Chapter Text
My samurai taught me that throwing your scabbard of your weapon means that you will fight until the bitter end. It's a sign of commitment and readiness to die in battle.
Today, I was challenged to a duel. Yamaguchi of another unit seems to be particularly angry towards me. I only briefly remember talking to him, I wasn't particularly interested in conversation with him. It seems he took great offense to that, as he has challenged me to a duel to restore his honour.
I don't really get it. I never really got it to begin with. My own honour was taken when my older sister wrestled me for the mochi our parents made and faceplanted me into the dirt. Since then I've lived a humble existence. Unfortunately, many men, especially those my age, wish to preserve theirs for some foolish reason, not having had a sister who could teach them that it means nothing.
Nevertheless, I am more than happy to duel. I never back down from a fight, even if it ends my life. At least, one can hope it does.
We meet at dawn, with my daimyo Takayama overseeing the duel. Normally, the samurai would oversee such a deal, but he seems to have been sent away on important business. Last I saw he was in the pleasure district though, so I don’t see how he couldn’t have showed up. Takayama looks at me, as if he is appraising a souvenir, trying to gauge something inside of me. There is not much to gauge, if I do say so myself.
I stand at the ready, throwing away the scabbard of my naginata. My opponent laughs at me, saying something to taunt me.
"Throwing away the scabbard I see? This ant is just waiting to be squashed under my boot with such a lofty gesture!"
I pay it no mind. I always mean what I do and say. My unit has hazed me enough that I don't pay mind to the attempts to get under my skin.
"Even using a woman's weapon instead of a man's, how pathetic!"
Many have made remarks about my choice of weapon. Even my officer looked at me with doubt when I gave my preference for a more refined weapon, seemingly confused that I didn't consider the katana refined.
It is a crude blade. One that only requires you to slash in the right stance. It is brutish and reliant on force. I firmly dislike tainting my hands with such a thing, especially since I've seen the primates that use such a tool.
A naginata is more elegant and refined. Many call it a housewife's weapon, but I believe it is because the women know that it is the better choice of weapon. It requires finesse and skill, which is much more elegant than flailing your blade around with brute force.
I silently ready my weapon, awaiting the first move of the challenger. He approaches me quickly and predictably. It is a charge we all learn in basic training. His stance isn't ready for another move, he is committing to this.
He raises his blade, ready to thrust downwards. I step aside, my more lithe armour offering me the mobility. I quickly raise my weapon to slash at him, which he responds to with a quick adjustment of his stance, blocking my slash.
The duel goes on. I block a strike, he tries to hit again. His wounded pride not letting him go without striking. He wishes to overpower me, to put a weakling, a wakashu like me in their place.
He is wearing himself out using such a brutish weapon with such heavy strikes. He does not notice that his grip on his weapon is weakening with each failed strike.
He raises his blade once more for a strike. I move aside, but this time, I catch the blade with my weapon, twisting the sharp end around his hilt and pressing my armoured forearm against his to put pressure on both sides of his blade to yank it out of his grip.
The weapon hits the ground with a soft tap, hitting the foliage of the field we stand on. I quickly then raise my blade to his neck, putting pressure on his shoulder to make him kneel. With reluctance, he complies. The sharp blade just barely not hitting the flesh of his neck.
Takayama ends the duel, yelling something out that I didn't quite hear. I look at him and see that he is smiling. He is smiling like he just found gold in his yuri-ita. His eyes on me unnerve me.
"Yoshida, come with me."
I follow, leaving my opponent, who's name I have already forgotten, behind on his knees.
On the way, I grab my scabbard. My grip tightens on the scabbard, like it is an accursed item that I shouldn't have in my hands, yet here it somehow finds itself again.
Takayama leads me to his quarters. He orders me to leave my equipment by the entrance. Then he guides me to a water basin. He washes his hands and face. I follow suit, cleansing myself of the sweat from the disappointing duel. He sits me down in the room. On display are several tools used to make tea. He makes a show of it to wash them individually before my eyes. His movements are practiced and rigid, like he's done all of this before. Maybe it's a ritual of sorts?
He prepares two cups of tea and offers me a cup. Naturally, I bow and receive it. He then starts to talk.
"Yoshida, I've been observing you in the unit for a while. I've always felt that you had potential, being capable of more than you let on."
He takes a sip of his cup of tea, to mirror him, I take a sip of mine too.
"I have been looking for a suitable underling lately, one with the proper capacities and capabilities for the position. That duel was a perfect demonstration of both capacity and capability. First you showed me your capacities with your commitment to the duel, then you have showed me your capabilities by winning. You are a very capable soldier, which I believe would be a waste being served in such a unit."
