Upon The Broken Plains

[Saiko]

"All the Heavens will stand still for the focused mind"

Autumn had come once again to the high halls of Shiro Mirumoto, the cold air slicing like the blades of the swordsman who honed their art there, but on this day, the only sounds were the brush of fallen leaves, the whisper of the mountains.

Come to one of the open air dueling rings of the Path of Hojatsu dojo, a light Autumn rain misting in the wind, one of the last of the year before the snows began. There stands a swordsman, naked to the waist, his body a patchwork of scars and tattoos. His hands bear the blades of his daisho, the blades of his father, as he sits in perfect stillness, body poised in the fifth position of niten, eyes closed as the world flies by around him.

There is no weight of the world upon him, no anguish, no misguided anger. He does not torture himself with questions of loyalty, duty, and honor, and though his body certainly tells its own tale, the pain he felt is nowhere to be found. He is still. He is serene. He is at peace.

*****

With a crack of thunder, the illusion was broken. The chill mountain winds of the faraway Dragon lands were quickly replaced by the hot, dead winds of the Shadowlands, as a storm brewed on the horizon, far across the Wall. A man, or at least what looked like a man, rose from what little rest he could find, his black, soulless eyes the only thing visible under the shroud of tattered black robes and pieces of armor that he used to shield himself from the harsh environment he now called home.

As he crests a nearby hill, the lands feel familiar. Not in looks, for especially in this part of these wastes the broken rocks and paths all seemed to shift and morph into each other. No, there was something else here, a memory perhaps, but of what....

He is broken from his momentary reverie in an instant by a sound he has come to know all to well by this point; he spins, his obsidian katana already flying free to counter the charge of the lesser oni springing from the nearby rocks, snarling as the dark blade cleanly severed its outstretched talon, the sword humming with contentment as its bloodlust was sated for now.

The beast spun on him, a crazed look in its eye, and made another wild attack, but he was too quick, deftly jumping onto a nearby rock and springing over it, executing a rapid double slash that sent the already wounded demon sprawling to the ground, twitching to death before the wanderer's feet even hit the ground. As the dark blood seeped into the rocky ground around him, a memory stirred, and his gaze turned back to the Wall...

*****

The air was thick with smoke and death, the scent of blood and fear being carried upon the wind by the beat of drums, the cries of pain and fear and victory. Stones crashed, steel clashed, and the blood flowed heavy as the army of the Shadowlands was finally broken, beaten, and sent running back into the dark pits from whence it was spawned.

Broken ranks of the Lost, panicked waves of goblins, ogres, Oni large and small, all stampeding through the shattered landscape, racing to be ahead of the tide of fury that was sure to follow from the victorious forces of the Empire. It was to this that he awoke, the broken and twisted remains of Mirumoto Saiko, that had been thrown from the Wall a short time before, with the arrival of the Ikazuchi.

As the Akunin rose to his feet, his armor shredded, his wakizachi long gone, all that remained in his hands was the obsidian katana. The blade that had wrought so much pain, had led to so much anger, and as the only cause he thought he had left in the world collapsed around him, he snapped. Exploding into action, a nearby group of escaping goblins was quickly reduced to bloody ribbons. A pair of Lost samurai take notice, and with a shout moved to engage the master swordsman...

*****

The memory faded and what was once Saiko's gaze returned to where even now, over a year later, repairs on the Wall were still taking place. No wonder this place had felt so familiar; it was here where he had made his choice. Since that day, he had wandered the broken wastes of the Shadowlands, hunting the foul denizens of the dark lands wherever they hid. Why, he couldn't say, but as the days turned to weeks, the weeks to months, he wandered.

As time had passed, tales began to circulate among the Hiruma scouts, of a dark figure stalking the lands they scouted. Some said he was an Oni; others convinced he was the spirit of a fallen Samurai hunting dark beings of the wastelands. Regardless, as time went on, fewer hunted him and more avoided him, acknowledging that whatever it is that was out there, if it had hunted them, they would know it.

