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Side Story #20: Isamu’s Horse (Male Kohaku Version)
🕑 Added 2020-03-07 17:01:31 +0000 UTC<Author’s note: This story takes place before the events of Book 1.>
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Side Story 20: Isamu’s Horse (Male Kohaku Version)
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■■ Shima ■■
Isamu was thirteen today—his father’s servants had to remind him. For a boy his age to forget his own birthday was unheard of, but the only son and heir to General Shatao was often reading, daydreaming or both. He preferred to be lost in his head than stuck in his body.
The former was far less frail.
With practiced patience, the boy rose from his futon over to his desk where an elaborate meal of grilled tuna, miso soup and fresh tea waited for him. It was a hearty meal to start the day, and—as always—far too much for Isamu to finish. Which was fine considering the half-dozen cats waiting outside his window for their daily portions. Isamu was about to toss over his tuna when he heard the drill sergeant down below.
“Keep those arms up, men! Swing faster!”
Spring had come early to the rocky coastline and wooded hills of Eastern Hyuga. It was Isamu’s least favorite season, but not because he enjoyed the snow. It was because the cold no longer kept the soldiers indoors, and from his windows he could see the barracks rouse with activity, from marching drills to sword training to archery on horseback.
It was what every son of a samurai dreamed of doing—but for Isamu at least, it would forever remain a dream. He was forbidden from doing anything fun, or at least that was it felt like to him. The boy left out a wistful sigh as he choked down chunks of fish and watched the soldiers train. Some weren’t much older than he was, Isamu knew. Not that he knew any of them personally.
It wasn’t like he had any friends.
*BahRoo*
A familiar horn sounded and put a pause to Isamu’s despair. The boy had an ear for horns and knew this one was carried by none other than General Shatao himself. “Father has returned from the Capital! He’s early, isn’t he?”
Isamu rushed to get dressed just as the soldiers scattered into lines by the roadside in preparation to bow and greet their liege lord. Shatao led his entourage of over a hundred mounted samurai atop his brilliant stead which was armored from head to hooves just like its rider.
Shima samurai were known to be the toughest and most stubborn warriors on the battlefield—the animal on their banners, the King Crab, was evidence of that. Of course they weren’t all of one family, nor of any clan. Isamu’s father had to renounce his claims in the aftermath of the Golden Era to end the endless wars.
The proud Taira clan had bent the knee to the Imperial Throne, and instead of fighting a losing battle, Shatao was granted a general’s rank and the Shima territories. It did not come without an air of dishonor, however, as some even whispered that the spirits had cursed the man for his cowardice. The early death of his wife and the frailty of his son was proof, they said.
Though they said it nowhere near Isamu, the inner walls of Shatao’s fortress-turned-mansion were much thinner than those facing the coastline. Isamu had cried himself to sleep more than a few nights after that. How cruel fate could be, for a boy’s very presence to bring shame to his father.
And that was why Isamu kept to himself and in his room more often than not. Though today was an exception—he marched down to the main hall in his best silk kimono, prepared to receive his father with a smile and cheer. The general had been away since the start of winter and no doubt had plenty of stories to tell.
By the time Isamu reached the main hall it was a blur of activity: chefs running to prepare for an impromptu feast, servants rushing to prepare rooms, and guards hurrying to their posts. More than a few had bumped into the boy as he went about his much slower pace, but Isamu was undeterred as he took his rightful seat beside his father’s throne.
When the grand doors opened, the chamber went quiet. A single set of armored footsteps echoed as Shatao’s tall figure emerged. His red armor, though dirtied from his travels, glistened under the morning’s light. Everyone bowed low as he passed in silence, his gaze unseen behind his white-maned helmet.
That was until he took it off once he reached the foot of the stairs facing the three thrones. The man was scarred and grizzled, and just beyond middle aged—with a bushy beard and a balding head of hair that made for a natural chonmage that had no need for shaving.
Most importantly, for the first time in a year or longer, Isamu saw him smile.
“Happy birthday, Isamu-kun.”
Isamu returned the gesture before bowing low and thanking him. When he raised back up his head, his father was no longer alone—there was a man beside him holding a crate covered in silk.