He then looks at me, staring me right in my eyes, as if peering into the endless void of my soul and savouring it.
"I wish for you to serve under me directly. You will protect me with your life, and in turn, I will elevate you and teach you my ways.”
He pauses, looking at me and my unrefined posture. I only recently learned what the proper way to sit was, even though it numbs my knees. Back home we’d just sit on our buttocks with our legs spread, which was way more comfortable.
“...and maybe teach you some manners.”
I see now, he is looking for someone who would die for him without hesitation. I shift in my posture, trying to correct it as I realise my shoulders are slumped.
"I am deeply honoured by your offer and I accept it."
"That's what I like about you, Yoshida. You're straight to the point and don't mess around."
It is an improvement. I have nothing to complain about in the end. Especially not someone who came from peasant farmers. Yet, it feels so hollow. It doesn't feel like I accomplished anything
What follows is difficult to remember. Takayama is a daimyo, he pulled rank to elevate me to the position of samurai. The samurai who was once my officer is now my superior.
I was taught many things. I was taught about the local politics, who was important and how I had to address them. Along with teaching me how to be polite.
It was particularly difficult, as I never quite saw a point in any of it. It was just posturising for each other to feel important, no matter our true thoughts.
Takayama noticed that, naturally. So he beat me with a wooden stick for my insolence. I would be made to rest on my knees, hands resting, not closed, resting, on my lap. He would then hit me. If I flinched, he would hit me again for flinching, adding that to the total amount of hits I needed for that day’s disciplining.
He seemed rather fond of such a form of corporal punishment. Even though he made me hide the bruises with extra clothing should bruises have formed. Nor was I allowed to limp after.
He was fairly successful. After the beatings started, I learned quickly. Like a horse being whipped to speed up.
As his samurai, I also had to represent him during many duels. These were my favourite parts of the duty. It was exciting, exhilarating. I could briefly escape the rigors and politics around me to just focus purely on combat.
Each time I would duel, I would throw my scabbard to the ground. I always fight to the death. No matter the opponent. It was a challenge from me, maybe even a plead, to bring me to that end.
None have succeeded so far, much to my dismay. It has resulted in various reactions from my opponents, though.
One was a particularly irate samurai, who yelled out to me:
“A greenhorn like you needs to learn his place!”
It seems he was particularly bothered by the fact that I was pledging my life to the duel. Like I was dishonouring him. Initially I didn’t understand why they were angry. I always meant what I communicated with such a gesture, but people didn’t seem to understand that.
Thankfully, Takayama was there to guide me with his stick. After I won the duel, he took me back to his quarters.
“Kneel.”
I could hear it in his tone of voice. I understood what he meant by now when he said it like that.
I took off my shirt, then I took off my pants, leaving my body bare. I once tried to object, saying that I would at least prefer my clothes on as baring my body before the world felt.. wrong. He insisted however, telling me that the clothing would protect me from his blows and that such humiliation should be borne as a real man should.
A real man. What a foolish concept. Such words never worked on me, but his threats to parade me around in such a state did work.
I rest on my knees, crossing my feet across one another. He never made me fold my hands as is demanded of such a sitting position, instead making me rest them on my lap. He wanted to see if I would tense them. It was around this time that I stopped doing that.
He grabs his usual stick, a long wooden katana. It feels like a tool of repentance for every strike that failed to hit me, being dished out by my daimyo with a vengeance.
He struck me, I remain upright. He strikes me again, hitting my elbow. My arm feels numb.
“Throwing your scabbard? A real samurai wouldn't sully such a sacred act like you have!”
I then learned the reason for my punishment. I was never allowed to ask, only to observe and learn the reason for my punishment.
He hits me again, this time against my upper arm.
“Why would you do that, Yoshida? Answer me.”
“Because I intend to fight every battle until I draw my last breath.”
He hits me again, this time against the face. I almost fail to remain upright, but maintain posture. Seems that was the wrong answer.
“Such a gesture should only be saved for battles that truly matter to you. Not on these petty duels with your peers!”
He strikes me again. I can’t remember where anymore. My body hurts all over.
This was the first time he punished me for the act. It was also my first duel with a higher class member of society. Perhaps he assumed that because I threw my scabbard, I was gesturing that I would win anyways. A show of haughtiness and superiority when I should be humble.
But I truly did mean what I communicated. I was ready, hoping to die.
He never seemed to get it, though. Every duel I would throw my scabbard. After every duel, he’d beat me for throwing my scabbard and ‘sullying’ the gesture I was using as intended.
I never learned, for there was nothing to learn on this matter.