Opiate
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I sheathed my sword unblooded today. That's the first time I've ever done that, I
think. Yes, I've never done that like today. I wonder, lying here, if that's an omen. Is it
meaningful? Maybe.
It was most peculiar, now that I think of it. The rain was falling fitfully, dry in
some places, soaking in others. I think of it because the mud sucked at my sandals in
places but not in all. I had been wondering if the street I was looking for would be wet or
dry. Yes, that was it. It wasn't.
I was standing in an alley, listening to them come. I had been almost tempted to
stand in the street, waiting. That wouldn't do though. Efficiency, efficiency, efficiency. In
all things with the sword, efficiency must be first. That was the key to speed, speed the
key to victory. Just standing in a street would neither nurture efficiency or improve my
speed. So I stood, unmindful of the damp, waiting and ready.
Sure enough, shortly the moment was right. I heard the footsteps and lunged out
to the way. My sword unsheathed before they knew I was there, I almost cut them down
then. But I didn't.
My skill was not as strong as it could be. I had grown weak. It was so long since I
fought a warrior skilled enough to give me pause that my highest techniques were
growing slow. Still are, somewhat. But these three men, already dead though still
walking, would be my training. Perhaps then there would be some purpose to their pitiful
lives.
Examining the blade now, it looks thirsty. Its alive, we both know this. Lying here
as it is, unmoving in my hands, it makes me wonder, wonder and dread what it would say
if it could speak. What silent, temptuous and pleading voiced words would it bury in my
mind, pushing them deeper and deeper. What begging commands would I be issued? I am
glad it doesn't, for already the insidious voice that it doesn't have has told me everything
it needs to. Perhaps more. Perhaps it's already whispered, for I know the words it would
speak. Perhaps it is I whispering to the blade. My own dark voicings and vampiric
tendencies are the origin, not this animate piece of metal.
Oh, it's silent now. Unmoving, innocent, harmless it lies here. Its not dead, for it
was never alive to begin with. A cunning, convincing deception that. If I lied to myself
enough, I might eventually believe it.
Only if I never lifted it again, though. If it danced to the tune of my own soul,
played on the strings of the Honorable Way of Heaven by my hands, not once more,
maybe I could cloud my mind enough to believe that this thing in my hands was inert.
For in my hands, open and shining or ready and resting, it lives. It sells warnings and
guidance, allowing me to read the wind and light for a sip of life. A hint of knowledge, to
be used before known, is rewarded with a bath of blood. Sometimes, should it be
especially hungry, I allow it to feed on its brothers, killing them as they danced in the
hands of their owners. Or tried to, for many could not let their blades come alive. I almost
couldn't understand that, mine seems to force my concentration to keep it asleep, not to
lift it now and let the river flow. The red rain.
Who was she that said that to me? I cause the red rain?
I can't remember, and it doesn't matter, not to the living death that lies fat and
satiated in my hands, reveling in the sensual glow of its last meal.
I allowed every inch of my skill to come out then. As I looked the three of them
down, I adopted my favorite and fastest stance. It was beautiful. I had no stability, no
balance, no strength of the earth. What I had was raw potential, the great grain house of
speed, waiting to be let forth. With my weight ready, I was reigned lightning.
They knew enough, I think. They had a skill, and maybe something approaching
the true knowledge. As I waited, letting them set themselves for the increased depth of
my training, I judged every inch of myself, checking what was needing improvement.
Nothing I could tell; I was perfect.
The two in the lead, samurai, hatamoto most likely, drew instantly. As I said, they
knew enough to know I was here to send them on, and they knew that there was nothing
they could do about. They almost rushed me.
"Wait." I'd never heard a fat voice before then. His was. As corpulent as the
owner, the voice wallowed in the hair, singing those two to stillness. "You are the
Battousai, aren't you?"
I did not respond, did not have to. He knew, and I, looking down the tunnel or
wind and rain, knew that as well.
"I shall spare you the effort." His knife did the double slittings perfectly. The
crimson that my own blade thirsted so mightily for spilled across that little tanto, birthing
his organs and life to the outside world. He was silent, ready to die honorably having
already preformed his reclamation of face. I almost nodded, approvingly.