And here he was; closer to the wall than he had been since that fateful day, when the Heavens had answer the call of the Empire and turned back the darkness. He knew now that he had been wrong; that he had always been wrong. But he could not go back. Not after the horrors he had causes, the atrocities he had committed. So here he would stay, his vigil ever lasting and his hunt never ending, as he chose to protect that which was once his home from the shadows that had once lured him away...

[Kakita Sojiro]

ELSEWHERE IN THE EMPIRE:

A lone samurai sat outside the temple, meditating. his long hair floated in the mountain breeze, the white streak occasionally caressing a vivid scar across his left cheek. His bare torso was exposed to the elements, revealing many more scars, most of which had the faded and worn look of age to them. Tattoos decorated him - a dragon coiling down his left arm, three cranes in flight (two white and one black) on the back of his right hand, and over his heart, another crane, it's wings wrapped protectively around a unicorn. His breathing was calm, even. Around him, a storm threatened to break here in the mountains of the Dragon clan. He paid it no mind. The wind blew, cold drops of water began to fall from clouds that were so close here, it was almost as if you could reach up and touch them. Lightning, thunder.... he remained still through it all. Inside the stoic body, a tumultous mind flashed through memories, images, emotions..... through it all, he focused on one thing. One simple sentence. A promise.


I'll come back to you. I promise.

I will not move until I understand... the old Dragon clan parable played again through his mind. I will not move until I understand, Mai.

The rain picked up, soaking into his hair and plastering it to his face. He barely noticed. He felt at home, his surroundings a fitting match for his mind.

"Kakita-sama!"

His mismatched eyes opened.

"Kakita Sojiro-sama, you have a visitor!"

Kakita Sojiro, kenshinzen, war hero, and one time Hatamoto of the Kakita family, rose to his feet and turned around. "Who is it, Mirumoto-san?"

Sojiro had been staying with his mother's side of the family, trying to heal from injuries both physical and emotional since the war. The Mirumoto family had welcomed him in his time of need, even as they mourned the loss of one of their own. They understood some of what he was dealing with more intimately than most - they shared some of his grief.

"A Messenger from the Crab, sama. He claims to have found a sword of yours, and wished to return it to you, but..."

Wordlessly, Sojiro stood, his heart in his throat. Only one person in Rokugan had a sword that had belonged to him. "Bring them to me, please." He quickly threw a kimono over his shoulders, blue with black trim and a mon on the back similar to the tattoo on his right hand. He tied on his obi and then picked up a katana that was peace tied with a long, purple silk, and slung it over his back. No one had ever seen the blade drawn, yet Sojiro was almost never seen without it on him. The most curious feature of the katana was actually it's saya - fused to the side was a shorter saya, seemingly sized for a wakizashi and yet empty. The weapon hung low on his back, at a difficult angle to draw and certainly not an optimal position for iaijitsu. It was clear that combat was not the reason he wore it. Almost as an afterthought, he tied on his own daisho. He was a samurai after all, and even in his soaked state there were certain expectations of him.

He had just finished dressing when the young Mirumoto returned, bringing with him an armored man that was smaller than Sojiro had first expected."Greetings Kakita Sojiro-sama. I am Yasuki Makoto. I believe I have something that belongs to you." He bowed again at the neck before removing a slender package from his obi, wrapped in blue silk, and handing it to Sojiro.

The Crane braced himself for the worst, wordlessly removing the silk to reveal a black wakizashi with unique markings along the saya. Shock and relief flooded through him in equal measure as he examined the blade, his blue and green eyes growing wide.

"Yasuki-san, where did you find this weapon?"

"I found it while I was leading a patrol beyond the wall, Sojiro-sama. The mon along the saya mark it as a blade from your Ha-no-Arashi style, correct?"

Sojiro nodded. He was surprised to know that the Crab knew of his style, but not nearly as surprised as he was to have this particular sword delivered to him. It's not hers, but...

"Yes, Yasuki-san. You are correct."

but...

