Day 20 ~ Brand New Day PG-13
20
Brand New DayDisciplined and harsh, his training has been.
He can go without want, or rather need, of food for days. He has gone days without food many times before. However Shishido needs to eat -and soon- or perish by the wayside like a starved mongrel.
Not for the first time does he doubt his choice to live in dishonor, instead of following his comrades into death by their own blades. Yet he feels the acid burn of the betrayal, that their daimyo played them out like so much as fodder, leading them into the unknown and leaving them there to be slaughtered. It is a samurai's duty to be loyal to their lord, whatever his wishes. But Shishido feels the cold knowledge that Tachibana, the daimyo who has scattered his men and drenched the clean earth with their blood, was more honorable and right than his own lord.
Perhaps he should just have taken Tachibana's generous permission to pass on in honor -that or join forces with him-, but instead here he is: exhausted, starved, disgraced.
A ronin.
Many times before have he and his comrades ridiculed those whose position he is in now. The memory of it is bittersweet, of better times and ignorance.
The hunger.
He knows better, can ignore it and function despite it, but the fact remains that he needs to eat, today, or won't live to see tomorrow's setting sun.
In his current predicament tomorrow's future seems dire indeed: days of forests and fields behind him, days of forests and fields ahead of him. His speciality of traveling almost as fast as a mounted warrior has sealed his own fate, for now he is caught stranded, surrounded by nature as a green grave. If he had his full strength he might be able to reach a settlement in time. Now his only hope is to endure and see what the road brings.
As he passes along the dwindling trail out of the forest and into the glow of the day's last sun, he breathes in… out.
Death for him.
Before him and for as far as he can see is long, swaying grass. Like an ocean as vast, with the wind bending the blades like silvery waves.
Shishido closes his eyes, inhales. Promises himself that with his last strength he will take his own life, instead of dropping like a useless sack of flesh when his legs give out.
He is a ronin, masterless. There is no-one to give him the mercy of a clean, honorable death.
But for himself.
Despite the strength leaving him, he is quick and relentless. He crosses through the fields fast and soundless, enough so that he reaches a smaller pocket of trees in a valley, where he intends to set up camp. Or rather, sleep with the stars as his blanket.
As he roams the edges of the thicket, he sees him.
In an instant, instinct honed by years of training and experience, Shishido blends with his surroundings.
Is he closer to a settlement than he thought? Has his hunger and sadness impaired his wits and has he strayed into another clan's lands? Further east than he originally thought?
The other is samurai and of noble status. Definitely of higher ranking than he was -and ever would be. Richly dressed. Carrying supplies. Yet there is something odd about him, in how he moves and holds himself, and Shishido is appalled by the man's hair color and size.
A veritable giant, with hair as fair like sun on the water.
Wounded.
Badly.
This is his chance.
Shishido centers himself, draws on his last resources which he has preserved to carry him until the next sunset. Enough to strike a killing blow, he knows.
He will not die like this, not without regaining some measure of honor, not with his comrades' agonized screams as they were led to their deaths like so much as cattle by their daimyo still ringing in his ears.
It must be Fate, for why else is he destined to meet a wounded warrior out here, where only nature reigns?
The wound must be bad, for the man does not even make into the pocket of trees before he sinks down into the grass in a death faint.
Nevertheless, Shishido is careful. He circles, like a great cat that stalks its prey, crossing through the grass silent as a shadow, unseen. He cuts over the man's path, sees the thick and glaring red of life's blood coating the grass.
Should be easy.
He's standing over his victim, feeling better for the knowledge that he might ease this warrior's passing instead of being a cold-hearted murderer.
Not that he can sink much lower.
Like a great cat once more, he rushes his target, all his praised speed and agility flowing forth as he draws his blade and then strokes down -swift and merciful- to behead the man that lies there dying.
Great is his surprise when his blade sings in fury as honed steel meets steel.
Not quite as death as he looked, Shishido thinks as he looks into dark eyes, narrowed under fiercely knitted brows.
Yet…
There's great strength in him, but it is waning, as fast as the red flow of blood that leaks out of the gaping wound near the man's ribs. One other stroke and he would be dead by Shishido's blade. He knows it and the man knows it, too.
