Fanfic: The Woman Warrior; Prologue
Title: The Woman Warrior; Prologue
Author: meepers369
Pairing: Nejiten
Summary: AU. Being a woman warrior is not easy during times dominated by men. A retelling of Mulan.
Read the chapter on Fanfiction.net
I wasn’t always born a warrior.
When Mother was still alive, she made sure my education followed that of other girls in the Chinese aristocracy. I learned to dance a little, sing a little, learned to read moral scriptures, and write some basic vocabulary, all under Mother’s careful eye. The weapon arsenal Father proudly displayed in the front hall of the house fascinated me, but I knew it was something that I would never touch.
When I was seven, northern horsemen raided my village. Mother bravely stood up to the raiders as they jeered, laughed, lusted over her beauty. The leader of the barbarians tried to take her to bed, promising our family and house to be spared, but she steadfastly refused. He sliced her down in a fit of anger. Our intricate halls of wood burned easily, as did other wooden structures of the villagers. All our servant girls were taken away, screaming.
I was spared by the quick thinking of my nursemaid. She threw me into the small cellar with other village children, solemnly telling me, as a noble privileged with education, I had the responsibility for all the children here. She then shut the top, concealing the top with straw and dirt, and drew the barbarians away from our hiding spot. We heard them stomping overhead, searching, but never found us. I held the little ones, soothed the older ones, and waited until all was quiet before leading everyone out.
Father was quickly called back from the battlefield, but of course it was too late. He never showed any emotion except a stone-cold front, whether it was at seeing the charred remains of our courtyard, or during the funeral of his loyal wife. Immediately after, he took up his arms to hunt down the riders who had wreaked havoc upon our village.
Three weeks later, numerous arrows and a slice to his chest brought him home again, near death. He never fully recovered, forever requiring a walking-stick to get around. He began to take notice of me, the only reminder of the tragedy he wasn’t there to prevent.
I was the last remnant of his wife. I was also the closest thing to the son he never had. And so he trained me as a boy. I continued my education of reading and writing, but in addition, I also learned to ride and to fight. Father could not ride, thus delegating that lesson to others, but he personally oversaw my martial arts development, practicing the basic moves with me to strengthen his own weakened body, grimacing when he could not duplicate moves that had been easy for him only weeks earlier.
When he began teaching me weaponry, I felt alive in ways never before. I was older then, and knew to be afraid for a moment when Father’s body would give up, slip, and hurt himself with the complex weapon dance he was showing me. Somehow, he never did, and seemed almost more agile, more fluid with a weapon in his hands than he did without. He passed that fluidity on to me, and I learned to dance with the weapons, too. Staffs twirled easily in my hands, spears bent with my body in a yielding arch, swords sung with each stroke I carved in the air.
By my thirteenth birthday, I had mastered all the weapons in Father’s arsenal. He led me to a hidden ancestral hall deep in the mountains, where numerous ancestral tablets sat upon the giant stone wall. There, in a darkness lit only by a single candle, he imparted stories of my ancestors, of their valor during times of war, of their justice during times of peace. Afterwards, I carried the feelings and emotions of my ancestor’s ghosts in my body, my spirit, and my weaponry.
Sometime after that, though, Father stopped endorsing my training. He grew moody, insisting that I wear dresses again, that I take more care for my appearance, and hired more servant girls to wait on me. I was greatly irritated by his treatment, and we had many shouting matches where I would run away to the mountains where the ancestral hall was, only to sullenly return, shamed by my ghosts. We would stop talking for days on end; at times, he would even blatantly ignore me, staying in his quarters, speaking only to the servant girls. I would train furiously by myself, focusing my annoyance into my weapons.
I hardly ventured into the village by then. My old playmates treated me with reverent cordiality. The girls were quietly disapproving but envious of my training; the boys were slightly scoffing but secretly awed by my power. The adults were very open with displeasure, not knowing how to treat this aristocratic girl who dressed and walked like a man. My family’s past deeds mattered little now. Only those who remembered treated me with kindness, remembering my mother, sympathetic to my father.