One of the other two acted as the second. Then they, unwilling to show less pride
than their master, also deprived my poor blade of its meal. I glid my steel companion
home, back to the land of inanimate dreams and calmly walked away.
Perhaps my living tongue had reached that point now. It, I won't name it he, was
death, death from afar as well as near. I could kill by will alone now, my power had
exceeded even my skill.
I'm sure which of us was elated at that. I know it was pleased but most likely
disgruntled that it could not personally move to the feast.
Perhaps its not reveling, but fasting in great training. It learns new lore and greater
prowess in every new sip from that crimson chalice. Now, maybe it needed learn from a
different drink. I'm not sure. It didn't tell me.
A practiced and unconscious flick of the thumb has a finger's breath of fang
showing. My eye looks back at me, perhaps no longer my own. I know I've awoken it, as
my hands bares the rest without orders. The sword is pulled up to my face, though
whether by my hand or its own uncontrolled power I admit ignorance. I wonder if there's
a difference any more. I wonder if it matters.
So seductive, I am lured ever deeper. But it is a he? I don't know that either.
Regardless, it waits in my hand, knowing that as I watch it, I'm learning that bit of
previously concealed lore it gleaned from the souls of those three men.
I think I see. Death is more than I had thought and a greater servant of mine than I
had ever expected. She was my lady in waiting, a handmade romancing my blade both
behind my back and before my face. I believe she is my attendant as well. It wasn't the
blade that seduces. It was Death's smiling face, beckoning me to come hither through the
looking glass of edged hamon. She's beautiful.
Too beautiful, one small and ignored part of my mind screams, unheeded and
unminded. No maiden is that beauteous and perfect; all have some flaw. What were the
words of the lady? All women had some fallacy? What's hers, I wonder.
Christened with a bit of my own soul for a moment, he is cleaned again and put
away. His life is young. I wonder if he will drink yet more? From who, that I already
know.
It sang today. It sang for just one man. Another oddity, that was. He was not
enough.
I am approaching another lesson. Some secret, some bit of long forgotten lore is
hidden in blood, hidden somewhere close. I think that's why it sang today. It sang to lead
me forward; it sang to lead me to my next insight. I grow eager for that wisdom.
That one man did not have it.
He was a fool, I guess. Walking alone in the night, no guards to protect him, he
was an easy mark. He carried himself as a beaurocrat, not a samurai. The heavy plod of
his tread, his unawareness, that lack of finely honed dexterity crying out from every part
of him, all came out and he might as well have been carrying a sign instead of that sword.
Maybe his one blade would have been enough to stop a common thief, some foot pad
with a knife and greed. But why would he not know that when you waltzed in the politics
of the highest circles, it was not the thieves you must fear?
I came from a small eatery beside the road, swept past him, and receive no
knowledge in his wake. His blood splattered everywhere, almost getting on me as well,
and bathing my sword in such a way that it had never been immersed before. The visceral
bisection is always messy, but that was an extreme.
I had thought for a while that there was some lesson inscribed in that. Anything as
unusual as the deluge of sanguine fluid that came from his innards in such profusion had
to be in some way significant. I do not think so now. My meditations on the topic have
been long and thorough. No other problem has been so elusive to the mind, so I assume I
search incorrectly.
Why did he fall to me? Why was he judged needing my personal attentions? It is
clearly the case that his skill was not outside the limits of one of the other assassins. Still,
while he would have been inside their strength, I was called. Message received, orders
listened too, messenger departed, it was all very normal. His path, habits, and lack of
guards, it was all there. I had assumed that in some way, this would be a matter like the
others. This would be an affair which demanded my particular attention. I am the best,
the Battousai they call me, and yet I see no reason for me to be given this.
A reward, perhaps? An easy mark to offset the usual level of difficulty I interact
with? If so, it failed miserably. I need the lessons that this blood and life drinking blade
teaches me. I need strong ones. Almost I am offended by this case.
