Touken Ranbu: A Typical Tale
Of swordboys, timey-wimeys, and a saniwa from a time where technology is God.
{Trigger warnings & mature content; viewer discretion advised.}
Their return was punctuated by a flurry of activity that spread like wildfire through the stronghold. Kitsune scampered ahead calling orders to each other and leading the way as their master half-dragged, half-carried the cloaked man to the repair room, the latter's ineffectual insistence that he was fine having petered out into the occasional weak mutter. Candlelight flickered off the golden skin of the Yakushi Nyorai statue that presided over the beds, one of which Airi now lay Yamanbagiri on. His gore-caked clothing peeled away with minimal resistance, though the woman suspected that under normal circumstances their wearer would have put up quite the fight. Presently, a white myoubu entered long enough to deliver supplies and a thin slat of wood.
"What's this? An ofuda?" the saniwa blinked, turning it over in her hands.
"A housewarming gift from Her Ladyship Benzaiten. Activating this in divinity rooms alters the flow of time within."
“Perfect.” The declaration came with the flare of pale blue light as the goddess’ power was invoked.
“...Why are you bothering so much with something like me anyhow?” Having spent until now conserving energy, the tsukumogami now mustered enough strength to quietly press her. “It doesn’t matter whether I rusted away or not--”
“Yes it does.”
For a moment her control slipped, vehemence born from the overflow of memories threatening to spill into her emotions. Already she was fighting back the phantom sense of the ground falling out from beneath her feet, the sting of glass shards raining down on her head, the ache of her white-knuckled grip on her master’s final gift: an uchigatana preserved and protected from the ravages of time and technology. With a stuttering breath she centered herself and gave him a practiced answer.
“I may be required to be pragmatic, but I am far from heartless. You are my touken danshi - my only one, mind. I take care of my own.”
Whether out of satisfaction or exhaustion, he did not rebut. Instead, his half-lidded gaze, now glassy from pain, watched her as she let the kanji-inscribed white cloth flutter over her face and raised a gohei and bells in either hand. Her first few lines of mantra were hesitant, concentrated on recall and coordination with her limbs. Gradually the words blurred in her ears, losing meaning as she eased into a trance. One by one, symbols carved into the wood lit up in time to each chime, saturating the room with the soft white of divine power.
Experience had taught Airi that such dances consumed substantial amounts of time, so her shock was warranted when she shuffled wearily out of the repair room to find it was still light out before she was reminded of the ofuda that Benzaiten had gifted her. Yamanbagiri had lost consciousness some time during the ritual, so she began arranging around him, sending aides to move him to the infirmary and to launder their clothes. One fortuitous aspect of the touken danshi was that the raiment they manifested in seemed to be considered a part of their spiritual essence in some manner; when she’d handed the soiled garments over she’d noticed that the nicks and tears in his outfit had disappeared. It wasn’t until after she was certain the blond had been settled in that she trudged to her room, collapsing into her futon.
Morning filtered sunlight and a few stray petals in through the window, rousing the saniwa as warm rays caressed her cheek. Still savouring the nostalgic bliss of a quickly-fading dream, she lay there a few minutes longer until her mind registered that she was staring at an unfamiliar ceiling from an unfamiliar distance. Tatami floor. Paper doors. Futon. Yesterday's events came rushing back, provoking her to scramble out of bed. Minutes later she rushed off down the hall, still tying back her whip of long hair, calling for the foxes to start the day.
Konnosuke met with her in the dining hall, where they debriefed over breakfast. Their swift and sudden intervention had rewarded them with some breathing room, granting them time to regroup and recuperate. Hakodate had been a fluke; the next time she met the History Retrograde Army, she would do so without the element of surprise. Once she finished eating, the small kitsune led her out back to a building that radiated arid waves. Materials were scarce at present, but Airi resolved to forge a blade with what was on hand; a small sword was better than none. Her team of smiths, led by a stout vixen whose roan fur was singed and patched with soot, has spent the majority of the previous afternoon and evening working and sorting the steel. Binding back her sleeves and bangs, she set to work on the forging process.