"Excellent! Then the wakizashi is in fact yours, sama?" The Crab seemed genuinely pleased to have returned the weapon to it's rightful owner, even though he had traveled across Rokugan to do so.

Sojiro slowly shook his head. "No, Yasuki-san. While I am grateful for your efforts to bring it to me, this weapon belongs to my first student...." The color drained from the young Mirumoto's face as Sojiro continued, barely above a whisper.

"... Mirumoto Saiko."

[Kakita Sojiro]

"Yasuki-san, you have traveled a long, long way to return this wakizashi to it's proper place. Please, feel free to rest here for a few days and recover your strength before setting back out on your journey. It is the least the Mirumoto family can do."

Sojiro nodded in agreement but remained silent. Once, he would have been quite conversational, even witty, but the war had left him withdrawn and aloof, feeling clumsy and unsure of the social niceties that were once second nature to him.

"I am needed back at the wall, but I will at least stay for the evening," the crab replied.

Sojiro tucked the wakizashi into his obi. "Very well then. Yasuki-san, thank you for this, it means a great deal to me. Now, if the two of you will excuse me, I have something I must do." Without waiting for a response - or seeming to notice how rude he was being - Sojiro turned and walked away, the disheveled kenshinzen apparently lost in his own private world.

His thoughts weren't even coherent enough to be words, merely impressions and emotions. He was paying no attention at all to where he was heading, but fortunately he knew the way there by heart. Passerbys in the corridor would have noticed him mouthing silent, unheard words as he walked by, giving the impression that he was talking to himself, oblivious to their presence. At length, he came to the room he was looking for and walked in. The forge was oppressively hot, but that was to be expected. He untied his obi at the entrance, dropping it, his kimono, and his daisho there. He picked up the long lost wakizashi, clad only in his hakama and the strange peace tied katana on his back, and purposefully walked over to the forge master.

"Tamori Reisen-san," he bowed, a few strands of his unkempt hair falling into the forge fire as he did so - he didn't notice. "I have an odd request of you this evening."

The old smith, a Tsi who had married into the the Tamori family, cast an eye to Sojiro. He was broad, his face covered with a beard that would have been white had it not been for the smoke of the forge, bushy eyebrows overtop of deep brown eyes, short cropped white hair, and a face that was lined with years of labor. He was familiar with Sojiro, particularly as of late.

"And what would that be, Sojiro-san?"

Sojiro drew the wakizashi from it's sheath and handed the weapon to the old smith. "I want you to heat this blade. That is all. It needs no work, except perhaps a sharpening. I just-"

Reisen interrupted Sojiro wordlessly, taking the saya from Sojiro and looking it over, then examining the blade. There was no outward sign of recognition or shock on the old man's face, but there was also no doubt in Sojiro's mind that he would recognize who the wakizashi's owner was. With a grunt, He held the blade up to Sojiro, allowing him to see the rust and dirt that being exposed to the elements for so long had caked it with. "Needs more than sharpened."

The Crane blinked, realizing for the first time that he hadn't actually drawn the weapon until now. Reisen looked at him and nodded. He understood exactly what was going on here. Deftly the old man removed the tsuka pins and ito wrap before tossing the rusted thing into the forge. [color=White}"Fire will tell. It never lies."[/color] As the wakizashi heated up, Sojiro sat down and went through a breathing exercise, preparing himself, eyes open but unfocused, breath rhythmic.

Fire. It was Saiko's element, his gift. He was tied to it, for better or worse, moreso than anything else. Sojiro focused his meditation on the glowing symbol of his fallen cousin's honor as Reisen began to work the rust and corrosion away with his hammer, deliberately beating the sword in a rhythm that would not conflict with the meditative trance.


I will not move...
CLANG
I will not move...
CLANG
I will not move...

Neither will I.

Shinsei's words, hidden in the ring of hammer on steel but clear as day to the Crane, brought realization to his addled mind. He had no idea how long he had been in the forge meditating, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the remembered lesson of Shinsei and Togashi - and the realization that he was making Togashi's mistake.