“I left Yamato early to make sure I got here in time. It has been far too many years since we last celebrated your birthday together,” said Shatao. Though his voice was stern and monotone, the words were more than enough kindness for Isamu. “You are thirteen now—well on your way to becoming a man. And so I give you these, my son.”
The silk was removed and a suit of Kendo armor and a bamboo sword was revealed underneath. Isamu couldn’t believe his eyes. Shatao then gestured to the man beside him, introducing him as a sword instructor from Yamato—one of the best teachers in Hyuga.
“Under his tutelage, you shall come to master the way of the sword,” Shatao said, giving an order his son was all too eager to obey. “More than that, I expect you to follow my footsteps in the way of the warrior: Bushido.”
“Hai! I will, Father! I swear it!”
Though to others this was a son inheriting his father’s position, lands and titles, to Isamu it was something far simpler and much more meaningful. For this was the first time that his father had asked and expected anything from his frail, forgotten son.
And Isamu would rather die than let him down.
■■■■
“Eiyah...yah...uh…” Isamu shouted his kiai—his warrior cry—though it came out more like a groan. His arms were in a tremendous amount of pain, but that was nothing compared to the blisters opening up under his feet as he was forced to swing and step, swing and step across the dojo floor.
“Enough,” said the instructor, whose name was Hiroku Toshizō. He came from a rich family with close ties to the Emperor, and he held this job and the countryside of Shima in low regard. “It’s hardly been five minutes, but at this rate you’ll break down if I push you further. Your limits are as low as I feared.”
Isamu fell to his knees both to catch his breath and to apologize at the same time. Toshizō ignored him, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “I know about your condition: your bones are more brittle than most. It’s like fighting with a porcelain blade and hoping it doesn’t shatter...sheer nonsense—just like this assignment.”
“Please, Sensei! I can do it! I can learn how to be a samurai! I, I have to…” Isamu pleaded, snot running down his nose and tears welling in his eyes. He had just enough time to wipe his face and stand when his father entered the dojo, asking about his progress.
The instructor’s tone and personality changed completely. “The young master is learning exceedingly fast, my lord! Why, by the time summer starts he should be ready for practice duels!”
Shatao nodded and praised Isamu for the first time in his life. His son couldn’t help but smile even if he had to clench his teeth in pain to do so. He had already broken something in his right foot since the start of this morning’s lesson, but he’d be damned if a broken toe would stop him from becoming a samurai.
“I’m not going to let you down, Father! No matter what!”
Just as Shatao was about to observe Isamu’s training, a horn sounded off yet again. The boy knew this one belonged to the Westerners—those of the Nanbu clan who swore their loyalty to his father. They were allowed to return to their families and ranches during the winter months, provided they returned with steeds for the soldiers.
Nanbu horses were the best around, and combined with the heavy armor of Shima samurai, Shatao’s army made for a formidable force. The only downside was the cultural differences between the two—though fear of General Shatao’s wrath kept everyone in check.
The presence of the Westerners drove the chefs into an even greater frenzy as the number of mouths increased even further. Isamu’s training was suspended for the day as festivities ensued. Everyone had forgotten about the boy’s birthday until Shatao brought it up at supper, for which the—now intoxicated—leader of the Western samurai promised a special gift befitting the son of their leige lord, to be granted after the feast was over.
“Arigato gozaimasu! Thank you very much, Nobunao Nanbu-san,” Isamu said with the utmost respect. It was perhaps more respect than the drunken rancher-turned-samurai deserved, but he was the brother of Haramusa Nanbu—a man his father had respected a great deal. The two had fought against each other in the Golden Era before joining forces, and after quelling the uprisings in the West, Haramusa swore fealty to Shatao.
His immediate family had done likewise, and speaking of which—there was a new face at their table. A young one.
“Thirteen, you say you were? Darn near a man! Shapin’ up just like ‘yer father, yes sir! Oh,” said Haramusa, noticing who Isamu was staring at, “that’s right. Go up and introduce yourself, Kohaku!”
The boy called Kohaku was almost a head taller than Isamu was, and twice as broad. Though his clothes were as messy as his unruly hair, there was seriousness in him that made him seem older than he was. He was shy, too—or at least, he couldn’t look up at them as he approached their table. And once he did, he fell to his knees and placed his forehead to the floor.
