sat sheathed at Moritoki’s side and listened to the anguished singing of shorter swords tearing through their own masters’ flesh.
But then he had been drawn from his scabbard, and so forced to open his eyes to a cave full of shadowed bodies. Among them, Moritoki and his son, the last two of the family alive. Tsurumaru himself, a drawn blade, in Moritoki’s hands, as Masutoki hid his face in his own small hands and cried.
Then Moritoki raising a sword against his own son, so that a child wouldn’t have to kill himself.
That was the idea, wasn’t it? A last mercy. It was a death of honor for a child who ran from a burning temple with his family, hoping for the days beyond a war. But what was an honorable death? What would it mean to him, who caught bugs with the spirit of a misplaced sword, who was killed by his father because it was the end of a reign, of control, of a lost struggle of power?
Tsurumaru enters a cave full of shadowed bodies and the spilled orange light of a dying sun.
The next thing he knows, his sword is in his hands, and Moritoki is lying dead at his feet.
A shriek.
That sound-not in his memories.
He turns and sees Masutoki scrambling backwards, his back bumping against his sister’s corpse, orange light from a dying sun and a burning temple streaming in from behind his small, trembling silhouette. All the sensations of this moment, Masutoki’s hoarse screams, fearful, red-rubbed eyes fixed on him-none of it in his memories.
Then a ghost darts between them, coming to stand guard at Masutoki’s side. Tsurumaru looks at that short white hair, those round, weary yellow eyes, and he realizes.
This past will not be his.
“You,” Tsurumaru calls, meeting this young sword’s gaze. “You’re Tsurumaru Kuninaga, right?”
This version of him, face just slightly rounder, coat of down brighter-and what a brilliant white, pristine even in the midst of all this death. Those thin shoulders jolt at the name, and it’s all Tsurumaru needs.
He sheathes his blade and speaks with a small, trembling smile. “You’ll protect him, right?”
This vision of him, braver, fiercer, replies with only a glare, tightening his grip around a sword just like Tsurumaru’s own.
“Go,” Tsurumaru says, jerking his chin to the side, where the cave’s trapped air meets the sky. Through the scream building in his throat, he repeats, “Go.”
A young bird flies past him with a child in its tow.
And this future, too, whatever it may be-brighter or bloodier or completely unchanged-Tsurumaru turns to the heavens and covers his eyes because this future will never be his.
A young sword protecting an even younger child-Mikazuki remembers Namazuo’s cornered glare and wonders how similar it must’ve been to the one in Tsurumaru’s memories.
As if knowing his thoughts, Tsurumaru looks away from the sea spread out before them to send Mikazuki an impish smile.
The first unit welcomes Mikazuki back with a sortie to 1554, upon the saniwa’s detection of disturbances in the history of Oshikibata. The battle between Mori and Sue isn’t until two days away, so they move at a steady pace and set up camp by the shore.
By the saniwa’s terms, Tsurumaru ends up joining the team as well, Kousetsu relinquishing his position with grace for Tsurumaru to take. It isn’t wrong to call this Tsurumaru’s first sortie but his recollections don’t make it right, and if Mikazuki ever thought the anecdotes were lies, then the ease with which Tsurumaru falls into routine with them would’ve convinced him of their truth.
“It’s unfortunate that you couldn’t save your master,” Mikazuki says, the sympathetic words blocky in his throat. “But that you saved at least one life-it’s already an accomplishment.”
“Did it seem like I wanted to save him?” Tsurumaru’s humor takes a wry tone. “Moritoki, I mean.”
Mikazuki blinks. “The clan, then?”
“It’s not that I didn’t want to save them, but-how do I explain…” Tsurumaru hums and turns back to the sea. “I used to feel like a speck of dust, you know? Floating, so small that even light could pass right through me.” Then he tilts his chin ever so slightly upwards, gaze shifting to the clouds. “Then the saniwa found me and I realized that it didn’t have to be that way, because no matter how small we are, there’s always something in us to keep the light from passing through.” He scratches his head. “But I guess putting this way doesn’t make sense, either.”