The answers I seek aren't going to come to me while I sit here doing nothing. I have to come to them.

Bringing his eyes back into focus, he took another look at the wakizashi as Reisen picked it up with his tongs to perform his own inspection. the blade glowed red, somewhat slimmer now that the corrosion had been burned away. All across the length of it were brighter lines of an orange-white.

"Do you see, Sojiro san?" the smith asked. Sojiro grinned and nodded.

"Do you truly see?" the old man had cocked one of his bushy eyebrows at the kenshinzen, but his voice held no sarcasm or reproach in it, merely a question. Before giving the younger man a chance to answer, he motioned for Sojiro to come closer.

"These orange lines, they show where the blade has been damaged. Weak points that were filled in with rust and corrosion, keeping the blade from breaking. Now they have been burned away, but I fear purification has weakened the weapon."

"What can be done to fix this damage?"

"Reworking. Something must be added to the steel, something stronger, to fill in these weak points. Something that won't slowly consume the steel like rust did." He plunged the hot steel into a bucket of water, causing a cloud of steam to rise into the air.

"You're going to find him." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Something he already knew.

"I don't even know if he's still alive."

"....you do." With another grunt, he set about rewrapping the hilt and replacing the pins, before resheathing the weapon and handing it back to Sojiro.

"I can fix this weapon, but not until the owner asks me to."

Sojiro nodded, bowed to the old man, and left.
____________________________________________________

The next morning, Yasuki Makoto rose early to begin his journey back to his home. He found a very different Kakita Sojiro waiting for him - eyes focused, hair trimmed and tended to, alert and ready to travel.

"When do we leave, Yasuki-san?"

[Saiko]

The tracks seemed to lead north by north west, crisscrossing and doubling back occasionally, sometimes winding around for miles before returning to the path, but always they turned back North, as they had for the past few weeks, though of the three men following them only the young Hiruma scout was able to accurately follow them, especially as they grew further away from Kyuden Hida and closer to his own home, Shiro Hiruma. His cousins, of Hida and Yasuki, hung back, their gaze flashing nervously about as the tracker crouched low, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Well cousin? Can you tell yet if this is what we seek?", asked the Hida brusquely, though there was a quiver of hesitation in his voice. The Hiruma said nothing, only holding up his hand to silence his brash companion. Though the tracks were old, they seemed... too deliberate. Almost as though someone was leading the three young Crab hunters in a certain direction. But a storm was coming, and soon the tracks would be gone entirely, so onward they went.

*****

The shrouded form of Saiko crouched, hidden, in a nearby outcropping, watching the men that he had been trying to lose for several weeks now continue their hunt, and gave a slight shake of his head. They were not the first of their clan to come for his head; he did not blame them. To them, he was a monster, twisted and corrupt; they weren't wrong. But he had hoped that, while they had for obvious reasons no idea who he was, that his actions in sparing as many lives as he could as well as on several occasions saving Crab patrols from creatures of the shadows would have earned him at least space.

Such was their duty, alas, and he could not fault them for it; all he could do was to avoid shedding more blood of those he would have once called allies. But these particular hunters were tenacious, always picking the trail back up, always getting just a little too close. Was he slipping? Perhaps, but as he sat and observed the young men making their camp, another realization came to him. He was lonely. Not once in the past year had he allowed such... human thoughts cross his mind, but as he watched the camaraderie between these friends, he found himself longing for it. Longing to be a part of the world he had forsaken...

*****

The night passed as the last several had, without incident, a fact that made all of the three young Crab more than a little wary. Nothing in the Shadowlands, even this close to the Wall, was ever that simple. As the Yasuki and Hida finished gathering their things, the Hiruma crested a the hill beneath which they had camped, and found himself looking at the spires of his home in the distance. He shook his head; if they had did not succeed in finding this creature before the week was out, they were under orders to Kyuden Hida, a failure that he was not prepared to accept.