How long had it been since she last held a hammer, felt the blast of heat from the furnace? The thought sent a pang of wistfulness through her. Even the frugality of their resources was nostalgic; in the twenty-third century, every bloom of jewel steel they were given was treated like the treasure after which it was named, knowing that Amatsumara's saniwa had spared no effort into seeing it into their hands. Was this, perhaps, her share of the last batch Master Suzuran could make before leaving to her station at the Museum? She could almost imagine the older woman's toothy smirk, stark white against skin darkened by sun and flame, her robust ruddy wine, like the glow of a hearth just past its prime--
"--ki. Master Chousaki? Are you alright?"
Snapping back to herself, Airi realized the steel had long since cooled in her trembling hands. A tight smile as she brushed sweat from her brow, blinking back the hot prickle in her eyes.
"Yeah. Just a little nostalgic."
Every strike and heat was made with redoubled effort and care, spurred by the memory of her former forge-mates and a desire to do them proud. Hours melted into a steady rhythm of ringing sparks and metal that heated and cooled like a slow heartbeat, broken only when the blade was taken for shaping. Her lunch of onigiri was wolfed down, and then she began mixing her clay as the small sword was returned to her for differential heat treatment. A faint smile crept along the corners of her mouth as she spread the dark paste along the dagger’s spine. Jungo had gifted one like this to Noriko the day he’d departed for the Museum with his master. A pet project, according to Kennosuke, one he’d named with the wish that his close friend would be shielded from the sorrows of war. A tantou for Jungo. A tantou for Nori.
Heat treatment and tempering completed, Airi refused any plea by the working myoubu to rest, relenting only when they promised she could finish the polishing in exchange for eating dinner in the dining hall. As she sat alone in the immense chamber waiting for her meal to be served, she slipped into a half-daze, the difference in time flow slowly seeping into her bones. Her thoughts drifted, first to her sisters under Master Kousuke, then to the man himself. The desperation in his usually calm features, sweat beading his furrowed brow as one by one his meticulously crafted barriers failed. The velvet of his indigo-blue voice, clear even in the chaos around them, his large, slender hands against her back urging her forward before him.
“Run Airi! RUN! Keep my reason to love alive!”
Wispy colour bleached near-white and the aroma of food lured her back to the waking world, where she became aware of the dampness of her cheeks. The foxes beside her gazed at the woman in confused concern, but dared not investigate as she took up her chopsticks and quietly gave thanks for her meal.
With Benzaiten’s ofuda still in effect (and some suspected kitsune magic), the forge team had made far more progress than she’d expected. Since it was only a medium, there was no need to put the tantou through finer grits; nonetheless, Airi made certain the blade was in presentable condition before she moved it over to an atrium connected to the building to enact the ritual.
The swirl of petals that answered her kotodama ebbed to reveal a young boy with dark hair cropped into a bob as smart as his uniform. He introduced himself as Hirano Toushirou, only for his expression to immediately contort into open worry when the woman standing before him swayed precariously on her feet.
“A Toushirou... wonderful...” Her words slurred with exhaustion; she sunk into darkness chased by panicked chocolate tones.
Blinded by the overwhelming urgency the historic disruption had left, Airi had neglected any sort of preparation, a shortcoming that unsettled her as the light of the time dial faded, leaving the three of them in the outskirts of a harbour city. As he reverted to his human form in a flourish of petals, the sword surveyed their destination, a frown on his lips.
“What’s the situation?”
Lips parted, ready to answer, only to bite down in a grimace, fighting nausea as Omoikane’s gift flared. Words churning, coalescing, colourizing into shifting images. Ships upon the water, the burst of cannon fire reverberating over the waves, figures scurrying across the decks. A darkness, a sickly black-flecked sanguine purple, ate at the bizarre vision like some malignant disease; again, that same ripple she’d felt in the shrine and a grainy static ringing in her ears. When the vertigo lifted, the saniwa found herself steadied by Yamanbagiri’s firm grip, which he promptly released once she’d steadied herself.
"Head for the port. Six of them will be arriving shortly. Konnosuke, today’s date is May 3rd, 1869, correct?”
"Yes, Master!”
“They’re going to interfere with the naval battle that breaks out tomorrow. Brief Yamanbagiri on the events. Yamanbagiri, I reiterate your directive: find and destroy any member of the History Retrograde Army, and thus protect the course of history.”