“Poetic of you, today,” Mikazuki teases, watching the pink of Tsurumaru’s ears turn brighter. Tsurumaru opens his mouth but Mikazuki continues before he can sputter out an explanation. “I believe I understand what you mean.” A light gale rushes in from the ocean, running through their hair. “Though I must admit that I am m more inclined to let things happen as they come. To use your analogy, I would be one of the many specks of dust that give way to let the light reach where it must.”
“Well, neither of us are wrong.” Tsurumaru nods sagely. He turns to Mikazuki after a pause, lightly grinning. “And good things do come to those who wait. I’d know.”
Mikazuki tilts his head at that, but he nods in agreement. When Tsurumaru only continues beaming at him, clearly expectant, Mikazuki finally realizes what he wants and leans in to the mixing of their laughter.
By the time Mikazuki returns to his post, the trees are very nearly bare, and braziers are lit around the citadel.
“I’ll come back with souvenirs,” Tsurumaru says, slipping into his coat. He moves to leave the room, but he pauses in the doorway to quip, “Maybe a hot pack for your aching back, since it’s already getting colder.”
“Do take care of your own joints as well,” Mikazuki says, putting down his brush. He stands and takes one of Tsurumaru’s hands in his, letting the temperatures of their palms mix. “Stay safe.”
“Of course.” Tsurumaru squeezes once before letting go. He smiles at Mikazuki before heading for the stables without another word.
Mikazuki stays standing by the door, even long after the citadel gates groan shut. He thinks to resume writing once he returns inside. But when he looks at the table before him, he finds himself surrounded leaves of meaningless words, and the first brushstroke he makes on page nearly blends into the early morning shadows.
- masterlist + requests - watch - join -
- The battle described in Tsurumaru's flashbacks is the 1333 Siege of Kamakura (鎌倉の戦い), previously mentioned in chapter one. The Siege of Kamakura is estimated to have taken place from May 18-22 (Xuanming calendar). It was preceded by the Battle of Bubaigawara (分倍河原の戦い), which ended only two days before; basically Hojo forces were defeated, so they retreated to Kamakura.
- Kamakura is surrounded by steep hills and a sea, and traditionally it was said that there were only seven entrances into the city (鎌倉七口). Nitta divided his forces into three and tried to enter the city through three passes: Gokuraku Pass, Kewaizaka Pass and the Kamegayatsu Pass (極楽寺切通, 仮粧坂, 亀ケ谷坂). The passes were fortified, however, so he made little progress until he moved around Gokuraku Pass by passing through Inamuragasaki Cape (稲村ケ崎).
- Hojo Sadatoki (北条 貞時) was the boy who took Tsurumaru from the grave of his previous master, also a young boy, who died in the 1285 Shimotsuki Incident (霜月騒動). Hojo Takatoki (北条 高時) is his son, said to have been a bad ruler. He was succeeded by Hojo Sadaaki (北条貞顕) as Hojo regent, and was himself succeeded by Hojo Moritoki (北条守時). Hojo Masutoki (北条益時) is Moritoki's son.
- Facing defeat, the Hojo clan retreated into their family temple, Toushouji (東勝寺), and set the building on fire. It is said that not all of the clan perished there; a distance from the temple is a cave where Takatoki is said to have committed seppuku. Many other caves make similar claims, however; I take advantage of this to invent a story about Masutoki leaving with his family to some other cave lmao.
- Jougyou Temple (上行寺) is a temple on the same side of Namerigawa River (滑川) as Toushouji. Nagoshi and Shakado Passes (名越切通, 釈迦堂切通) are also on this side, but do note that Shakado Pass is not an actual pass into the city; it connects two areas that are fully within the city (aka Tsurumaru pulling from his ass).
- Also people committing seppuku normally have an attendant/second cut their heads off after they stab themselves in the gut with a short sword (like a wakizashi or a tantou).
- On a note unrelated to Tsurumaru's flashbacks, the 1554 Battle of Oshikibata (折敷畑の戦い) was fought between Mori Motonari (毛利 元就) and Sue Harukata (陶 晴賢). Significance? Maybe later. ┐('w`,)┌
thank you for reading! leave a comment? <3
t for violence
mikazuki/tsurumaru
4.1k words
in-progress | chapter one | chapter two
ao3 mirror available here. cover art for this chapter can be viewed here. history notes (rather long ones) available at the end of the chapter.
