Shiro kept the distance of three steps, walking in front of his grandfather. "Do not look back, at any point. You must have faith that I will be here." Those were the old man's words just before they entered the woods. Nagato was already 120 years old. A rare age, with which more than a few grains of wisdom came. Coming from a long line of protectors of the realm, respectable retainers and fabled warriors, Nagato prayed that the youngster will be able to take over the lineage. Tonight, as the august sun set and colored the sky a deep red, young Shiro will have to face his future, and make the inevitable choice. He was to choose between dignity or death. But eh boy was yet to find out. Nagato will keep the secret, as his vow to the elders demanded, but he will do everything to keep the boys spirit above dread.
"Look at the sky, Shiro. Remember it. That is the color by which a blade is made strong. It will give you too the strength you need."
His grandfathers words carried away some of the angst, an insecure little string that vibrated in-between his heartbeats, making his breath shiver, his knees wobble. The ancestral forest through which they have been carefully treading, ever deeper, carried all of history of the Akayugure clan, if one would bother to dig deep enough. The aged trees that were planted on every great warriors grave, each bore a secret only the clan elders knew.
In days long past the forest was made home to spirits of great warriors. Those who were buried there were all given the right to carry a seed from the Broodtree to their grave so that, in times of great need, they could advise younger generations on whatever was needed. Every tree was home to one of the ancestors. And there were hundreds of them now. On nights like this one, fledgling warriors would come there to find secrets of the art of the blade and listen to the stories their ancestors would share. It was a sacred place and the greatest treasure the Akayugure family owned. That is why, on a hot and dry summers day, a rival leader, after finding out the importance of the hallowed woods, sent out a unit of men to burn the forest to the roots. What they did not know was that the forest had a way to strike back. One grove was burned in the bare center, but the fire would not spread beyond it. In their focus on burning the grove, the enemy was unprepared for what come from their blasphemy. The vengeful spirits, as they rushed out of the burned stumps in their armor made of char and smoke, bore down like a calamity upon the intruders. No enemy ever came out. From then on, the relentless ghosts of wars long gone would remain awake, so they could defend the forest from any more harm. But, as they expected from the descendants to protect the forest, it was considered they failed at the task, so a new obstacle was set before the living family members. Every clans-man and -woman who wanted to take from the well of wisdom, to hear the stories of old and learn the ways of elders had to pass a tribulation. If they were to fail - they were to die.
Shiro was the next one in line.
From the gloom of the setting red sun, a shadow appeared and then more shadows behind it, a band of dark warriors on jet black steeds. The young man kept going, not daring to look back at his grandfather. His heart was beating thunderous noise into his own ears, an intense drumming that muted everything else. No rustling of leaves, no wind in the trees, not even the neigh of the spectral horse could he hear. But when the samurai in its saddle spoke, the sound hit Shiro like a bolt of lightning, shaking his soul.
"Frightened.", the thunderous whisper came through the breeze "How unimpressive. You think yourself worthy of our wisdom, boy?" Shiro stood. He tried to say something but he had no air in his lungs. Dark thoughts came like a rushing river, as the dam of his determination was torn down by demons of insecurity. You are not worthy, they chattered. You were brought here to die. Did his grandfather really bring him here as a sacrifice? Was he supposed to die today? Maybe the stories were all lies, just so that he could be nudged into the cold arms of death, rather than being pushed or dragged. No fight could be won against the army of the dead, but the elders had to be appeased. Did his father die for this, so that his only son could shame him? Will the same happen to his sister? What about grandpa Nagato?
"Doubt..." spoke the horseman. Shiro heard his grandfathers voice from somewhere far away, yelling out his name. And then it was over in a blink of an eye. A sword blade, polished to perfection, shone red in the setting sun. The warrior made one swift motion, a masterful move, nearly effortless. Before Shiro could even realize, the blade plunged deep into the young mans chest, piercing his heart. There was a feeling of intense head, followed by a creeping sensation of incoming cold. The mounted warrior watched calmly over an oni mask, a sneer showing on what was left visible of his face. But as the ghost tried to pull the blade and be done with it... Shiro grabbed it. His hand bled as he held the blade firmly. Shiro's fear was gone, for he knew death had come. He locked the horseman in a determined gaze.
"Yes..." Shiro said, taking in a deep breath. "I doubt. Who can ever be so bold, I ask, to call himself worthy of anything?"
"Yes, I fear. Nothing impressive about that. But it is not YOU that I fear." He pulled the blade further in, pushing himself closer to the horseman. The warrior just watched, as the boy crawled up his blade. Shiro grabbed the ghost's gloved arm on the vambrace with one hand and pulled the horseman forward. The warrior leaned to face the boy at less than an arm's length.
"What I fear ... is dishonor alone." Shiro took one last breath. "And I shall not let you see dishonor, father." With that final word, Shiro twisted the blade inside his chest and pushed it away, cutting his own heart in two. The sword free from his body, so he released the warriors armored gauntlet, only to firmly grab the sword hilt instead. He wanted to wring it out of the horseman's hand. But he had no strength left. So he stood there, holding the sword, gazing upon a soldier of old as his heart pumped it's last ounce of blood.
"There is no honor in your death, samurai." said the warrior to Shiro. Then he pushed away... and the boy fell. For Shiro, the night fell and now there was only darkness.
A warm touch of the late morning sun pulled Shiro from what he though was the edge of oblivion. His grandfather sat next to a small fire, a smile on the man's face. There was a pot or rice and millet upon the flames.
"You have achieved and exemplary feat," said his grandfather, "and it would seem that you got something more out of it." He pointed towards Shiro's hand. It held a sword. His fingers were stiff from gripping it all through his slumber, and ached when he finally opened them slightly to and examine the blade. It was the ghastly samurai's sword, the one that cut Shiro's heart. It was polished and clean, not a speck of blood on it.
The handle was wrapped in a dark red leather, and the handle ornaments were in form of a sun spreading it's rays over a small hill. On the circular handguard, however, there was no intricate design, no special alloy or filigree artwork. It was iron, plain and simple, with a single setting sun engraved into the guard from the back side of the blade.
Shiro wrapped the sword in his jacket, only then realizing there was a gash in the cloth. He checked his chest and another cut was visible on his shirt. And as he undressed, there was a deep red line over his heart where the blade had cut him. Shiro kept quiet, put his shirt back on, picked up the bundle with the sword and placed it closer to the fire with him as he sat to eat his first meal - as a samurai.
As Shiro and Nagato walked out of the forest that afternoon, a specter followed them out. And on the brink, Shiro turned to see the same eyes in which he stared the night before, when he committed to the ancient way. He heard a voice inside his head saying: "Walk with honor, my son. When the dusk of your days comes, we will be there, to help you on the way."
And so Shiro walked...
BIG THANKS TO:
https://www.instagram.com/_enough_talk_
for the inspirational artwork!
