Chapter Text
Tonight the fire in his heart lies dormant.
There is no warm fire at the edge of his feet, only the cold smoothness of a wooden floor and whatever warmth a single blanket has to offer him. No waves to beckon him to sleep, just the soft white noise of nighttime and the very distant chirping of crickets. No view of a vast ocean illuminated by moonlight - only the drab colors of the shoji across the room, bleakly filtering the light of a candle outside. All in all his room is cool, quiet, and quaint, and he very quickly despises it.
Not that such a spartan little room upset him by design. It comes with a bed, its doors and windows keep the draft from blowing in, and the roof is free of any leaks. It is average, but far more comfortable than what he is used to. No, the room does not bother him at all, but the silence does.
This was his first night alone.
The emptiness of solitude is a feeling Kubo never thought he'd loathe. Granted, he'd never gone a day in his life without someone for company. For the past twelve years he had always come home to a loved one, and they'd eat together, and they'd sit at the edge of a makeshift hearth and exchange stories. He'd fall asleep to the sound of the ocean outside their cliffside home, breathing in the comforting scents of sea-salt and charcoal. The warmth that lingered off the dying flames kept him comfortable for the night -- and even if he'd wake to a bad dream, there was always someone there, sleeping nearby. Someone whose presence alone could ease his childish fears.
Perhaps all these years, Kubo had taken it for granted. Even after his grandfather had taken his mother's place, the routine had scarcely changed. Perhaps, even after all these years, he still yearns for dependency. Kubo is, after all, still only twelve.
To ease his anxiety, he works with sheets of washi paper. There is paper loosely stacked in the blue cloth he used for a rucksack and slips tucked away in the pockets of his kimono sleeves. His fingers shape red patterned paper into the familiar figure of a samurai. When it's finished, he slips partway under his blanket, and clutches the figure in his hand.
The gentle shuffle of geta on wood outside of his room prompts Kubo to shift under his blanket. The innkeeper is still awake, and blowing out candles as he passes by. Kubo rolls onto his side, tugging the sleeves of his robes further down his arms. He brings one up to his nose and takes a deep breath; although its laced with sweat and wild grasses from the day's travel, the smell of sea salt and a bonfire still clings to it. It reminds him of home.
As Kubo tucks his arm beneath his head, he brings the little paper samurai closer to his face, brushing his thumb across it fondly. Tonight, it is the only thing that coaxes him to sleep.
If there is one thing that strikes a familiar nerve, it is a crowd. The village he'd stayed in is not his own, but is no less busy than his hometown in its better days. The marketplace here is bustling, filled with peasants who browse eagerly and merchants poised to offer their wares. For Kubo, who is looking particularly exhausted from a poor night's sleep, it is a welcome change.
He has to shove his way through several of the locals, which Kubo does with surprising grace, and eventually he finds the stand with cheap manju buns that he had been eyeing the afternoon before. He purchases two for himself. The merchant glances over his belongings with brows raised.
"That's a beautifully kept shamisen you have there. I haven't seen one in a long while."
While sinking his teeth into one of the manju, Kubo's eye darts towards the sao of the instrument strapped to his back. Its sheen betrays how old it truly is, and its good condition confutes the damage it has taken. An ordinary shamisen would not have survived the ordeals its been put through, and indeed, it was not an ordinary shamisen. "Thank you, I do what I can to take care of it. How much further is the Kaga Province from here?"
"Ah, further north. A little ways past the mountain. But I wouldn't go there on my own if I were you. The roads are no place for children."
"Thank you, sir."
Kubo offers them no other comment, in spite of the man's warning. As he turns away he catches a glimpse of the merchant's wandering eyes, where they find the scabbard fastened to his hip. The Sword Unbreakable stands out more than his shamisen does, for its size and remarkable gleam strikes against his small frame and dull silks. Yet the boy simply smiles and takes another bite into his manju.
The early morning slowly turns to day. He's sat himself on the porch of a nearby building at the end of the marketplace, and once he's finished his snack he's left to count the coin he still has. Kubo had left a sizable sum of money back home, with which the villagers could use to look after his grandfather. The rest he took with him. It wasn't an ample amount, what he had; he had to give up a lot to pay for a bed at the inn, and he figures he will need to save up more if he is going to make the rest of journey to Daigo's territory safely.
The boy draws his tongue over his lips in thought; there is only enough to fit in his palm. Thinking, he slips his shamisen strap up over his shoulder and slings the instrument across his lap, crossing one leg over the other to cradle it. Of course he had his own strategy for earning money when he is in pickles like these, and it was the same one he had used since he was younger. But would it work in an unfamiliar town?
After about twenty seconds of pondering, Kubo lifts his instrument by the sao and makes for a less crowded patch of the marketplace. He unties the makeshift pouch across his torso and unfolds it, revealing the stacks of paper that had been stored inside. He pulls out his bachi from the sash around his waist and lifts it into the air, poised to come down across the silken strings once more.
"If you must blink, do it now."