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
The screens are removed from the citadel, and the sliding doors are put back in place. The chime by the saniwa’s room is stored away for next summer.
Seated once more on the veranda, Mikazuki oversees the fieldwork. Tsurumaru, no longer at his side, is tending to the crops with Ookurikara, the two of them crouched over sweet potatoes.
To say that Mikazuki isn’t concerned is a lie; Ookurikara isn’t exactly sociable, and this is Tsurumaru’s first time doing citadel chores since his arrival. But when Ookurikara buries an immature root, murmuring terse instructions as he works, Tsurumaru nods and replies-that he speaks at all is already reassurance.
“You know,” the saniwa begins, suddenly behind him, “I appreciate what you’ve done.”
Mikazuki nearly jolts at the soundless arrival, and a chuckle escapes from him unbidden. The saniwa’s words, however, end with an unspoken ‘but’ that has the hairs on his nape rising. “I did say I would find a way,” Mikazuki responds.
The saniwa smiles meaningfully. “Just wanted to stay that you guys seem too old to be doing the eloping-at-midnight thing.” He lowers to a sit as well and starts lightly kicking his feet. “And you can give Tsurumaru back his scabbard. Just keep an eye on him, as usual.”
Finally speechless, Mikazuki laughs. Tsurumaru’s eyes briefly flicker to the sound before returning to his work.
“Will he be joining the ranks on battles and expeditions?” Mikazuki asks.
The saniwa’s brows tilt down, but he maintains his smile. “Maybe not yet.”
“I see.” And Mikazuki really does. “Then, sparring practice?”
“I’d be fine with that too, I’m sure you know.” With an exasperated sound, the saniwa crosses his arms behind his neck and leans back onto the floor. “It’s not me you should be concerned about.”
Mikazuki thinks of Ookurikara’s watchful gaze, Mitsutada’s hesitant hand. Concern-at least Mikazuki knows he isn’t the only one. “I understand.”
The saniwa glances at Mikazuki before turning onto his side.
Though still discouraged from interaction with most of the other swords, it barely takes time for Tsurumaru to regain his voice.
Mikazuki and Tsurumaru only enter the dining room once it’s been emptied after a meal. Neither punishment nor a security measure, the seclusion is Tsurumaru’s own choice, perhaps out of discomfort with his own corrupted form. Mikazuki gazes at his pristine white and believes it no longer a concern.
Today, as always, the two of them eat alone. Yet Tsurumaru’s words, still soft from disuse, fill the room.
A bite of rice still in his mouth, Tsurumaru asks, “So what were you guys talking about earlier?”
Mikazuki sips on his soup. “When?”
“While I was doing fieldwork with Kurikara.”
The name, though unfamiliar to Mikazuki’s ears, rolls off Tsurumaru’s tongue as if it was always there. “Ah, you refer to my conversation with the saniwa?”
Tsurumaru hums an affirmative and swallows.
With a smile, Mikazuki answers, “You.”
“Me?” The corner of Tsurumaru’s lip twitches. “Have I been good, sir warden?”
The sardonic note gives Mikazuki pause, but he responds with mirth. “You have, which is why we have a surprise for you later.”
Not unkindly, Tsurumaru barks out a laugh. “I look forward to it.”
The meal later ends, and they return to Mikazuki’s room, their light conversation continuing over tea. Eventually the dim firelight hushes them, and once more Tsurumaru finds his perch by the window.
Again, that distant gaze, staring into a scene no one else knows. When Mikazuki calls, Tsurumaru responds with a prompt, inquisitive noise.
Though record books sit on the table before him, Mikazuki forgoes reading them to sit by the window as well. “If I may ask,” he begins, after a beat of silence, “what happened to you before we met at the shrine?”
Tsurumaru turns to him, saying nothing. The shimmer of red in his breath is enough response.
“If you do not want to tell me, it is alright.” Mikazuki smiles and lowers his gaze to the tea in his hands. “I only hope to let you know that I do not have to be a warden, but-”
“It’s fine,” Tsurumaru interjects. He finally takes a sip from the cup sitting at his side. His eyes slowly shut as he drinks, and when he opens them his gaze is clear. “Well, it’s healthier to get it off my chest, right? Just tell me where to start.”