“Lord Shatao, I, Kohaku of House Nanbu, swear ‘ah serve you as my father did. I hum-humbly offer you this oath, milord!”
Isamu was taken aback by the boy’s display. Though spoken in the Western dialect, his words were clear and brimming with passion. The respect he had for Shatao was evident, so much so that he had to be told twice unbow before he did.
“By both look and mannerisms, you are Haru-kun’s son. It is my honor that one so young dedicates himself to me. May everyone in this hall take notice!” Shatao shouted, to which everyone cheered. He then asked for Kohaku’s age, which turned out to be twelve. “A year younger than my Isamu-kun. I have no doubt you two will be as close friends as myself and your father were, Kohaku Nanbu.”
The thought of having friends at all thrilled Isamu, and he became eager to meet Kohaku in less formal circumstances. So much so that after the feast was over, instead of returning to his room for the night, Isamu sneaked off to the section of the barracks where the Westerners dwelled.
He spotted Kohaku entering the stables, but before Isamu could do the same, yelling came from inside. The voice was Kohaku’s and it was far less respectful than the one Isamu had heard at supper.
“Let him go! You ain’t takin’ my horse! I don’t care what’cha promised that brat, Uncle!”
“Shush your mouth, Koha-kun! This colt don’t belong to nobody but Lord Shatao—or was that oath o’ yours just words?”
“But! But I helped birthed him! He’s mine! Give that kid someone else’s horse!”
Isamu’s gaze fell to the ground. The disparaging words from Kohaku—the Westerner’s honest feelings—crushed any hope of them becoming friends. Isamu was going to end up taking the horse Kohaku cared so dearly about. The boy was no doubt going to hold a grudge against him for the rest of his time here, unless…
“...unless I come up with a plan!”
Isamu hurried as best he could with a broken toe back to the throne room where he waited for the Westerners to arrive with his birthday gift. Though it was growing late at night, fatigue was hardly a concern as the boy’s mind raced with what he had to do to fix this problem.
Before he knew it, the large doors opened once more and three figures emerged. The first was the uncle who bore an exaggerated grin on his face. To contrast him, at his side was Kohaku looking at the floor helplessly, his head bobbing upwards at every sniffle.
Led by the reins in the boy’s hand was the third and final figure—the horse. He was two years old though already impressive in size, with a healthy shine to his chestnut coat, black mane and tail. He was nervous as most would be, though not because he was in the presence of General Shatao. The movement of servants along with the raging fires in the braziers was too much for the colt to be comfortable.
And though Kohaku was amidst a fit of despair, the boy petted and soothed the horse as they marched forward. Both his skill and attachment to it was obvious. It made what Isamu had to do next all the more clear.
After the uncle presented it and General Shatao voiced his praise and approval of the steed, it was Isamu’s turn to speak. Though instead of speaking, he approached the horse and stroked it’s back, then asked Kohaku for its name.
“He...he doesn’t have one. Milord,” the boy said, wiping his nose.
“Then how does ‘Tatsuya’ sound?” Isamu asked, and for the first time Kohaku raised his head and looked him in the eyes. He nodded in approval. The name meant ‘he who is an achievement’, and he certainly would be—for Isamu to ride such a steed by his father’s side would be more than he could ever hope for.
“I shall fetch the best rider among my ranks to instruct you in horsemanship,” Shatao said. Though as he did, Isamu could see the smile on Kohaku’s face turn back to a frown. Tatsuya neighed out as if to personally oppose the idea.
“Father,” Isamu asked, “would it not be better to learn from a rider my age and size? I believe Kohaku Nanbu would be more than suitable as an instructor.”
The boy in question gasped and nodded, looking first at his uncle and then at Shatao with pleading eyes. The samurai general would not deny his son’s request, and so tonight Isamu gained more than just a horse.
He gained a friend.
■■■■
The week after Isamu’s thirteenth birthday was the boy’s most eventful in years. Though there were cultural and class differences between him and Kohaku, none of that mattered. The two chatted for hours about samurai and famous battles, particularly their fathers and their deeds in the Golden Era. Kohaku wasn’t as well-read as Isamu but his enthusiasm to learn and his penchant for asking questions made Isamu feel smart and important.
