ⅰ. Contrasts
Rating: Safe? Like, it's fine. Just comparing them.
Summary: Jin and Mugen are polar opposites.
They were nothing like each other.
Night and day, the two men came from different worlds, one holding his head up high upon the likes of kings and queens, the other trudging through dirt paths as a stranger to the world. One had a future of promise, and when exiled, had everything to lose. The other abandoned home for the hopes of something better with everything to gain.
It was Jin who wore his katana like a ruler would his crown.
It was Mugen who drew his sword like a survivor would his lifeline.
Black and white, their minds couldn't function any more differently. They crashed together like a conflict bred for war, mentality and ideas clashing the way their blades had. They continuously came and parted, speaking little yet fluent in the language of combat. Parry. Dodge. Strike. Blow. Rinse and repeat this never-ending waltz, a dangerous dance made just for two.
Jin was the calm before the storm.
Mugen brought cracking thunder and relentless rain.
Hot and cold, their language and their lives served as mere antonyms. The noble samurai walked with an air of elegance, regality resting on his shoulders like the reds of royalty. He spoke little, so quiet and reserved. He appeared almost disjointed from the rest of reality, a figure so stately he sat on a throne too high up for anyone to reach. Too refined. Too perfect. Too much. And at the feet of nobility rested a vagrant whose name was synonymous with misfortune and bad luck. As everyone bowed and offered their loyalty, he spat in the face of such nobility and showed only defiance and independence. He didn't care. People wonder if he'd any in the world. His strides bore the image of a free spirit, one unshackled to expectations and rules. This was his world, and he would own it with every breath in his lungs. Having fought for his survival - for his very right to exist - he carried with him the spirit of a beast; it wasn't extinguishable, and he was infinite.
Jin was the persistent winter that bit and froze.
Mugen was the raging fever that burned and scorched.
Like life and death, they seemed to embody different phases of life. One was the past - established and controlled - the other, the future - wild, unpredictable. Born into the life of the warrior, the exiled ronin was raised in traditions now forgotten. He was groomed to embody the spirit of a dying class, raised to carry a name only to be found in the pages of history. His time had come before he'd ever been born, the way of the samurai now a legend only spoken when seeking the comforts of nostalgia. And as his age vanished, it was steadily replaced by his presence.The ex-pirate refused to reminisce, to remember the hell in which he'd escaped from within just in inch of his life. There was no turning back. He knew only one direction: forward.
Jin was tradition, something safe and known.
Mugen was the possibilities, dangerous and thrilling.
And yet, despite being so different, their roads had twined together.
Blades drawn and blood boiling, they promised to play as the other's own executioner.
And like the sun and the moon, they were caught in an endless chase.
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