The Present
1556
The stream of consciousness begins to fill the spaces successively. Hisashi regains feeling in his upper body; he feels something hard against his back. His hands are cradled by something cold, though the coldness was fleeting; he could feel several little feet on his finger. His legs were the last to be filled by the stream, simultaneous to the feeling of a heated gust of air that was blown to his face. Upon opening his eyes, his vision would be curtailed by a curved shadow — his circular hat. Just beneath the edge of his hat, he sees Hayato leaning curiously at him. Particularly, he recognizes the horse’s mouth and how the curvature of his lips held an expression that he could immediately interpret.
“Hey.” He says to the horse, lifting his right hand to stroke Hayato’s left cheek.
Using the same hand, he relieves himself of his hat and plants it softly on Hayato’s head. The absence of his hat granted him a view of his surroundings — a forest. The healthy nature of the sunlight that blessed him in small amounts led him to believe that the morning had just settled in; its harmonious combination with the rejuvenating green of the flora puts his senses at ease. The grass was decorated with dewdrops, telling him that it must have rained last night.
His left hand slowly motions to his waist, finding the scabbard. Sliding further up to his abdomen, he finds that the katana remains in his possession — he sighs in relief. Still unable to move after his last feat, he resorts to the turning of his head and the movement of his arms to see and feel for what was around him.
The dirt road was nowhere near him; the grass he sat in was cold and decorated in dewdrops — it rained last night.
A tree supports his back.
He was surrounded by small plants; a butterfly crawled on his hand.
The wound behind his leg had vanished, the one on his arm too.
His clothes were… clean? And they were… mended?
Neither of his observations seemed particularly odd to him, but the last one was something that he could not simply understand. Hisashi looks at the horse and Hayato looks at him back in silence.
“Did you wash my clothes?”
Hayato exhales.
“See, I know you do things when I am not looking.” He says beneath grunts while trying to stand.
Using the tree to lean on, Hisashi attempts to put his feet beneath him. He stands still for a moment, allowing the muscles in his feet to realize that the time for slumber has come to pass. And while they worked on their realization, Hisashi now grants himself a better view of where they had ended up. Though the path rang with familiarity in his mind, he could not help but question how they got here. Hisashi tests his legs by placing more weight upon them, flexing his toes and stretching the necessary tendons. Deeming them ready, he pushes off the tree and motions to Hayato’s saddle where their bags of necessities were hung. With daylight upon him, he has no need for his weapon; he pulled his sword — scabbard and all — from his belt to hide it beneath the saddle’s flap.
Much to his surprise, he sees a sack of bread beside their own bag.
He impedes his own curiosity for now, dipping his hand into their bag first to feel for his mask, fruits, vegetables and other necessities. Hisashi then gives Hayato some hay and a couple of apples, placing them onto the ground before inspecting the sack of bread; he reaches in to grab one. The world around him fell almost instantly after looking at the single piece of bread in his hand. A haunting thought was there, floating around in his head at a proximity that was close enough to be felt, but far enough that it could not yet be surmised.
All of a sudden, he would be plagued by images of Kumitsukawa left in ashes — the dead populated his old village now. Hisashi drops the bread; a throbbing pain makes itself known from behind his rib cage. The images persevere, prompting him to lean back onto the tree. He steadies himself with one hand while the other holds his face, shrouding his vision in darkness. However, with every waking effort he made to stop them, the more vivid they became. They began to overtake him, the aching worsened — something had to be done.
Hisashi crumples his hands into fists and unleashes a barrage of punches that meet the tree trunk with all his might; his weakened state would mean a lower threshold for pain. He leans his forehead on the tree and proceeds to thrash away at the wood with a fury fit for a storm, fighting back his own body’s signals to stop. The unrelenting attacks weakened the structure enough to chip away at pieces of wood, with a few lodging themselves into his knuckles. Only after drawing blood did he let go of his breath as he sank back down to the grass, succumbing to his weak state and allowing the pain to intensely overtake him and drown the images for good. The gray clouds of the mind disperse, the storm has subsided, and he is now left to inspect the damage with clear skies.
What he saw were neither dreams nor hallucinations. And in an attempt to understand what had transpired over the last few hours, he retraces his steps:
He found pillagers and freed the captives, along with Hiroshi.
He brought Hiroshi back to the village.
He was ambushed by a group of samurai.
He was shot.
He came back and killed them all.
Blank.
And now, here he knelt in the middle of a somewhat familiar area. Where is Hiroshi?
He could not have gone far if his sack of bread is still here. He thought.
His ears perk up to the sound of crunched grass, he turns his head to its direction and lays eyes on the Old Baker dashing through the forest — toward him. Despite the distance, the shape of the baker’s body was one that Hisashi committed well into memory. Gripping onto his own knees, Hisashi pushes himself up.
“Where am I—”
Before the sentence could be affixed with a punctuation, Hisashi would be given a warm embrace. The Old Baker rests his cheek upon the young man’s shoulder in what would be a moment of confusion for the Swordsman.
“I knew you were alive.” Whispered the Old Baker while in the embrace.
“...”