Hakodate, city of the Ezo Republic's, a pseudo-government consisting of the former Tokugawa shogunate forces, last stand. It was here that the end of an era and the beginning of a new one met. Faced with bad luck and superior weaponry, the Republic had lost the conflict, a defeat which had followed them back to shore, where they had ultimately surrendered their two key fortresses almost a month later. Small wonder that the History Retrograde Army would target this event, but why would they interfere in the way she’d foreseen?
Whether she felt or heard the time-space distortion first, neither were entirely certain, but the moment a ring of light yawned open overhead, both of them knew this was the foe they sought. Half a dozen bolts of blood red lightning dropped from the gaping hole in the sky, urging the pair into a full sprint down the street. The moment they rounded the corner and came into view of the enemy, however, Airi felt her stomach knot into a ball of dread. Even a layman could distinguish that these were nothing short of monstrous. Great horns, like those of a demon, curved up from their flat serpentine heads, pinpricks of light glinting eerily from empty sockets. Orochi? No, and despite their appearance they lacked the telltale mark of Yomi. Tsukumogami? That wasn’t quite right either; they felt altered, as if halfway to becoming something closer to a vengeful spirit.
Any further deliberation of their identity was cut short when one of them gurgled out a hollow hiss and the air was suddenly alive with the rasp of stained bone. Airi tensed and reflexively reached for her kodachi, only for one of Yamanbagiri’s larger hands to cover hers, firmly pushing the partially-drawn blade back into its scabbard. Then he was front and center, his own weapon humming as he leapt in to intercept and join battle. Uchigatana met tantou in a small spurt of sparks, his larger, heavier armament easily pushing the creature aside. Steel shrieking through bone; half of a skeletal body flew, still writhing as it dissolved into a shower of fell miasma and ash. Another clash of steel against steel, and this time there was a sharp crystalline snap as the touken danshi’s blow bit into the injured beast’s knife and clove it in twain, an ear-splitting shriek rocketing through the mostly empty avenue as it corroded into nothingness.
Though their earlier interaction had made it clear the blond had wanted no assistance, his saniwa had kept her grip on the handle of her kodachi. She had been cautioned that the manifested spirits would likely require time and experience to adapt to the full intricacies of a form of flesh. His original vessel granted the advantage of reach and strength, but his was a human body newly formed. Against these current numbers, did he have the ability to overpower them? There was something in their energy, the way they wielded the daggers in their fanged jaws, that strengthened the woman’s suspicion that they were some kind of tsukumogami gone terribly wrong.
And terribly wrong was the condition the battle rapidly deteriorated to. As if to confirm her fears, the rest of the skeletal serpents, neither orochi nor tsukumogami nor onryou, began to display a level of intellect and cunning their appearances belied. Skilled as the cloaked warrior was, he was outnumbered and a bigger target, unable to fend off all five of the remaining foes at once. Line after crimson line raced across his body as Yamanbagiri swatted bravely at the aberrations that circled him like flies. Their superior agility kept his blows from being fatal, and his injuries were slowing him, gradually sapping at his strength.
A defiant snarl curled out from behind gritted teeth as the air around the blond seemed to suddenly shift even as Airi locked her thumb under the guard of her sword. For a moment she thought she saw Yamanbagiri’s blade shimmer with iridescent light, but in the next blink it was gone, the touken danshi tilting into a headlong retaliation. If he felt the smaller swords cutting into him, it didn’t show, his blue gaze burning with predatory determination. His attack struck true, caving in one snake head in a shower of dark mist and splintered bone. One creature had its tail, then the rest of its body severed in quick succession. Another that came too close found its horns separated from its bony head moments before the light from its vacant sockets guttered out as its knife shattered from the force of the next blow.
Any burgeoning hope that whatever battle fever-like state the uchigatana had entered could turn the tide of battle instantly vanished with the strangled grunt that escaped his lips. One of the tantou-wielding serpents had taken advantage of his exposed rear to rake its weapon deeply across his back, the other ramming him point-first in the gut barely a breath later. This time the gagging cough came out a dark, thick ruby. Stumbling, he batted his attackers away, but they simply circled back around, each aimed for a vital.
“Naoshi!”
