"Staff for a month, blade for a year, spear for a lifetime"—long weapons demand a lifetime, but even the "marshal of a hundred arms," the sword, takes years to truly learn.
Night. Tomioka Giyu, wrapped in his red-and-yellow-green striped haori, ran beneath the moon, one hand firm on his Nichirin blade. For days he'd been replaying Urokodaki Sakonji's letter to the Master in his head.
Expectation mixed with that old pang of "so near to home"—and the closer he got to Sagiri Mountain, the stronger it grew.
A pity—Master had written that his new junior had not yet begun Breathing practice. Otherwise… Giyu admitted, the "assessment" might also have satisfied a bit of his sword-hand itch.
In—out—Giyu kept Total Concentration: Constant open as he ran home. Nearly two more hours passed, and he cleared the town. Far ahead—Sagiri Mountain.
There was a cabin on that mountain with someone he cared for; deeper in the woods, several cairns—his seniors and juniors.
He exhaled a white breath, drew near, steadied his breathing, and slowed. Emotions too tangled to name pressed in as he climbed, and in the moonlight he saw an open space and, standing quiet upon it, a small wooden house.
One lamp glowed within, a soft amber halo.
Through the paper window he could make out an old back bent over the low table, writing something… or perhaps waiting for someone.
Giyu drew a deep breath, softened his footfalls, and went closer. A cold wind lifted a corner of the window paper—and a gentle smile was sent his way…
"Master, Giyu-nii's back!" Makomo rolled the brush across the table and wrote the line as the wind moved it. She didn't need to say a thing—Urokodaki's keen nose had already caught Giyu's scent on the mountain wind.
Teacher and student looked at one another through the lifted corner. The first smiled warmly; the second dipped his head, eyes shimmering.
"Shh—Rōichirō is still asleep." Urokodaki slid the door open on silent feet and let Giyu in.
Early spring; the snows hadn't melted, so the hearth-bed was lit.
The old Water Pillar must have guessed Giyu would arrive by night; the brazier table was already out, a pot of tea warmed. He poured a cup and handed it over…
Giyu sipped—familiar warmth—and much of the road-weariness fell away. He looked to the corner of the hearth-bed, where a boy lay quietly.
Hands folded over his belly, breathing steady, face serene—a head of flame-red hair shone under lamplight, more like fire itself than even Rengoku's "flame" hair.
Against his will a ridiculous thought bubbled up—perhaps this boy suited Flame Breathing even better than the Rengoku family…
The thought rooted at once and would not leave.
"You see him?" Urokodaki noticed Giyu's gaze and, smiling, glanced at Roy. "That's Rōichirō.
"Your kouhai."
Giyu said nothing.
Knowing his cool nature, Urokodaki opened a cabinet and drew out a futon—the same set Giyu had used as a boy. He spread it and smoothed the creases. "The kasugai crow was late. I didn't know you'd arrive tonight, so I didn't get it aired. Make do for now—tomorrow at noon, when the sun's strong, we'll set it out.
"As for Sabito's old set—I gave it to Rōichirō."
Giyu sniffled once and stood. "I'll go pay my respects to my senpais."
He had barely taken two steps when Urokodaki stopped him gently. "No need."
He finished the bedding, looked around, and, with a kind smile, said, "They're all here. No need to go far when they're close."
Giyu paused. "?"
He turned—and met his master's certain eyes. The paper slid down; a chill wind circled the small room. One gust, apparently too overeager, was promptly grabbed by another and given a sound thrashing.
"Fukuda—just what do you think you're doing?"
"I told you—quiet! You'll wake Rōichirō!"
"I just—saw Giyu-nii, got excited…"
"Who isn't excited? You're the only one squawking like that!"
"Yes—yes—my fault. I'm wrong, alright?"
Shinsuke slowed his wind and circled Giyu. Giyu frowned, then felt a weight on his shoulder—his teacher's hand.
"Come," Urokodaki said, patting him, and led him to the table.
What happened next was wonder. The brush lifted by itself and wrote across the paper already spread there:
"Giyu-nii, welcome home. I am Makomo."
Then:
"Giyu-nii, about time! I'm Shinsuke."
Then:
"I am Fukuda… I am Shimizu… I am Watanabe… I am… Yagiku…"
Line after tiny line, name upon familiar or unfamiliar name rolled into view—and Giyu shuddered.
His fingers dug into the table-edge; he bent his head and pulled a long breath. When he lifted it again, eyes red, his voice shook: "Sabito-nii—are you here too?"
The paper flicked up at one corner, and in a blank space a line bloomed: "I'm here.
"Giyu, welcome home."
Sabito smiled at the youth. A year gone and he'd grown taller; a shade darker; a little more worn. Knowing his nature, he'd likely run through the night, not stopping for wind or dew. He added: "You've worked hard."
He didn't know why, but the tears came of their own accord. Giyu pressed his lips thin and tipped his chin up; at some point two streaks had cut his cool face. He wiped them dry; they dampened again; again he wiped; and still they would not stop…
Sabito teased across the paper: "Still the same little crybaby as back then…"
Only then did he manage a watery grin and stanch the flow.
For so long, Giyu had thought his master must be desperately lonely all these years. Now he saw—surrounded by juniors and sisters—if he fell in battle one day, he needn't fret so much.
How good…
A young man's feelings come quick and go the same.
Under the lamplight,
Giyu wanted to seize this rare chance to say more—to Sabito and Makomo, to Shinsuke and Fukuda—to truly catch up.
His head dipped; he lifted his chin—and saw—
Urokodaki, just like years ago, ruffled his hair and said, kindly, "You've been on the road for days. Sleep first.
"Tomorrow morning, Rōichirō will take you to see your brothers and sisters with your own eyes."
Giyu blinked. "…"
See them?
~~~
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