Here-
The battle at Bubaigawara proceeds as history knows it, with Nitta advancing beneath the Imperial wing. Hojo’s forces retreat, a drying tree curling into its very roots. Nitta pursues the trail into Kamakura.
The swords set up camp close to Daibutsu Pass, the midpoint to Nitta’s drives into the city. The scouts regularly come back with no news until Nitta’s main force heads for Inamuragasaki Cape; though Nitta does avoid the Hojo defenses at Gokuraku Pass, the revisionists meet him before he reaches the shore.
Tsurumaru’s blood sings, but he stays silent.
He remembers this day, of course, from his own past. He remembers everything before it; that grave robber of a boy, fourteen and already neck-deep in deaths, then thirty-one and with a son he’d send onto the same path. This son already regent of the clan at eight, never learning how to rule. Then the next regent, and the next, each year counted and every name etched into his bones: Sadatoki, Takatoki, Sadaaki, Moritoki…
He thinks back to this day and remembers Toushouji Temple, a gathering in one of its somber rooms. Imminent, unavoidable defeat for the Hojo. Rushed talk in low voices.
What were they talking about? Tsurumaru can only recall hours, spent sitting at his master’s side while the entire clan waited for the fall. Then Moritoki’s son, such a little thing, born into war-into that quiet room, with his bright, uncomprehending eyes.
“Can we play?” Masutoki had said, his tiny hand finding Tsurumaru’s. And it was always play for him, this boy who smiled at a blade, who caught beetles in the temple gardens while Imperial soldiers closed in from all sides.
This boy who died in a dark, little cave behind the temple, along with the rest of his clan-this clan that left Tsurumaru in a cave which soon smelled of rot.
He remembers lying there for a long time, surrounded by shadows, the warmth of the blood pooled around him fading away. It nearly feels like a coffin until light breaks from the cave’s mouth, and he knows those sounds: fire from a burning temple, and then the approaching noise of soldiers-
Suddenly, light, breaking into the darkness. A hand parting the tent’s entrance and letting the morning through.
It burns into Tsurumaru’s tired eyes; he can’t remember if he’d slept at all. Still, he knows what morning means, and he sits up just as Shokudaikiri peeks in. “Tsurumaru?”
“I’m awake,” Tsurumaru says, stretching to his feet. The cadenced march of the wrong soldiers echoes in his mind. His blood sings once more in response, growing louder with each of his steps, until its melody threatens to destroy the rhythm altogether.
Tsurumaru stands in the garden with his sword and scabbard fastened to his side. Behind him, sparks of autumn begin to light the trees.
“I appreciate the surprise,” Tsurumaru begins, thumb lingering on his scabbard where it meets the hilt. “But I didn’t think you’d just, uh, hand it over to me.”
Seated once more on the veranda, Mikazuki stifles his laughter behind his sleeve. “Would you appreciate something more unexpected, then?”
Tsurumaru looks at him then, and Mikazuki is struck by the image-on the leaves, young gradients from green to orange, and then this same color already alive in Tsurumaru’s eyes. The endless white of a calm, covered sky and then him beneath, with his sheathed blade and mended coat of down. Tsurumaru’s pieces all in the right place. He smiles. “No, this is good.”
Mikazuki forgets his breaths completely.
Tsurumaru holds his gaze for a moment longer before turning away. “You used to be the lieutenant, right?” He draws an imaginary sword and begins going through the motions of battle, but his light strafes and easy parries turn it into a dance. “Until you had to keep an eye on me.”
“Formally, I still am.” Mikazuki clasps his hands together in his lap. “Besides supervising the internal affairs, however, Hasebe has taken over most of my duties.”
“So you can keep an eye on me?” Tsurumaru hums, feet leading into a lunge and parry. “I kind of feel responsible.”
“Don’t be.” Mikazuki smiles, a gesture Tsurumaru only slightly reciprocates. “What makes you think that I don’t enjoy what I am doing now?”