This week was also, however, the most taxing on Isamu’s body. After drilling and disappointing his sword instructor each morning, Isamu was sore all over and aching from broken blisters. But he held in the pain as he helped Kohaku clean and feed Tatsuya his lunch.
Isamu was hardly a natural around horses, but Tatsuya had a gentle demeanor for a colt his age. While just getting on the saddle was the extent of his horsemanship training, he hoped one day to be able to do all the jumps, turns and sprinting that Kohaku was able to do with ease. He was jealous of the Westerner’s expertise, but in return, Kohaku was jealous of him.
“It just ain’t fair,” he pouted late one afternoon, “I don’t gets to use a katana like the others do. Uncle says I have to sit and watch—some samurai that’ll make me! I’m just doing chores.”
“If you would like, we could use the practice swords at my father’s dojo. We should have the place to ourselves for an hour or so.”
“R-really?!” Kohaku shouted, jumping to his feet and shaking in excitement. “Reckon that’s the best news I’ve heard, Isamu-kun! Let’s get goin’!”
Isamu couldn’t help but laugh. Not just at the accent, but of Kohaku’s unrestrained excitement. There was something about the boy’s emotions that was contagious—his happiness made Isamu happy, too. “Is this what having friends is like?” he wondered.
The two entered the training hall within the mansion but only Isamu walked in. Kohaku was stunned by the size of the hall and the shine of the lacquered, pinewood floor. “Wow…this is amazin’! You’re so lucky to have a place like this to train, Isamu-kun!”
Isamu supposed he was, though considering he had been raised in this mansion all his life he had thought little of it. Mostly, he was pitied for his condition; to be envied instead—even if it was just because of this large training hall—was a welcome change.
When one son of a samurai handed a bamboo practice sword to the other, it wasn’t long before the boys got themselves into a duel. It was just for practice and fun, but that didn’t mean either of them was going to hold back.
Which was a problem when you had bones made of glass.
It ended after a single strike. Kohaku hadn’t hit him—he didn’t need to for the damage to have been done. When their swords collided, the force of their swings did, too, and the vibration was enough to cause bones within Isamu’s arms to crack. The boy let out a painful wail, but the pain was far more than physical.
It was embarrassing and shameful, too.
■■■■
The second week of Isamu’s thirteenth birthday was much more akin to the ones of his younger years, spent alone in his bed save for when it was time for his meals to be fed to him by his servants. Recovering like this was life as usual for Isamu, though after having a taste of adventure and camaraderie with Kohaku—he realized just how lacking it was.
“Not that it matters,” Isamu grumbled as he stared at the ceiling. “He won’t want to be friends with a weakling like me, anymore.”
A crash outside his door roused Isamu from his futon. It was about time for the servants to deliver him his lunch, but the footsteps outside weren’t any he recognized. Isamu was suspicious and even more so when his shoji door slid open and the cart with his meal moved in by itself.
Or rather, it was being pushed by someone who couldn’t be seen above the dish’s silver cover. That person was none other than Kohaku, who had a giant grin on his face as he removed the cover from the dish.
“Bet’cha never had Westlands-style tempura before, have ya?” Kohaku asked with a chuckle before his voice grew with concern. “Don’tcha like chicken, Isamu-kun?”
Isamu wiped away his watery eyes with his kimono sleeve. His tears weren’t of sadness but of relief and joy. He had thought Kohaku wouldn’t want to be friends with him again after the incident—and told him as much.
“That’s silly. Now open your trap,” Kohaku said as he plucked a piece of fried chicken with a pair of chopsticks and motioned it over to Isamu’s mouth. He managed to drop it on Isamu’s futon twice, causing them both to laugh.
“Thank you for the meal, Kohaku-kun...I’m sorry if you got into any trouble on my account. I really am...huh?”
Isamu stopped mid sentence when the Westerner fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the floor. “I’m the one who needs to be apologizin’. I hurt milord’s son, and now you gotta spend weeks cramped up in here ‘till you get better! I promise I won’t be so rough around ya’ ever again, Isamu-kun!”
The apology only made Isamu feel worse. No matter how well Kohaku tried to hide it, the boy would forever act differently around Isamu after that day. “I know it is too much to ask of you to treat me as you did before...but if I am ever to become a samurai, I cannot continue to be coddled. I can’t let this weakness hold me back.”
