Shiroyama

The boy sat down on a rock by the stream. The water was crystal clear, as it always had been. In many villages, including his own, the water would sometimes run dark with waste and dirt from the washed animals. But the water there, out in the forest, had always been the purest water the boy had ever tasted. The boy cupped his hands, bending over the stream, and lowered them into the running water. It was comfortably cold. He raised his hands out of the water once more, bringing it to his lips and drinking. It was like heaven to the boy's tired body.

There was the sound of a horn. The boy turned around. His fellow warriors were all coming out from the thicket. Many of them wore red, gleaming armor. Still a few of them wore their masks. The masks were those of demons, and fierce warriors of legend. The masks were frightening, and rightfully so. They were meant to scare the enemy. The boy, when he was younger, used to fear these masks. Now, he himself owned one.

The boy was sixteen years old.

"Gather!" one of the samurai called. The boy stood up, his hands dripping with the water of the stream. The boy gripped his strong hand around the sheathed katana on his waist. His armor, once heavy to him, had become a part of him over the years. He marched forward, weaving through the surrounding bamboo, which stood like eternal guardians over the forest. The sun had risen to nearly the top of the sky, now. It beamed down on the boy's exposed head, his black hair collecting the heat from the hot air around him. Not a drop of sweat trickled down his forehead. Nor did he falter in his march to the group. He was firm, collected.

But, his heart ached with the pain of a thousand spears. He could feel his blood push itself through his body like never before. He felt every living cell in his body, as though he had only just now truly come to life. For now, he feared his life would soon end. The boy feared death.

The samurai gathered in around the one who called them. He wore a set of brown, dusted armor. Barely any of the red spots shone through the ages on it. But, the spots that did were the color of the rising sun. Just as they should be. The samurai removed his gray mask, which had the hooked nose of a Tengu spirit, and observed his comrades.

The samurai was old, but strongly built. He had the face of a once chiseled man. Now, his face was beginning to show the signs of old age. The strong jawline had begun to sink, and his beard, once a glorious black, had long since turned silver. He stroked his beard in thought for a moment, knitting his bushy eyebrows, and scrunching his nose, which fit his Tengu mask perfectly. Strapped to his side was his own katana. It was large, something the boy could not imagine trying to fight with.

"Brothers!" he cried out. The samurai, including the boy, straightened themselves.

"Yes!" they replied. The old man looked down upon them, as he was the tallest by inches. He looked around, in a circle, at all of them. No words were spoken. One could not hear them breathe. One could only hear the sound of the wind, breathing itself through the bamboo forest around them. All was still until the old samurai spoke once more.

"Saigō Takamori's forces have been depleted! Only four-hundred and fifty samurai warriors remain in his grasp." the old man announced. The samurai all wanted to gasp, and talk to one another. Especially the boy. The boy wanted to kneel onto the ground. He wanted to hand over his katana, and relinquish the title of samurai. He wanted to throw his armor from his chest and scream to heaven. The words which broke him came next from the old samurai's mouth. "The fifty of us will rally with them at Kagoshima, and meet the enemy in battle."