A shadow moved in the distance, so indistinct that one who was not trained from birth in the ways of watching would never see it, but the movement was there. His eyes narrowed; the thing was moving away from them, North, but closer to the wall as opposed to further away, and he sprang into action, sliding down the rocky slopes to where his cousins were giving him beguiled looks, though to their credit their weapons were already drawn.

With a gesture he indicated that they needed to move, and quickly, giving only a few words to let them know that he had seen their target, but that stealth was of the essence, and the trio quickly began to move, coming out of the hills and beginning to descend into the jagged, broken plains that the figure they assumed to be their quarry had wandered into.

They rounded a corner, coming to a small ravine, surrounded by high, sharp crags, enclosed from the moving air and much warmer and stuffier because of it. The Hiruma slowed, every one of his dangers senses seemed to raise up at once, a feeling he could tell his compatriots shared, as they all began to slowly draw their weapons, cautious of the danger that was clearly closing in on them.

They came suddenly and all at once; a half-dozen men, or at least they seemed like men, in armor black as night, heavy blades glinting menacingly in the weak morning sun, foul mirror images of the warriors the three young Crab suddenly realized they had little hope of surviving to become. The Lost surrounded the fledgling samurai, one who was clearly the leader cackling foully as he easily batted aside the Hida's power swing, countering with a kick to the gut that sent the largest of the three flying into the rock wall, sliding winded and gasping to the ground. The Hiruma and the Yasuki suffered similar fates, and the dark soldiers closed in, humorless grins on their scarred and monstrous faces as they prepared to revel in the slaughter of their hated foes...

There was the quick scrape of blade on sheath, and the wet crunch of speeding blade crushing armor and severing limbs as one of the fallen samurai fell missing his head while another scream in pain as his raised sword arm fell away from his torso, dark blood gushing and staining the ground around them. The others wheeled about in surprise, abandoning the three Crab for a moment, to face the dark figure even now resetting himself for another attack.

Minus the element of surprise, however, Saiko found himself taken off guard; four trained combatants with different weapon styles fighting in tandem against him was something he was more than a little rusty on, and while he was able to hold his ground, it would not be long before one of his foes found an opening to exploit. Step by step, block by block, he was losing ground, and he knew his failure meant the deaths of those young men, men who had yet to walk their path, and that was not an outcome he would allow.

Whatever was left of Mirumoto Saiko in this twisted, hollow wreck of a man reached deep within himself, past the anger, the hate, the self-loathing, past the scars and the dark dreams and power Shoju had filled him with, tapping into something... more. Something natural. A fire began to fill the black corners of his being, flowing, energizing, transforming the dark smoldering anger within him into the white, burning serenity that he had once known...

*****

As the three young Crab beat a hasty retreat while their opponents were otherwise occupied, the Hiruma, leading up the rear, glanced back. The battle had seemed lost, their lone savior steadily losing ground, and it was only a matter of time before the Lost returned their attentions to the cousins. But a switch flipped; the flow of battle reversed. Now the Lost seemed shaken, uncertain, somehow the four of them being forced back and away from the man with the obsidian blade, his attacks more precise, his counters swifter, his footing more sure.

They had run; it was their only option. Both warring parties were denizens of the Shadowlands, and undoubtedly whomever won would have promptly disposed of them. But as his cousins hurried ahead, something prompted the Hiruma to look back, to one last time try and discern who it was they had been saved by, and if he could possibly be the one they hunted as the tracker suspected. He was thrown off even more to see huge cords of white-green flames lashing out from the lone swordsman and literally pulling the screeching forms of the dark samurai apart, and in that moment he was certain of one thing; his instructors would NEVER believe this...

[Kakita Sojiro]

It had been a long time since Sojiro had traveled, and much, much longer since he had felt a semblance of his old self. The noon sun seemed bright, the breeze crisp, and he found memories of younger days flitting through his mind - he and Mitsouko causing mischief pretending to be river pirates as children, Nights at court spent with her, Reina, Saiko, Alesha, Battou, and whatever pretty things happened to be on the arms of those last two that week as they interacted with their peers from other clans, creating both friendships and rivalries, garnering both insults as well as loyalties, and living life to its fullest. It was a different time, before the darkness had scarred every single one of them in different, unique ways, but instead of focusing on those scars, Sojiro focused on those happy memories. His biwa, long neglected, occasionally slapped against his thigh as they traveled. The discordant yet joyous noises brought to mind the last time he had used it, after a snowball fight in Kyuden Otomo. That brought to mind snow falling from branches, horse milk, stolen kisses in the chill breeze.....