“I know what you mean,” Kohaku said with a seriousness that erased all doubt. “One day, we’ll both become as strong as our fathers!”
Isamu smiled and agreed. “That’s a promise. Now...how is Tatsuya-kun?”
■■■■
The leaves on the maples that Shima was known for had grown, flourished and changed colors in the seasons that followed. Its unchanged cycle was perhaps the only constant in Isamu’s world, which—thanks entirely to Kohaku—had grown tremendously from the confines of Shatao’s mansion.
Together, the two went on adventures everywhere: from the rocky shores where they collected seashells to the forests where they set up traps for both rabbits and Kondo barbarians alike. They had little luck catching either, but fun nonetheless. Enough fun to make the aches in Isamu’s body go numb and ignored.
Most of their time however, was spent in the stretch of plains reserved for the horses. Tatsuya was growing at a rapid pace and Isamu’s fledgling skills as a rider were struggling to keep up. The boy had a newfound appreciation for the majestic animals: not only were they incredibly smart, they had personalities and mood swings the same as any person.
Not only that, they had an uncanny ability to detect fear. Try as Isamu might to mimic Kohaku’s handling—from keeping Tatsuya still while putting on his saddle to turning him left or right mid-trot—it was helpless so long as Isamu remained afraid. Tatsuya would either rebuff him or ignore his order entirely.
“Still doesn’t trust ya yet,” Kohaku said, consoling his friend. “Gotta keep yer grip on the reins stern and yer voice level. Horse and riders are partners, but you gotta be the boss. Else you’re just diggin’ for water under the outhouse!”
Isamu sighed and nodded at Kohaku’s rancher wisdom. It seemed as if all Westerners were born to the saddle and equipped with a multitude of sayings, idioms and phrases to go along with their unique dialect.
“I wish there was something I could give Tatsuya to make him like me more,” Isamu thought aloud. “Like a reward for when he does as I ask...a treat—and I know just the one!”
That was how the pair of boys and their horse ended up searching for grapes in a far-off field over an hour away from the barracks. There was no road to get there, but Isamu had overheard the servants speak of it in the past. Kyoho grapes were large, dark-purple orbs that were very sweet and juicy. They were also exceedingly hard to come by—but it was worth the effort if it helped Isamu gain Tatsuya’s trust.
Speaking of the horse, the chestnut colt was already quite pleased with the new area. Grapes or no, the grass here had been untouched and ungrazed upon, making for long and tasty feed. Tatsuya’s ever-present hunger was one of the reasons the going was so slow; according to the map Isamu had borrowed from his father’s war room, they were only halfway there.
Still, being away from the adults and their responsibilities were enough to put the boys in high spirits. They both had their bamboo swords on their backs along with bandages, army rations, blankets and buckets for their hopeful haul. They were two samurai out on a campaign, or so they imagined.
“Nanbu-san!” Isamu said, pitching his voice low, “I see movement in the bushes out yonder. Could be savages. Investigate and report back immediately!”
“Hai! For the Emperor!”
The two acted like how they imagined mature samurai did, pretending the water from their bottles was stiff saké and the blades of grass in their mouths were tobacco pipes. Tatsuya put an end to their imaginary smoking habit with a quick nibble.
All that saké had caught up with Kohaku who had to relieve himself in a nearby thicket. Isamu had come up with a grand idea, which involved untying his hairband and covering his face with mud. He had heard the soldiers re-enact the yells of savage Kondos before, and he was about to release his own just as Kohaku began to take a tinkle.
“Aii-YaYaYAH!” he screamed, jumping from behind a tree and flailing his sword. Kohaku jumped back in shock just as Isamu expected he would, but instead of scrambling for his weapon or cursing Isamu for his stupidity, Kohaku’s body locked up and fell to the ground. When he stayed like that for moments longer, Isamu dropped the act and concern started seeping in.
“Kohaku-kun, it’s just me. Are you okay?” he asked as he fell to his friend’s side. The boy’s breathing was short and rapid as he clutched his chest and gasped out in pain. It was less than a minute later when his breathing returned to normal and the pain subsided, but Isamu’s concern for his friend lasted far longer.