One rare day when I accompanied my servants to the market, an elder selling mottled tea leaves stared at me steadily for a long while. When I thanked her for the transaction, she smiled and said softly, “You look just your mother in her younger years.” She patted my hand, giving me my change, and I refused it, tears in my eyes.
After that, I started voluntarily wearing feminine dress. I still trained, usually early in the morning or later in the evening, but I started occupying my days with weaving, painting, and other such activities. It was a long cry from my usual workouts, but I found a certain peace in it that I never felt before. I stopped fighting with Father, too, but he still avoided me as much as possible. Every time he saw me, there were suspicious traces of tears in his eyes.
When I was sixteen, war came. The same northern raiders who had attacked our village years earlier now returned to China, more organized, more powerful, and more ruthless then before. Conscription notices flew out from the capital to each town and state, until it reached our little village. The emperor demanded one man from every family. Father was called for, but how could he serve? Those days, he was often confined to bed, his unyielding wounds constantly troubling his body.
And so, I took up my men’s garb again, this time adding layers of my father’s armor. At our separation, I kneeled deeply before him, leaving an oath to honor, to survive, and to return. Father stood before me, accepting my vows with a grave nod. He motioned to a servant girl who strode up, carrying a beautifully carved box of pine. In it, Father drew out a pair of twin swords, beautifully forged from steel.
“These are yours now.” I held the swords reverently in my hand. After a quick glance for Father’s approval, I began simple sword exercises with them, testing their weight, learning their rhythm. They were wonderfully fluid and light; every stroke sang with a clear metallic note. Father watched me in silent approval. I walked backed to him, kneeling again in gratitude.
“Now that you are taking upon a new identity, it is time to shed your old name. From now on, carry the name of the heavens-Tian. Let that be a reminder for what you are fighting for.” Father paused, as if struggling with something inside himself. He gave a long sigh, then gripped me tightly on my shoulders.
“Make sure to return.”
Author: meepers369
Pairing: Nejiten
Summary: AU. Being a woman warrior is not easy during times dominated by men. A retelling of Mulan.
Read the chapter on Fanfiction.net
I wasn’t always born a warrior.
When Mother was still alive, she made sure my education followed that of other girls in the Chinese aristocracy. I learned to dance a little, sing a little, learned to read moral scriptures, and write some basic vocabulary, all under Mother’s careful eye. The weapon arsenal Father proudly displayed in the front hall of the house fascinated me, but I knew it was something that I would never touch.
When I was seven, northern horsemen raided my village. Mother bravely stood up to the raiders as they jeered, laughed, lusted over her beauty. The leader of the barbarians tried to take her to bed, promising our family and house to be spared, but she steadfastly refused. He sliced her down in a fit of anger. Our intricate halls of wood burned easily, as did other wooden structures of the villagers. All our servant girls were taken away, screaming.
I was spared by the quick thinking of my nursemaid. She threw me into the small cellar with other village children, solemnly telling me, as a noble privileged with education, I had the responsibility for all the children here. She then shut the top, concealing the top with straw and dirt, and drew the barbarians away from our hiding spot. We heard them stomping overhead, searching, but never found us. I held the little ones, soothed the older ones, and waited until all was quiet before leading everyone out.
Father was quickly called back from the battlefield, but of course it was too late. He never showed any emotion except a stone-cold front, whether it was at seeing the charred remains of our courtyard, or during the funeral of his loyal wife. Immediately after, he took up his arms to hunt down the riders who had wreaked havoc upon our village.
Three weeks later, numerous arrows and a slice to his chest brought him home again, near death. He never fully recovered, forever requiring a walking-stick to get around. He began to take notice of me, the only reminder of the tragedy he wasn’t there to prevent.