Tsurumaru ends his dance on a slow, quiet step. With a steady sweep of his arm, he returns his invisible blade back to his side. “Sometimes you get this tired, faraway look, like you’d rather be someplace else “
“Do I?” Mikazuki’s response comes without a moment’s thought. “I have no place I would rather be but here.”
Nitta advances through the cape, and at once the city begins to burn.
They wait for his forces to pass before following him into Kamakura. They split into two parties as they enter and lay low for two days, coming to regroup by Jougyou Temple.
“Revisionists are coming from Nagoshi Pass,” Hasebe immediately reports, once he, Ookurikara, and Ishikirimaru arrive. “If they continue at this rate, they’ll be at the Hojo family temple by early morning.”
Tomorrow, the darkness of an absent dawn; one Tsurumaru once waited for. He nods. “Let’s rest up, then. We’ll go intercept them later tonight.”
They squeeze sleep into four restless hours, broken by one hour shifts spent keeping watch. Tsurumaru squanders his chance at rest to listen and lie in wait. The footsteps he wants don’t come for a long while but the light, even crunching of grass jolts him awake; Kasen’s, drawing closer to the tents.
Then soft, brisk strides, accompanied by a familiar clinking of armor-Ookurikara moving to take up the post.
Tsurumaru allows a few minutes of silence before following him outside.
“Yo, Kurikara,” Tsurumaru greets, plopping down on the grass next to him.
Ookurikara, arms crossed and leaning against a tree, only glances at him briefly. “What.”
“Can I ask you a favor?”
Though Ookurikara doesn’t respond, the silence is enough for Tsurumaru to continue. “Could you lead the party, later? For the interception.”
This time, when Ookurikara looks at him, his gaze stays.
“I’ll just check on Shakado Pass,” Tsurumaru explains. It takes effort to keep his voice light “It’s just a bit north of Nagoshi, so there might be revisionists there, too.”
“That’s not safe. We can split up again.”
“It’ll be fine! I’ll just be scouting the area, anyway.”
Ookurikara only glares at him in response.
Tsurumaru tries to smile because he’s not lying. “Come on, Shakado Pass is farther from the temple; if I do find revisionists there, they’d be lesser in number than the contingent coming from Nagoshi.”
Piercing, yellow eyes. “Bring someone with you.”
Again, that song of static. “I can’t.”
Ookurikara’s gaze shines like steel as he rises to his feet. “Tsurumaru,” he calls, the volume of his voice matching Tsurumaru’s own-and when had he gotten so loud?
“Please,” Tsurumaru says, standing as well, lowering his voice once more. His words sound muffled to his own ears, coated with static, and it’s only when he hears the clatter of metal that the weight in his grip registers as a half-drawn blade. His hand trembles as he stops himself. “I have to do this.”
But Ookurikara turns to the side-”Don’t!”
Tsurumaru draws his blade just as Hasebe strikes.
Their swords screech against each other and lock at the hilt. Low, rumbling static from the depths of his lungs-fear cracks across Hasebe’s severe face, and in that moment of weakness, Tsurumaru lands a blow on Hasebe’s chest with the heel of his palm. Hasebe staggers back with a choked groan. Kasen lunges.
But Ishikirimaru is already there, halting Kasen’s blade with his own. His soft voice penetrates all the noise, the song, the marching.
“Let him go. We cannot save him.”
Static.
Tsurumaru searches the forest’s darkness, and he runs into the deepest black he finds.
Mikazuki greets with his usual ‘good morning’, and this time Tsurumaru responds with a snort of laughter. “You don’t have to keep doing that, you know.”
The only response Mikazuki gives to that is a smile, because it’s true that he doesn’t have to.
They reach the dojo to find that sparring hasn’t yet started. Tachi again, today; Mitsutada, Ookurikara, and Ichigo are by the entrance, and Shishou and Akashi have just arrived. Kogitsunemaru, however, is conspicuously absent.
“He doesn’t seem like the type to skip,” Tsurumaru says, glancing around the premises one more time. “Wasn’t Akashi supposed to be the designated bum of this group?”
“I believe Kogitsunemaru will be sparring with the second batch of tachi from now on.”
Tsurumaru tilts his head, but he hums in acknowledgement and says nothing else.