“Where have you been? My boy, you have been gone for so long, running about on your own for years— I am so glad you came back.” Hiroshi, not allowing any interruptions, continued his embrace.
“...”
“I knew it! If you are still here, then they lied about you burning in the fire! They must have been lying about everything els—”
Hisashi pushes off from the embrace, effectively cutting Hiroshi’s train of thought to save both of them from the line of questions, the implications, and the possible conclusions. However, the look that he gave the older man did just the opposite.
“...What happened that night, Hisashi? Three years ago, what really happened?”
Without a word from Hisashi, Hiroshi was left with no choice but to find the answer himself. Deeply he dove into the windows of the swordsman’s soul, and the darkness that filled it spoke for him.
“No, no— You would never do such a thing. Lord Ataru entrusted Kumitsukawa’s future to you. He entrusted his son’s future to you.”
Hisashi picks up his hat, having fallen from Hayato’s head as he ate.
“You want me to believe that you, the man who served Lord Ataru’s family without failure, killed his only son and ate him? That the most honorable man from my village is a demon? Is that why you turned your back on us?! Is that what you want me to believe?!”
“Believe what you want to believe, it does not matter.”
“IT MATTERS TO ME!” Shouted Hiroshi, “We loved you, Hisashi! I loved you. You were a son to me — to us all! But after Lord Ataru’s death, you changed — we feared you! Do you know how hard it is to hear your name being dragged through the mud? The talking starts when you pass by, but soon, the memory of was fuel enough. The things they said— I did not want to believe them, but damn it, you made it hard to defend you! I defended you, Hisashi!” He pounds his chest, cracking the walls that he erected.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
The Old Baker steps forth and grips the younger man by the shoulders. He kept him in place, determined never to let go of the precious boy again. With a stare that was sharper than the Swordsman’s blade, he asks again:
“I want the truth, Hisashi. The truth about that night — about you! How are you here? How did you make it out of the castle? How were you able to stand up and fight after getting shot in the head?! ....A-... are you really what they say you are…?” Hiroshi’s flame dims. Viewing the pattern of his own questions, he could somewhat see the path to their final destination, prompting his softest inquiry at the end.
The Swordsman looks at him with an inconspicuous shade of pity in his eyes. The feeling of those hands on his shoulders sent him years back to what he would consider now as a distant memory, or further yet — a fairy tale. He grips the old man’s hands, freeing himself from their grip. And with a deep breath, he replies:
“I am what they made me.”
“They? Someone made you this way? Someone made you kill Lord Masahiko?”
“I killed him,” Hisashi replies with a straight tongue, “I did it without a second thought, and I would do it again.”
“But why? Why would you do this? Lord Masahiko was a strict man, but he never lost sight of the people. Why would you kill him? Why sully your name — your honor?”
Hisashi walks past Hiroshi, inspecting his loyal steed yet again so as to ascertain the condition for their travel.
“Wh-where are you going?” Asked Hiroshi.
“Away.” Answered the Demon.
“Away? Where? To hide a-an-and lurk in the shadows again? To kill more people?” Hiroshi chases after Hisashi while the other tends to his horse. “Must I remind you that you are a samurai? Samurai do not hide and sneak upon their enemies undetected. You have mistaken yourself for a different faction. The Samurai face their enemies! They greet them, fight them, and end them with the same honor they afford themselves!”
The Demon turns quickly, startling the older man who caught a glimpse of the fabled unholy creature. What he saw behind those eyes completely separated him from a samurai. Hisashi advances on him as a wolf would, causing the Old Baker to move back. His march pins Hiroshi against a tree, and the Demon would be blessed by a view he had become well acquainted with. He watches the old man tremble, wincing and turning away from him; he had completely taken him out of the sun’s nourishing light and into his ominous shadow. Whatever was boiling inside of him left his body through the nose in a deep exhale. Hiroshi feels the sun dawn upon him again, and he’d glimpse through barely open eyes to watch Hisashi return to tending to his horse.
“I know what I am.” Said the Demon, pulling himself up onto his mighty steed. He leads Hayato onto the dirt road, but soon finds the Old Baker in front of his path.
“Move.” He said.
“You are going to hunt down Homura’s men.” Said Hiroshi, “I can lead you to them.”
Hisashi attempted to lead Hayato to the side, but Hiroshi proved persistent.
“I know where they are, I tracked them down while you were recovering.”
“I can find them on my own.”
“You will need someone to mend your wounds.”
“I am a demon, you have seen what I can do.”
“I can help you blend in.”
“I can hide.”
“Hisashi, please.” The bickering ends with Hiroshi kneeling to the ground, placing his forehead atop dirtied hands as he rests them onto the soil. “I have not the faintest idea how you hope to accomplish what you plan on doing, but Kumitsukawa was my home too. I fought for the land I grew old on. I fought for the people I broke bread with, and I did it all long before you were born. Let me avenge our people, and if I die, let me die avenging our lord.”