What stills his hand he does not know, because what is the purpose if they are both as good as dead anyway and can only benefit from the other's passing? Yet their blades keen sweetly against one other as he withdraws his own. Not completely, he points the tip at the warrior's breast and he can see in the other's eyes that they both know that his next lunge will be true and the end of this strange meeting.
His eyes flit over his opponents face. Marvels at how impossibly fast the drawing of his katana had been, too fast for his eyes to see, too fast for anybody to counter, he realizes. Such a strange physique. The hair is whiter still viewed this close and so tall he is, two heads larger than himself, Shishido guesses. Broad chest, more muscled, stronger than him without question -had he been in full health.
But besides the unparalleled speed of his iaijutsu, Shishido knows he outclasses him in terms of experience and pace in combat.
Then he sees the mon on his hoari: a snow crystal.
Hyotei.
Interesting.
His eyes wander to the wound in the man's side. Possibly lethal. Not beyond his skills.
"Your name?" he demands.
"Not worthy to ears such as yours, ronin," the samurai answers.
Shishido chuckles. "It is my sword at your throat, as you might have noticed. Give me your name -and half of your provisions, and I will ease your injuries well enough that you will be able to carry your knowledge to your lord, Atobe."
Dark eyes widen, blink.
Oh, but he is young, Shishido notes and shakes his head. Tall and strong he might be, but he is younger and much, much more inexperienced. Un-honed, raw talent.
"Guard your emotions, man." He sighs as he sheathes his sword. "Had I still served a master, your head would have been parted from your shoulders by now."
"Don't be so sure of that," the other says, defiant. But then he coughs and red blood spills from his lips.
"Is the news you carry of such importance?" Shishido wonders out loud. "You seem in quite a hurry. Such a shame that wound will prevent you from performing your duty."
There is a short silence as the other gathers breath and strength to reply.
"I will complete my mission," he says, clear and true. "This injury is nothing."
"Nothing will prevent you from crossing this field," Shishido says, arching a brow. "That is what I think."
More silence, and red sunlight as it bleeds over the edge of the earth. Everything glows, the person at his feet included.
"A deal then," Shishido purposes. "I will bind your wounds and guarantee your success, if you yield enough of your ration to carry me to the next settlement. What say you?"
"You are ronin," is the weak reply. "You are without honor. Your word means nothing."
At that, Shishido bares his teeth. "Think carefully. My word will let you keep your honor, samurai. Take it or die here -not by my sword, for I will simply take your supplies and leave carrion eaters to feast on your living flesh."
A deep, shuddering inhale. "Your word."
"My word," Shishido says.
The sun sinks under the horizon. The sky is purple and blue with stars far in the distance. The grass sways.
"…my name," the samurai says softly, pain enunciating every single word despite his brave attempts to mask it, "… is Ohtori Choutarou. I carry a... message for my lord Atobe."
"I am Shishido Ryou," Shishido says. "I am my own master, for I saw my comrades die by the blade of one more honorable than my own daimyo. I will help you."
The rise of the sun sees Shishido standing in its glow, watching Ohtori leave.
A whole night was spend wrestling his life from death's claws, more than he bargained for and the knowledge Ohtori carried -and his life- much more worth than the sustenance he demanded in return.
Shishido breathes in the smell of green grass and the new day, tastes the reality of Ohtori's life on his tongue -for he will live beyond the completion of his current purpose, Shishido saw to that- and the realization that he, too, is beyond death's clutches.
Atobe is gathering a great force to him. Men like you… he is willing to give a chance. You can regain honor.
Ohtori's life's blood is still caked under his fingernails. He will live and survive -but he is weak, and there are those between Ohtori and his goal that are not even ronin, but simply cut-throats and thieves who will see Ohtori for what he can truly mean. Wealth of his life sold to the highest bidder.
He may walk, but that wound will rip him apart as soon as he raises his sword arm to defend himself.
At high noon, when Ohtori is but at speck in the distance, Shishido takes the knife he carries -the same knife he intended to commit seppuku with at the sunset of this selfsame dawning day- and uses it to cut his long, dark hair with.
The tassel is thick and full of tangles in his hand. The keen edge slices through the strands neatly and they fall to his feet, forgotten.
Shorn, reborn as the the sun is, Shishido follows Ohtori at a distance, determined to see both of their purposes to a successful end.