Before practice begins in earnest, the other swords gather by Mikazuki to greet him. Akashi affectionately calls the routine ‘grandpa’s daily tips’; Mikazuki does occasionally give advice, but the gathering is really only an opportunity to chat before training begins in proper.
“How will they spar when they’re just five, though?” Settled on the floor with his legs crossed, Tsurumaru watches the other tachi as they move to the open floor. “One of them sits out, and every fifteen minutes or so they rotate?”
Still standing, Mikazuki taps Tsurumaru’s shoulder. “Why are you sitting here?”
After a mystified glance, Tsurumaru slowly stretches to his feet.
Mikazuki then pats his back. “Now why are you just standing here?”
“Do you want me to do a handstand?”
“Only if you want to.” Mikazuki hides a chuckle behind his sleeve. He turns his eyes to where the tachi are still discussing sparring pairs. “But you shouldn’t keep them waiting.”
Tsurumaru follows his gaze, and Mitsutada nods in their direction, a light smile playing on his lips. As he does so, Ookurikara glances over as well.
“You’re joking,” Tsurumaru says, looking back at Mikazuki with a blink.
No longer stifling his laughter, Mikazuki shakes his head. “I hope this is unexpected enough. Now,” he pats Tsurumaru’s back once more, “go on. Training will soon start without you.”
He hesitates at Tsurumaru’s continued silence, always a beat too long. But soon enough a smile spreads on Tsurumaru’s face, reaching across his entire body; the bounce in his step as he walks away, the hand scratching at his nape, the nervous exhale right before his first hello. Although Shishiou’s smile is tense, he follows it with a welcoming cheer, and the all make up for it.
Mikazuki stays long enough to witness Tsurumaru draw his blade. This time, the arc of his hand is firmer, steadier, and although he no longer radiates light, the soft beams of afternoon stream in from the windows behind him, seemingly lighting him from the inside-out.
Then Tsurumaru charges, his sword meeting one that isn’t Mikazuki’s own. Mikazuki appreciates this dance for only a moment longer, and he leaves.
He spends the rest of the afternoon in the records room, catching up on current affairs. Hasebe’s logs read like notes; concise, nearly emotionless, meant as supplements to a memory. Mikazuki sees his own spoken reports parsed through Hasebe’s tone, and though Mikazuki remembers each episode of Tsurumaru’s gradual return himself, Hasebe forgets to write down the details that make the endeavor worth it-with Tsurumaru’s first reply, embarrassed laughter; with his scabbard, brighter colors.
At some point the words on the page begin to blur together, and Mikazuki has to close his eyes to let them rest. But when he opens them again, everything is draped in shadows, and only then does he realize that night has already fallen around him.
Tsurumaru is already in the dining room when Mikazuki arrives, seated at their usual table, chin resting on his propped up arm. He immediately looks up as Mikazuki enters, straightening in his seat upon recognition.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Mikazuki says, briskly walking over. He lowers to a sit and is relieved to find the rice still steaming; perhaps not that long a wait after all, but nevertheless.
“You left me,” is Tsurumaru’s only reply. Though the words are plaintive, he picks up his chopsticks eagerly, and a glint is bright in his eyes-
Mikazuki stares for a moment longer, and he knows he’s not imagining it; clear, yellow eyes, like the smallest suns.
“And now I have returned,” Mikazuki answers, taking his chopsticks in hand as well. He prompts Tsurumaru with a question about his day, and when Tsurumaru begins with a smile, Mikazuki thinks to himself that maybe Tsurumaru has returned as well.
Tsurumaru’s mind knows the path to Toushouji Temple, but it’s something else that leads him to the cave, hidden away in the forests behind the temple itself. For a delirious moment, he wonders if it’s his heart, longing for that place where it once belonged, but as he staggers down an unlit path of dead leaves and net-like trees he realizes-the shape of this path is a scar, an old fear Tsurumaru once thought healed tearing itself open.
Then, in the air of forest dew and distant smoke, the razor-sharp smell of blood.
As he runs, the pieces of this day all fall into place before him, every sensation playing back as it had happened to him once before: the orange sky spilling into his closed eyes, already too tired to watch what was happening before him. This same metallic tang to the air, filling his every breath.
