BETRAYAL AT ARASHI CASTLE

[Monomakhos 1849]

BETRAYAL AT ARASHI CASTLE

音楽

 

 

Thunder. Thundering boots. Thundering Words. Lightning cracked across the sky, splitting the clouds and the heavens before it; the iridescent flash banishing the black of night before fading back into darkness. Arashi Castle stood tall amidst the storm, overlooking the sprawling metropolis that was Yamatai from its hilltop vantage. The screen of a window was torn asunder, and Yorihide came to sit upon the cusp, staring out across the city as the torrential downpour of the monsoon season crashed against the land with all its fury. He found serenity amongst the chaos. It was what he had been taught from a young age, though he made the notion truly his own; the boy felt ill-at-ease when silence reigned, and so the steady pitter-patter of rain striking the sloped tiles came alike as a balm to what discontent found a home in the young Ishikawa’s heart. And to that end, he wrote.

 

lightning sundered sky

the moon yearning to be free—

clouds herald darkness

 

“Lord Ishikawa!” A voice cried out from the other side of the shoji that partitioned his room from the corridor. It stirred him from the lull of his contemplative state. Slowly did the young samurai rise to his feet, mulberry paper and inkbrush discarded to attend the commotion. And when the screen was slid ajar, two figures rushed in - one clamping their hand over his mouth, while the other took a defensive posture aside the entryway, hand poised to the hilt of his wakizashi. He had thought to scream - cry out; that assassins had come for him. Why would they? He was of no relevance, all bar his name. The second son of a second son, a bunke lord. But then he realized that he was in the company of friends. An indication to hush was voiced from behind the unsightly menpo donned by his assailant - Ishikawa Toru. And the samurai at his side, none other than Fujiwara Mutsuhiko. “Young master.” Mutsuhiko had begun, though whatever he had intended to say was cut short by the rattle of armor from further down the corridor. Toru quickly ushered Yorihide into the hallway, offering him no opportunity to protest while the samurai took the rear, facing down a pair of ashigaru who approached, blood staining the already-crimson of their Ishikawa livery and the uchigatana they toted. “Teme, shinu!” One of them cried, bearing down the hallway with their weapon raised. The prodigy of the Fujiwara stood with every bit poise and discipline, fingers tightening their vice around the handle of his shōtō, and when the levy’s charge finally brought him within striking range of the hardened yōsei, he struck. Sliding forward on his sandals, his blade was brandished within two shakes of a lamb's tail, and the corpse of yet another fool slumped onto the floor in a heap before him.

 

The display was enough to break the resolve of the other soldier, already turning a corner by the time the dust had settled, Mutsuhiko raking the edge of his sword against his kote to clear the blood before returning it to the saya with fluid, practiced grace. “What’s going on? Why are my grandfather’s men after you both?!” Yorihide’s demand for answers fell upon deaf ears as he was dragged through the hallways by the silent determination of Toru. They had descended a floor before he finally spoke up, hushed words offered towards the lordling. “Those men are after you, Lord. Your grand-uncle has taken up arms against the Shogun. Arashi is no longer safe.” The gravity of the situation had finally begun to sink in with that. The clouds herald darkness… his haiku brought with it ill-auspices.  It was so bizarre. Why, of all people, was Toru present to spirit him away? The last he had heard of his kinsman was that the Sōhei was in the south, investigating disturbances in Yamatai around the time of the eclipse. Though there was no time to linger upon thoughts. “Is my father safe?” He croaked, scarcely more than a whisper as they continued through the winding hallways of the Ishikawa Clan’s seat of rule with measured caution. His kin betrayed little in the way of emotion, and was just as insubstantial in providing an answer. Mutsuhiko had come to directly tail the lordling, a palm flattened against the boy’s shoulder as they descended yet another flight of stairs. Yorihide would not require an answer from either of them. What awaited them in the room beyond was confirmation enough.

 