Those memories brought something to his face that hadn't been there for a long time - smiles. It wasn't that he had gotten over all of the things that had transpired since those times, it was merely the fact that he was on his way to try to set some of those things right. Kakita Sojiro was nothing if not a man of action, and he had been inactive, wallowing in his own depression and self pity, for far too long.

"..... Kakita-san, did you hear me?"

Abruptly Sojiro turned to his traveling companion. "Apologies, Yasuki-san. It seems that my mind was far from the present. What did you need?"

"Sojiro-san, you seem to be a man lost in fond memories, and that is a much better companion than a man lost in himself like the Kakita Sojiro that I met last night was." He grinned, "But, be that as it may, I am still unsure of the path to take from here. I am not so familiar with the Dragon mountains as you."

Sojiro returned the man's grin. The fortunes had smiled on him, giving him a Crab to ease himself back into the forgotten art of simply talking to another person without being rude or insulting as opposed to a member of another clan with far more delicate sensibilities. "No worries, Makoto-san. I know these mountains well, I spent a lot of time here in my youth."

And so it went, the two men making small talk and generally enjoying each other's company as they traveled, at times having to walk their horses down parts of The Climb, before mounting up and traveling to the Wall. All told, the journey took about a week. It was on the third night, over dinner, that Makoto asked a serious question.

"Sojiro-san, what is it that you hope to accomplish at the wall? I have heard rumors of your cousin, but I do not wish to be insulting...." He stopped, obviously unsure of how to proceed without running the risk of insulting Sojiro, a member of a clan infamous for their ability to find a single misspoken word as an insult.

The Crane looked up at him for a second, as if judging him, then pulled the wakizashi, saya and all, from his obi. "I intend to return this to it's proper owner," he said. There was no anger in his words, only a clear focus on the goal.

"But I have heard... many things concerning this person, Sojiro-san. I have heard that he has fallen to the shadows, and even that you and he fought each other during the great battle at the Wall. Are these rumors untrue?"

Sojiro took a slow, measured breath before popping another rice ball into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, taking the time to collect his thoughts as he did so. "No, those rumors are true. Saiko-san had fallen under the sway of Shoju before the final battle. There at the wall, he and I fought viciously. Neither of us walked away from that fight in one piece, and yet neither of us could claim victory over the other. But...." he drew his own wakizashi, a shard of crystal in the form of a blade. "When we started that battle, this weapon was a katana. During the course of the fight between him and I, it broke and I found myself at a definite disadvantage against him. Then, as the tide turned against me, she... Utaku Mai-san... struck down Shoju, and something in him changed. I saw recognition on his face once again, even though it had been changed so much, I still saw him there, as if he had come back to himself in a way. That was when he turned and massacred a small unit of gaki rushing up to us. And he didn't stop there."

"For my part, I picked up my bloody, beaten self, tried to find the heroine of the battle, and then attempted to make peace with the fact that so many of those I cared for had died or been taken from me in other ways." He sheathed the crystal wakizashi. "It's ironic that it has taken me this long to understand that, by exiling myself, I have lost everyone who has survived as well. And they lost me. It's long past time that I stopped this cycle of grief and confusion, and actually did something to move on and rebuild. And I think that starts with at least trying to find my cousin once more."

"How do you intend on doing this? The Shadowlands are a very large place for one man to lose himself in, Sojiro-san."

He grinned. "I have my ways. A samurai of such a... striking... appearance is bound to be noticed and stir up rumors, unless he's hiding under a rock somewhere. And Saiko-san has never been good at hiding."