His owners choosing to disembowel themselves rather than face defeat-and Tsurumaru had thought, back then, that he was lucky to be a tachi, as he sat sheathed at Moritoki’s side and listened to the anguished singing of shorter swords tearing through their own masters’ flesh.
But then he had been drawn from his scabbard, and so forced to open his eyes to a cave full of shadowed bodies. Among them, Moritoki and his son, the last two of the family alive. Tsurumaru himself, a drawn blade, in Moritoki’s hands, as Masutoki hid his face in his own small hands and cried.
Then Moritoki raising a sword against his own son, so that a child wouldn’t have to kill himself.
That was the idea, wasn’t it? A last mercy. It was a death of honor for a child who ran from a burning temple with his family, hoping for the days beyond a war. But what was an honorable death? What would it mean to him, who caught bugs with the spirit of a misplaced sword, who was killed by his father because it was the end of a reign, of control, of a lost struggle of power?
Tsurumaru enters a cave full of shadowed bodies and the spilled orange light of a dying sun.
The next thing he knows, his sword is in his hands, and Moritoki is lying dead at his feet.
A shriek.
That sound-not in his memories.
He turns and sees Masutoki scrambling backwards, his back bumping against his sister’s corpse, orange light from a dying sun and a burning temple streaming in from behind his small, trembling silhouette. All the sensations of this moment, Masutoki’s hoarse screams, fearful, red-rubbed eyes fixed on him-none of it in his memories.
Then a ghost darts between them, coming to stand guard at Masutoki’s side. Tsurumaru looks at that short white hair, those round, weary yellow eyes, and he realizes.
This past will not be his.
“You,” Tsurumaru calls, meeting this young sword’s gaze. “You’re Tsurumaru Kuninaga, right?”
This version of him, face just slightly rounder, coat of down brighter-and what a brilliant white, pristine even in the midst of all this death. Those thin shoulders jolt at the name, and it’s all Tsurumaru needs.
He sheathes his blade and speaks with a small, trembling smile. “You’ll protect him, right?”
This vision of him, braver, fiercer, replies with only a glare, tightening his grip around a sword just like Tsurumaru’s own.
“Go,” Tsurumaru says, jerking his chin to the side, where the cave’s trapped air meets the sky. Through the scream building in his throat, he repeats, “Go.”
A young bird flies past him with a child in its tow.
And this future, too, whatever it may be-brighter or bloodier or completely unchanged-Tsurumaru turns to the heavens and covers his eyes because this future will never be his.
A young sword protecting an even younger child-Mikazuki remembers Namazuo’s cornered glare and wonders how similar it must’ve been to the one in Tsurumaru’s memories.
As if knowing his thoughts, Tsurumaru looks away from the sea spread out before them to send Mikazuki an impish smile.
The first unit welcomes Mikazuki back with a sortie to 1554, upon the saniwa’s detection of disturbances in the history of Oshikibata. The battle between Mori and Sue isn’t until two days away, so they move at a steady pace and set up camp by the shore.
By the saniwa’s terms, Tsurumaru ends up joining the team as well, Kousetsu relinquishing his position with grace for Tsurumaru to take. It isn’t wrong to call this Tsurumaru’s first sortie but his recollections don’t make it right, and if Mikazuki ever thought the anecdotes were lies, then the ease with which Tsurumaru falls into routine with them would’ve convinced him of their truth.
“It’s unfortunate that you couldn’t save your master,” Mikazuki says, the sympathetic words blocky in his throat. “But that you saved at least one life-it’s already an accomplishment.”
“Did it seem like I wanted to save him?” Tsurumaru’s humor takes a wry tone. “Moritoki, I mean.”
Mikazuki blinks. “The clan, then?”
“It’s not that I didn’t want to save them, but-how do I explain…” Tsurumaru hums and turns back to the sea. “I used to feel like a speck of dust, you know? Floating, so small that even light could pass right through me.” Then he tilts his chin ever so slightly upwards, gaze shifting to the clouds. “Then the saniwa found me and I realized that it didn’t have to be that way, because no matter how small we are, there’s always something in us to keep the light from passing through.” He scratches his head. “But I guess putting this way doesn’t make sense, either.”