As the shoji was wrenched aside, a pungent, metallic scent wafted through the air - it was enough to turn the stomach, though nothing could prepare Yorihide for what he saw. Corpses were strewn across the common area; strangers and familiar faces both, dozens of Ishikawa retainers, the mangled bodies of samurai dismembered and eviscerated. The walls as much as the floor were all but painted in a scarlet sheen, and in the midst of them all? Family. He broke free of Toru’s grip, rushing towards the center of the room. His father was propped up - a set stage like it was some kind of ritual murder, decapitated. The man’s head was cradled within his lap, dinner plates for eyes and a gaping jaw set into the throes of rigor-mortis. His own sword was driven so deep into his chest the hilt pressed flush against his ribcage and the blade exited through his back to hold him upright, the tip poised to the floor. Yorihide collapsed onto his hands and knees before his father, the silk of his hakama mingling with the blood while he prostrated himself in mourning. Why did it have to be him, he thought. Could he not have taken his place? His thoughts raced, and sorrow gripped his pounding heart, tears spilling down his cheeks in a steady stream that was not abated even by the approach of Toru trying to stir him to his feet. “We cannot linger, Lord. He has made to serve the Yōkai. They are no doubt the cause of… this.” Disgust wore upon the Sōhei’s words. Or perhaps it was shame. No matter, Toru gripped Yorihide by the scruff of his neck and wrenched him to an abrupt stand. “We must go.” Mutsuhiko finally spoke up, mirroring the monk’s sentiments despite Yorihide’s distress.

 

“I-... I failed him.” The young Ishikawa mumbled, heels keeping him planted firmly in place as he stood in his vigil over the corpse of his fallen sire. Sniffling, the flowing sleeve of his kimono was brought aloft to wipe snot and tears both away from his face. Yorihide kept it there, though. He sought to shield his disgrace from the two men. The realization had finally dawned on him. If they had come to his rescue, then, no doubt, it was because there were no others to save. He was their hope. And yet, his father laid before him, slain. He could not protect him, so how could he protect them? His head shook side to side and he withdrew the sleeve with a final sob, staring down at the remains of his father before endeavoring forwards to wrap his hands around the handle of the sword embedded into his chest. He heaved. And he heaved. And he heaved. Pouring every bit of his strength and his soul into dislodging the blade. Gradually, it slid free, though through no small amount of effort, stained with the blood of its deceased owner. Trembling hands passed the weapon on to Mutsuhiko, who gave a knowing nod in return before they struck out, pressing onwards into the central courtyard. There was no small amount of bloodshed marking their path now; the same carnage they had witnessed inside, though blessed were they to not need to contend with the instigators of such a massacre. Infact, all they were greeted with was silence, aside from the downpour of rain which remained a constant throughout. Atleast, until they reached the gates.

 

Beneath the shadow of great Arashi, a samurai fought. Cornered and surrounded; a wounded animal snapping back with all the fire and fury contained within its soul. A trio of yari spearmen surrounded the man, who even in the darkness shone in both his virtue and in the effervescent fervor through which he defied them. “Will you not strike at me with honor?! You know nothing of the nine virtues; cowards and dogs, all of you!” And surely his words rang true, they all hesitated, keeping distance despite clear advantage, and altogether oblivious to the arrival of newcomers from deeper within the castle whose approach was masked by the torrential downpour. As the standoff continued in earnest, Toru took advantage of the shadows, creeping up upon the group with his tantō in hand. It was only in the last seconds that one of the spearmen turned; lightning streaked across the heavens to illuminate the demon-masked killer for a fraction of a second, and in that moment, the blade ripped through the soldier’s jugular no quicker than he could scream. The samurai hitherto engaged in the showdown lunged forwards with a swipe of his blade carving through one of the ill-equipped levy, capitalizing upon the distraction to dispatch his assailants. The third stumbled backwards, crying out as his comrades were rendered newly-minted corpses to add to the slaughter, throwing his yari spear onto the blood-stained stones. “Please, please, my lords! I’m sorry! I did not mean to! I’ve always served Ishikawa!” He threw himself onto his hands and knees, pressing his brow to the ground while he begged. “Sumimasen! Sumimasen! I’m afraid, my lords, please!”

 

“This bastard is not worth our time.” The stranger spoke up, though as Yorihide approached at the side of Mutsuhiko, the man was recognized as Kawahara Nobusuke, one of his grandfather’s many hatamoto retainers. Grunted affirmations of agreements left the sōhei and samurai. Joining the party, they left the ashigaru to whatever consequence awaited his cowardice. Crossing the precipice that separated Arashi Castle from the city of Yamatai stirred feelings within Yorihide’s chest. There was no going back. He knew that. To cross that line would be to change his life irrevocably forevermore, though what other choice did he have but to place his trust in his retainers? None. And so they endeavored into the winding streets of the capital, and for the docks that awaited them. When they had finally arrived, the rain had come to its end, and the first streams of morning sun sought to dissect the clouds and shine over Oyashima. He did not want to go. He did not want to leave his home behind. He was not even granted the courtesy to honor his father, to bury him and send him on to the spirits. But he knew, atleast, as he boarded that ship, that he was with friends. Toru, Mutsuhiko, Nobusuke. The Lord Hiroji who greeted him with a smile as they came onto the deck of the ship. And above all; his teacher and mentor, who had orchestrated it all - Fujiwara Musashi. A new journey had begun, and though its roots were watered with sorrow, he had to persevere. Not for himself, but for them. They all looked to him now, and he knew, above all, he could not fail them. As night fell and the waves carried them westward, towards Tomoe, he looked to the heavens for guidance, and with brush in hand, he wrote.