“It’s nothin’...just had me a fright is all,” Kohaku said, trying to dismiss it. When Isamu wouldn’t let it go, the Westerner admitted the truth. “I got some kinda heart problem. Sometimes, when I get scared, it stops beatin’ for a while…don’t tell my uncle this happened, okay? Nobody is going to stop me from bein’ a samurai like my father!”
Isamu laughed and then assured Kohaku that he wasn’t laughing at him. “It would seem we both have conditions to overcome, to be the samurai our fathers were. In a way, I am relieved...we’re even more alike than I thought.”
“Huh, I guess you’re right. Now let’s get those grapes, already!”
■■■■
They didn’t find any grapes that day as their search was cut short by a rainstorm that left the two drenched by the time they returned to the barracks. Kohaku was scolded and punished for going out without telling anyone, while Isamu—who was just as much to blame—was given no punishment considering he was the son of their liege lord.
It wasn’t anything new, but Isamu still hated being treated differently than his friend. He wouldn’t get to see Kohaku for days later—the rains continued the next day and then several more, letting up only long enough to let the horses graze and stretch their legs before being forced into the stables again.
With winter on the horizon and the supplies dwindling fast, it was time for the Shima samurai to go out on patrol across the many villages that dotted the countryside. Their task would be to conduct a census on the farmers there, but more importantly, to gather up taxes in the form of rice.
General Shatao always led the regiment that went out for this yearly assignment, saying it was important for his people to know what their ruler looked like. His imposing figure covered in an ornate suit of armor was all it took to dissuade any potential uprisings. He would often be away for a month or more during this expedition.
And this year, unlike all the others, Isamu was going to go with him. The only men that accompanied Shatao were mounted samurai and cart drivers, and so the boy would ride Tatsuya for the journey. “Even if I’ll never be able to fight like a samurai—I’ll ride like one! If I can do that much, then for once...I’ll be a son to be proud of!”
General Shatao didn’t know about the boy’s plans—Isamu was hoping to surprise him. When his father announced that they were leaving tomorrow at dawn come rain or shine, his son knew he had to prepare.
He had to master riding Tatsuya and only had one day to do it.
“I dunno about this, Isamu-kun. This ain’t just a tempest in a teapot!” Kohaku yelled, trying to carry his voice over the wind. He had saddled Tatsuya just as Isamu had asked him to, and while the colt looked eager for a ride, the weather was bad and getting worse.
“I’m just going to do a couple circles around the field. We’ll follow the fence,” Isamu said, bracing himself as he took up his seat and grabbed a hold of the harness. He knew that if he was afraid, Tatsuya would be, too, and so the frail son of a samurai embraced his courage and hung on for dear life as the horse sped forward.
Isamu had ridden atop Tatsuya before, of course, but never this quickly or in the pouring rain. He used his voice, his legs and the reins to calm the horse’s initial excitement. He then directed Tatsuya beside the fence where they’d begin their first lap around the perimeter.
Tatsuya picked up speed from a trot to a canter, bouncing Isamu up and down atop the saddle. The boy braced himself for the bumps, following the horse’s rhythm and trying his best to remain steady. He had to squint his eyes to see the path ahead as drops of rain pounded against his face.
Though visibility was poor and the winds were strong, the two-and-a-half-year-old Tatsuya was one of Clan Nanbu’s finest, and proved his mettle by spurring forth undeterred. Loud splashes of water broke beneath his hooves like thunder as the steed moved forth like lightning—as if to challenge the skies above.
“That’s it! Great job, Tatsuya!” Isamu shouted with glee. The horse had just completed its first lap and had done so at a record pace. Not even Kohaku had gone that fast before, which gave Isamu a rare sense of pride. He knew he would be able to keep up with his father and the others tomorrow. He’d be able to ride alongside the samurai without shame or disgrace.
The boy was too focused on his daydreaming to notice the growing roars of thunder that broke out above. Isamu was too thrilled, too excited and too hopeful to be cautious. For the first time in his life he had forgotten that he was born weak and frail. At this moment he was nothing less than the son of a samurai, a boy no different than any other.
At least until the lightning struck.