“Poetic of you, today,” Mikazuki teases, watching the pink of Tsurumaru’s ears turn brighter. Tsurumaru opens his mouth but Mikazuki continues before he can sputter out an explanation. “I believe I understand what you mean.” A light gale rushes in from the ocean, running through their hair. “Though I must admit that I am m more inclined to let things happen as they come. To use your analogy, I would be one of the many specks of dust that give way to let the light reach where it must.”
“Well, neither of us are wrong.” Tsurumaru nods sagely. He turns to Mikazuki after a pause, lightly grinning. “And good things do come to those who wait. I’d know.”
Mikazuki tilts his head at that, but he nods in agreement. When Tsurumaru only continues beaming at him, clearly expectant, Mikazuki finally realizes what he wants and leans in to the mixing of their laughter.
By the time Mikazuki returns to his post, the trees are very nearly bare, and braziers are lit around the citadel.
“I’ll come back with souvenirs,” Tsurumaru says, slipping into his coat. He moves to leave the room, but he pauses in the doorway to quip, “Maybe a hot pack for your aching back, since it’s already getting colder.”
“Do take care of your own joints as well,” Mikazuki says, putting down his brush. He stands and takes one of Tsurumaru’s hands in his, letting the temperatures of their palms mix. “Stay safe.”
“Of course.” Tsurumaru squeezes once before letting go. He smiles at Mikazuki before heading for the stables without another word.
Mikazuki stays standing by the door, even long after the citadel gates groan shut. He thinks to resume writing once he returns inside. But when he looks at the table before him, he finds himself surrounded leaves of meaningless words, and the first brushstroke he makes on page nearly blends into the early morning shadows.
- masterlist + requests - watch - join -
- The battle described in Tsurumaru's flashbacks is the 1333 Siege of Kamakura (鎌倉の戦い), previously mentioned in chapter one. The Siege of Kamakura is estimated to have taken place from May 18-22 (Xuanming calendar). It was preceded by the Battle of Bubaigawara (分倍河原の戦い), which ended only two days before; basically Hojo forces were defeated, so they retreated to Kamakura.
- Kamakura is surrounded by steep hills and a sea, and traditionally it was said that there were only seven entrances into the city (鎌倉七口). Nitta divided his forces into three and tried to enter the city through three passes: Gokuraku Pass, Kewaizaka Pass and the Kamegayatsu Pass (極楽寺切通, 仮粧坂, 亀ケ谷坂). The passes were fortified, however, so he made little progress until he moved around Gokuraku Pass by passing through Inamuragasaki Cape (稲村ケ崎).
- Hojo Sadatoki (北条 貞時) was the boy who took Tsurumaru from the grave of his previous master, also a young boy, who died in the 1285 Shimotsuki Incident (霜月騒動). Hojo Takatoki (北条 高時) is his son, said to have been a bad ruler. He was succeeded by Hojo Sadaaki (北条貞顕) as Hojo regent, and was himself succeeded by Hojo Moritoki (北条守時). Hojo Masutoki (北条益時) is Moritoki's son.
- Facing defeat, the Hojo clan retreated into their family temple, Toushouji (東勝寺), and set the building on fire. It is said that not all of the clan perished there; a distance from the temple is a cave where Takatoki is said to have committed seppuku. Many other caves make similar claims, however; I take advantage of this to invent a story about Masutoki leaving with his family to some other cave lmao.
- Jougyou Temple (上行寺) is a temple on the same side of Namerigawa River (滑川) as Toushouji. Nagoshi and Shakado Passes (名越切通, 釈迦堂切通) are also on this side, but do note that Shakado Pass is not an actual pass into the city; it connects two areas that are fully within the city (aka Tsurumaru pulling from his ass).
- Also people committing seppuku normally have an attendant/second cut their heads off after they stab themselves in the gut with a short sword (like a wakizashi or a tantou).
- On a note unrelated to Tsurumaru's flashbacks, the 1554 Battle of Oshikibata (折敷畑の戦い) was fought between Mori Motonari (毛利 元就) and Sue Harukata (陶 晴賢). Significance? Maybe later. ┐('w`,)┌
thank you for reading! leave a comment? <3