 

 

stars shine like heaven—

so muddied is the future

how can their light guide

[JoanOfArc 4604]

Mutsuhiko stood at the edge of their ship melancholic. His fortune, his land, his pride--- all he knew was turned to dust the moment he stepped foot on that cursed ship once again. His stomach turned and twisted as he swayed back and forth from the currents. For what reason?  He had never gone so far into the waters from Oyashima before, but that did not feel like that was it. If that was not it, what was it...? His mind casted dark doubts about the young heir. He could return to his calm life with his wife and father. All he had to do was give the young lord to the betrayer, he knew.

 

His gaze traveled down the deck to the young lord speaking quiet words. Speaking to Ryoichi and Musashi. Mutsuhiko studied the face of Yorihide from the upper deck. Yorihide offered a small a somber smile to the two loved kin of Mutsuhiko and spoke on some topic too distant to be heard. He looked thankful for the dutiful men’s honor shown unto him. Musashi seemed to return the smile with his own, mouthing some distant words Mutsuhiko heard many times over, We shall serve.

 

We shall serve. The words cut deep into his own soul. He was born to serve, his father always told to him. Our lives are eternal for the purpose of guarding the Shōgunate. Guilt overflowed his being as he went to step down the stairs of the upper deck. He made short strides towards the group, eventually taking up his place next to his brother.

 

“I shall serve you.” Mutsuhiko said as he interrupted the conversation for penance for his own hidden doubts.

[lev 627]

Deep in the bowels of the ship the masked monk sat, listening to the distant voices meld and overlap with the swaying of the waves. He pondered on what choices had led him down this path, and where it might take him now that his fate was bound to the child. A boy, his kin. Pampered in a palace all his life; could he really lead a people, to hold their beating heart in his hands. Would the responsibility be the making of him or would it consume him like it had so many others. He took a whetstone to his tanto, readying it for next use.

[_Sug 2809]

Ryoichi sat upon a simple wooden stool, his hands hanging without care between his legs whilst his forearms rested upon the blue stained armor gifted to him at his coming of age. The second eldest of the wise Fujiwara Musashi looked to his elder brother with a face that lacked expression but conveyed the emotion in which he felt, his duty. One stern and unwavering drive and constant within his life, only able to end with his final breath being released for the preservation of the Shōgunate. He dwelled upon the life he once had whilst the ship rocked to and fro within the vast and unforgiving waves of the sea, the comfort he had in his home, the battles both lost and won, the struggles and high points, all gone now, replaced with a new yet ever present purpose. One thing, his duty. A few times his hands would meet his face, rubbing it for either comfort or stress, for which one he had not a clue. On to new lands, guided by his kin did Fujiwara Ryoichi venture, his past now placed in the back of his mind and his oath in the forefront.

[Knightei 318]

音楽

 

He kneels upon the deck of the ship, watching the lines of the waves in the distance. En-robed with a simple kimono, his hands resting upon his thighs, the man seems at peace with the world. The man’s eyes are drawn down to the wake of the ship, the frothing water curdling upon itself. A pattern within a pattern, at great contrast with the bulk that surrounds it. ‘We bring chaos to this world.’ the young samurai ponders. He takes a deep breath inwards, closing his eyes to savour this moment.

 

As the bushi exhales, he opens his eyes once more. The scene he was gazing upon had changed subtly, but it would never live upto the moment he had reflected upon. His mind wandered down the tortuous path of the previous days, and his personal failure in protecting his shogun. He looks down upon his daishō, his twinned katana and wakizashi, tracing the lines of the Oyashiman steel. His eyes close as he bows to the blades, motionless for a minute as he gives respect to his soul represented there. The bushi sits up, before reaching to the tantō to his side and he contemplates the blade.

 

The bushi is young, barely past his genpuku, yet he contemplates the life he has lead upto this point, the tantō resting upon his hand. He closes his eyes once more, placing the blade to his side as he resumes the position he took earlier, his hands resting on his thighs. Kawahara Nobusuke ponders the futility of his situation, other bushi have committed seppuku for the failure in the coup, yet Nobusuke took ship with his young lord.

 

The young man reminisces upon a tune he remembers from court, quietly humming along to the tune. He sighs slowly, as he gathers his blades and returns to his quarters, prepared to serve the young Ishikawa.