I was the last remnant of his wife. I was also the closest thing to the son he never had. And so he trained me as a boy. I continued my education of reading and writing, but in addition, I also learned to ride and to fight. Father could not ride, thus delegating that lesson to others, but he personally oversaw my martial arts development, practicing the basic moves with me to strengthen his own weakened body, grimacing when he could not duplicate moves that had been easy for him only weeks earlier.
When he began teaching me weaponry, I felt alive in ways never before. I was older then, and knew to be afraid for a moment when Father’s body would give up, slip, and hurt himself with the complex weapon dance he was showing me. Somehow, he never did, and seemed almost more agile, more fluid with a weapon in his hands than he did without. He passed that fluidity on to me, and I learned to dance with the weapons, too. Staffs twirled easily in my hands, spears bent with my body in a yielding arch, swords sung with each stroke I carved in the air.
By my thirteenth birthday, I had mastered all the weapons in Father’s arsenal. He led me to a hidden ancestral hall deep in the mountains, where numerous ancestral tablets sat upon the giant stone wall. There, in a darkness lit only by a single candle, he imparted stories of my ancestors, of their valor during times of war, of their justice during times of peace. Afterwards, I carried the feelings and emotions of my ancestor’s ghosts in my body, my spirit, and my weaponry.
Sometime after that, though, Father stopped endorsing my training. He grew moody, insisting that I wear dresses again, that I take more care for my appearance, and hired more servant girls to wait on me. I was greatly irritated by his treatment, and we had many shouting matches where I would run away to the mountains where the ancestral hall was, only to sullenly return, shamed by my ghosts. We would stop talking for days on end; at times, he would even blatantly ignore me, staying in his quarters, speaking only to the servant girls. I would train furiously by myself, focusing my annoyance into my weapons.
I hardly ventured into the village by then. My old playmates treated me with reverent cordiality. The girls were quietly disapproving but envious of my training; the boys were slightly scoffing but secretly awed by my power. The adults were very open with displeasure, not knowing how to treat this aristocratic girl who dressed and walked like a man. My family’s past deeds mattered little now. Only those who remembered treated me with kindness, remembering my mother, sympathetic to my father.
One rare day when I accompanied my servants to the market, an elder selling mottled tea leaves stared at me steadily for a long while. When I thanked her for the transaction, she smiled and said softly, “You look just your mother in her younger years.” She patted my hand, giving me my change, and I refused it, tears in my eyes.
After that, I started voluntarily wearing feminine dress. I still trained, usually early in the morning or later in the evening, but I started occupying my days with weaving, painting, and other such activities. It was a long cry from my usual workouts, but I found a certain peace in it that I never felt before. I stopped fighting with Father, too, but he still avoided me as much as possible. Every time he saw me, there were suspicious traces of tears in his eyes.
When I was sixteen, war came. The same northern raiders who had attacked our village years earlier now returned to China, more organized, more powerful, and more ruthless then before. Conscription notices flew out from the capital to each town and state, until it reached our little village. The emperor demanded one man from every family. Father was called for, but how could he serve? Those days, he was often confined to bed, his unyielding wounds constantly troubling his body.
And so, I took up my men’s garb again, this time adding layers of my father’s armor. At our separation, I kneeled deeply before him, leaving an oath to honor, to survive, and to return. Father stood before me, accepting my vows with a grave nod. He motioned to a servant girl who strode up, carrying a beautifully carved box of pine. In it, Father drew out a pair of twin swords, beautifully forged from steel.
“These are yours now.” I held the swords reverently in my hand. After a quick glance for Father’s approval, I began simple sword exercises with them, testing their weight, learning their rhythm. They were wonderfully fluid and light; every stroke sang with a clear metallic note. Father watched me in silent approval. I walked backed to him, kneeling again in gratitude.
“Now that you are taking upon a new identity, it is time to shed your old name. From now on, carry the name of the heavens-Tian. Let that be a reminder for what you are fighting for.” Father paused, as if struggling with something inside himself. He gave a long sigh, then gripped me tightly on my shoulders.
“Make sure to return.”