*CRACK*
Tatsuya bucked up in fear as the lightning bolt came crashing down into a tree just ahead of them. His rider was flung from his saddle, left in a crumpled heap as the horse took off on its own. A thousand bony creaks popped and cracked all at once as Isamu lay sprawled atop a field of mud.
Isamu heard a yell out in the distance as he stared up into the cloudy sky. The rain was quieting to a stop and the midday sun threatened to peek out from behind the clouds. His father would have good weather for his journey tomorrow. But his son wouldn’t be accompanying him.
When the broken boy tried to move his head, every nerve in his neck and skull made him regret it. He tried likewise with his legs, arms and hands. While there was no pain in his limbs, there was nothing else, either—he was paralyzed from the neck down. Even his lungs were numb, making something as simple as breathing a near impossible task.
He could still hear, at least, and as the winds died down, the cries from Kohaku broke through.
“Isamu! Please be okay! You gotta be—you gotta!”
Tears were streaming down Kohaku’s face as Isamu peered upwards into it. Though the Westerner was as tough as any, the sight of his friend’s mangled body was more he could stand. Kohaku clutched his heart and fell to his knees, shaking his head while the rest of him trembled.
“Kohaku-kun…Tatsuya, he...listened to me,” Isamu said, his shortness of breath only allowing several words at a time. Each syllable was like a knife to the ribs. “Have to go...find him...not his fault.”
“I-I’ll be right back! I need to get you help, Isamu-kun!”
“No!” Isamu coughed, shaking his head even though it was agonizing to do so. “You can’t be...near me. Don’t tell...anyone you were here. You have to be a...samurai,” he gasped, “for both of us.”
Kohaku couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His best friend was telling him to leave, to abandon him as he laid in pain and dying. It had always been Kohaku’s dream to become a samurai, but ever since the two of them met...that dream had always had Isamu in it.
“Y-you’re not gonna die, are ya?! We promised to be as strong as our fathers one day! I’m gonna be your best samurai, and together we’ll, we’ll…” Kohaku broke down into tears. He had sworn an oath to Shatao, that day during the feast when he first arrived. But his greatest loyalty was to his friend who now struggled to draw breath.
The yells from soldiers rang out from afar. There wasn’t much time left if Kohaku was going to run and be spared Shatao’s wrath. Isamu knew this, and, as much as it pained him to speak, as much as it hurt the heart within his crumpled chest, he spoke:
“Kohaku-kun...we will never be as strong as our fathers were. NOW GO!”
And the boy went. With tears streaming down his face, Kohaku looked back just once as he ran from the best friend he would ever have.
■■■■
With his vision blurred and with his consciousness fading in and out, it was hard for Isamu to know where he was or how much time had passed. From what little he could still feel behind his neck was a pillow, and above him was the ceiling he was all too accustomed to seeing.
He was in his room, broken again. But this time he wasn’t alone. By his bedside wasn’t a doctor, a nurse or any of the servants. His father was there with a look Isamu had never seen on the samurai before: complete and total fear. He looked thinner, pale and sickly, and beneath his eyes were long shadows as if he hadn’t slept in days.
“Spirits save him, if there is any good in this forsaken world—save my son!” he pleaded and prayed. When Isamu tilted his head, the fear in his father’s haggard face turned to shock and awe. “Isamu-kun! Have you awakened?!”
“Fa...ther…” was all the boy could say. His mouth was as dry as dust and his lungs no longer drew in air. General Shatao said he needn’t speak, but Isamu had his final words to say.
“I wanted you...to be proud of me,” his son gasped, forcing out the last of his breath. “Every time...you saw me...you looked so...disappointed.”
And like a candle’s flame at the bottom of its wick, Isamu’s life was snuffed out. In its place was silence—the absence of painful and gasping breaths. Peace had enveloped the boy, who had lived and died broken but was now made whole in the heavens above.
But fires, when put out all too quickly, had a habit of drawing smoke. And in this case, a black gas drew forth from the ether. Shatao, consumed by grief and guilt over the death of his one and only son, clutched at his face and began ripping off skin with his fingers.
The foul, dark smoke gathered within him, consuming his spirit, body and mind. When it was over, Shatao gave Isamu one final look before putting on his helmet.
“My son...this cursed face of mine...no one shall see it again!”