Hisashi lets out a heavy sigh, emanating from a deep frustration. Having been on the road for three years, he has seen what mankind is capable of in terms of violence. No one is spared, neither man, woman nor child. He has been to villages left in worse conditions than that of Kumitsukawa. People slaughtered, burned, raped, and treated worse than one would treat animals — it was no place for an old man. However, from one warrior to another, Hisashi was bound by the unwritten code. He alights from his horse and comforts Hiroshi with a soft hand on the shoulder.
Hesitantly, he replies, “I cannot refuse your wish to die a warrior’s death.”
And in an instant, the old man’s face lights up with joy. His next words were hindered by a sudden weakness in the chest; his eyes were on the verge of dripping with tears, but he wipes them away before they could stain his cheek.
“Thank you— I will not drag you down, I will not become a burden — you have my word.” He said through a quaking voice, taken aback by the Swordsman’s decision to allow him to tag along.
“We will do this by my lead. I understand that it may be uncomfortable to be led by a younger man, but with all due respect, I outrank you by experience.” Continued Hisashi.
Taking a few steps back, Hiroshi would immediately tuck his extremities into his person and bow. “It would be an honor to be led by someone so noble.” Hiroshi raises his head.
“I am no longer noble. If anything, the pillager was right, I am a disgrace.” He corrects.
“Not to me.” Said Hiroshi, smiling at him.
Hisashi walks back to Hayato, but he would not mount him. Instead, he offers the seat to Hiroshi, who would comply without hesitation. Now on the horse, Hiroshi dips into the sack of bread that he had once again attached to the saddle; he offers three to the Swordsman while taking two for himself as breakfast — it was the early morning after all. Just as the Old Baker mounted the horse without hesitation, the Swordsman received the bread without the same.
With a new addition to his party of two, onward, they travel. Just like before, they follow the dirt road that leads toward their next destination — the settlement, Somukawa. Only this time, the trees that framed the road became more scarce; the further they went, the more sunlight they got. Vast green plains came upon them, perfect for agriculture. And if memory serves him correctly, further into the community would lead to the shore, perfect for fishing. It was why Somukawa was considered the province’s center for raw materials, where the abundance of fish and harvest come from. The village of Kumitsukawa, which lies southwest of it, was the center of production, where these raw materials would be converted into various goods. And the town of Tachikawa, which lies northeast of it, was the center for trade, where the goods would be sold.
Hisashi reminisces about his time as Kumitsukawa’s samurai, briefly remembering that he was sent to the settlement — and the town — every now and then upon Lord Ataru’s orders for errands. As the nature of the errands were usually quick, he could only remember a few details regarding its landscape and formation. Thus, Hisashi was left with an incomplete mental picture of where they were going. What he did retain in his memory would be that the settlement was a relatively small community of farmers and fishermen.
They succumbed to the silence as the two men ate their breakfast. Before they got too far, the silence is broken once more by Hisashi.
“What were you doing before I woke up?”
“Ah, you will be really glad that you allowed me to join you — I was scouting Somukawa.” Hiroshi says proudly, straightening his back and holding his head up high.
“How many did you see?” Hisashi’s words are slightly muffled. The hat may have covered him, but one could easily tell that he was chewing on bread.
“I counted around fifteen, patrolling the streets and laying around. I suppose there may be more, perhaps around twenty-five, but the settlement is small so there should be no more than a platoon; navy blue armor, all bearing the emblem of the three-legged crow.”
“What about weapons? Horses?”
“Swords, polearms, those gifts, and a few horses. The horses were kept outside the settlement, I have not seen them being ridden.” Hiroshi takes after Hisashi, his voice now muffled by his own bread.
The Swordsman takes another bite from his breakfast to chew it simultaneously to the information he was given. As the Demon of Kumitsukawa, he remembers taking on what he assumes to be a platoon. Though with body parts littering the ground like sand and with the events of close-quarter battles usually rendered as a blur, he could not entirely map out a successful outcome to this situation. He needs a more strategic approach to take down those responsible.
“If you are thinking of a way to get in and get more information, I already have an idea.” Said Hiroshi, having cleared his breakfast from his throat. “We disguise ourselves as bakers traveling to sell our bread. Me, the father, and you, the son — we will hide in plain sight.”
Hiroshi looks down at the man who walked beside him; the straw hat shields any indication of an approval of the plan. However, a nod would soon make itself known, prompting a relieved smile from the Baker. Inconspicuous to himself, behind his smile was concern. The man he knows to ride with a proud smile and walk a path of honor now shields his face from the world and walks in the shadows — how he pities him and the life he turned to.
“One more thing, Hiroshi-san.” Said Hisashi, finally lifting his head up to look him in the eye.
“Hmm?”
“Did you wash and mend my clothes?”
The atmosphere had gotten so heavy that the light question took the Old Baker by surprise, prompting a smile to appear.
“I did. I found some water left in the village well, washed them and lit a fire to let it dry them. I thought I would clean your face as well — you were covered in dirt and blood.” Again, he holds his head up high.
Once more, the straw hat serves Hisashi well.
The two would look onward, allowing for the wave of silence to take them once more as they finished their breakfast for the day. While the Baker smiles in content, the Swordsman maintains his stoic expression.