I must not get above myself. Maybe the reasons he was slated to be killed by me
were not based on me. For whatever reason, he might have been judged worthy of
receiving my personal attentions. An unusual way of showing respect but clearly
understandable. I do not know. It does not matter.
He is dead, and I am no wiser. I will mention it. If our foes are so weak, I think I
will retire for a few days and ponder the edge of my blade. There is something it is trying
to tell me. I may be able to pry the knowledge for it without more tribute. That I doubt.
I must have it. That final piece of information, that undisclosed piece of lore. My
blade taunts me and jumps from my clutches now. Its in possession, it knows something.
I must have that knowledge.
And I know how I must acquire it. Fine. If it wants satiation, bribery, to give me
that skill, it will have it. I will purge the world in an ocean of blood. I will make a never
ending font of crimson death that it may nourish itself to unknown ends. I will find out
how much it desires, and supply it. Streams, rivers, oceans, whatever it may demand. It
will be mine.
Now I understand. They died today, and I learned, though not the lesson I was
seeking.
This was the fourth day in my frenzied attempt on that bastion of knowledge that
was my blade. He danced and sang as no other could. Like wheat they fell. Bodies
against the walls, hollow blades upon the ground, blood raining from the heavens, they
all fell. I left carnage in alleys. I sowed the streets with corpses. I ran through the houses
of those I fought and slew everything which lived. Samurai, high and low, those who
learned the arts of war and those who simply carried the traipsing, they were all the same.
Every one I met came down upon this earth.
I realized that the only way to pry this from my sword is by glutting it. Thus this I
did. I irrigated the fields of my life with blood. I killed them all. The Hiten Mitsurugi
Ryuu was my fife and drum. It spoke, screamed, whispered, and cajoled. I was drawn,
mothlike, before its shining light. This light, this undeniable light, it pulled me.
Venomous voices whispering madness and wisdom. I listened.
First was the White Leaf faction. Eighty strong samurai lived in that mansion.
Now there are corpses. I was unenlightened.
Then the masters of empty hands, a voice for the peasants they claimed to be. I
don't care. I didn't care. They had taken refuge in their little town, that part of Tokyo they
claimed as their own. How many were there? How many empty fists met me on the
street? How many servants lifted knives and clubs and graced the walls with their lives? I
do not know. It was myriad.
Supporters of the Shogun, haters of the emperor, presumptuous diamyo, and
others came. When they would not come to me, I came to them. I sought them in rabbit
holes and searched through the streets of the training grounds. I sought them all, and I
found.
Oh the gods look down on me in awe now. For I have ascended. I fed the
kingdoms of the underworld such that they had bounty like no other. Alone I danced with
all.
But through it all, that tempestuous and lying traitor of my blade remained mum.
The dark sheath is now red. My garments have been stained. My face bleeds and
even that is not enough.
Finally, kneeling before my master, it hit me. Maybe these were not enough.
Hated enemies, perhaps my blade desired the blood of he who I served. He was saying
something to me, my daimyo, but I paid no attention. I stared at his neck, watching the
veins pulse and throb like one who was in love.
My blade was at hand. This blood, this sacred blood was here. It was all I needed
to do. I knew the measure of those I served and knew they would come as the sounds
echoed first. I had no desire to be silent, I wanted my companions. They too possessed
the fuel I needed. I would make a pyre of them all. And by that light would I read the
tome of mastery.
Would they be enough? I cared not. I had all Tokyo before me. More people than
the stars of the sky, they could all be the price of my knowing.
Noticed or not by he who thought himself my master, I placed my hand upon him
who was my sword. I clenched it in my fist.
And then I understood. Then that bit of lore which I sought not but was supreme
all the same was upon my mind.
Its never enough. It would never be enough. Should I give the world to my blade,
it would not be enough.
Staring at me as I had my epiphany, my exmaster spoke something I could not
hear. He repeated it. I paid no heed.
"Good bye," I said. I rose and left, even as he ordered me to return.
I took my oath today. No more. That path is closed.
Who were you who named me the cause of the red rain? Why can I not remember
either your name or face? It matters.
I will go and learn. For that knowledge may be greater.