Kotodama thundering, bass rippling like a shockwave, she leapt forward, kodachi leaving its sheath in a singing silver arc. Blade collided with blade in a crash of sparks as a bestial roar echoing her cry rumbled out from behind. A heavy obsidian paw caught the other demonic thing squarely on its ribcage, slamming it bodily into the ground with a resounding crunch. Forcing her opponent back, Airi struck once, twice, thrice, each time shaving chunks away from its bony frame. Had she not had the weight of an adult man sagging against her other arm her fight would have been over, but as it was her only warrior was bleeding out all over her, and the loss of strength behind her swings showed. As she drew back to meet the tantou once more, attention aimed for the gap where she’d sheared off a few ribs, it was not her blade, but a longer sword that rammed itself up from the monstrosity’s lower jaw through its skull. There was a grating yowl as it disintegrated, and the saniwa had to brace as the uchigatana’s knees buckled beneath him.
"Yamanbagiri, you--!”
"Don’t give me that,” he wheezed, mouth smeared with crimson. “I don’t know how this whole manifestation thing works but I’d rather not find out on our very first day.”
“I was in no danger! You, on the other hand--”
"It’s fine. Being bloodied up like this is perfect for me.” His tone was clipped, azure eyes still blazing with the same fire he’d displayed earlier. “Is that all of them? What was their goal?”
"...They were going to sabotage and attack the neutral European ships that would be watching the naval battle,” she explained, catching the hand he was using to push her away and turning him around instead to start binding his most severe injuries with strips torn from her sleeve. “Konnosuke, report.”
“R-right! There were no major changes to history, as the foreign ships remained untouched.”
"They won’t come back for a while. We had the element of surprise today... not for long, though.” One deft tug tightened the knot on the makeshift bandaging, and she shouldered the blond’s weight. “Your first mission is complete. We’re headed back.”
Lucidity and repetition had always been infallible litmus between vision and dream. This particular one, years in the making, had grown steadily in clarity in recent months. Even now, the images flared sharper than she last recalled them. Thundering hooves and foam-flecked flanks. Savage roars and ringing steel. Upon a bloody field, the tattered tail of a banner fluttered erratically against a sky blotted black with smoke. Unearthly flames danced spectral light along razor edge to the music of rattling bones.
She looked up to meet the wraith’s baleful burning gaze and wept.
=Airi.=
The voice, simultaneously a soft growl and sonorous baritone, jerked the woman from the depths of unconsciousness. With a jolt she bolted awake, still reeling from the vision, only to squint when mismatched hues were lanced with bright sunlight. Blinking, the not-dream evaporating like morning mist from behind her eyelids, the first thing her adjusted eyes met was the pale gaze of a massive shiisaa. It was not, however, the great beast looming over her prone form, but rather a second, unfamiliar presence close by that caused her to spring into a defensive crouch. Reflexively her hand scrambled for her kodachi, jumping slightly when she felt not one, but two handles.
“Stay your blade, Master Chousaki! I, Konnosuke, am an ally!”
Coupled with her disorientation, Airi’s hand froze at the new voice, finger having just curled around a familiar grip. As vertigo finally cleared, her vision focused upon a small fox -- a kit at best -- whose face was painted white and crimson and azure. Like a kabuki. A fragment clicked back into place in her muddled mind as she scrutinized the creature.
"...You’re one of Lady Inari’s myoubu.”
"Yes! My brothers and I are tasked with aiding you in both this citadel and on field. My apologies, Master Chousaki, but you don’t appear to be changed."
"...Wasn't time for it."
Now that she knew she had never been in any immediate danger, her spatial awareness steadily expanded even as she shrugged off her coat. Context placed the current room as her own; the sunlit furnishings were sparse, but she recognized some as the belongings she’d sent ahead. As she changed, the saniwa questioned her new aide on the citadel’s logistics. She had been briefed on the functions to expect, but it was broad strokes at best. Konnosuke readily provided answers, but before she’d exhausted her queries, the door slid open to allow another kitsune in, this time soot grey in colour.
"Konnosuke, is-- ah, Master! You’re awake! The shrine is ready for use, but... where is your touken danshi?"
Another unwittingly uncomfortable reminder of the circumstances surrounding her arrival. Sky darkening by a too-swift eclipse. Glass shattering, steel screeching, heart racing as she fled desperately for the torii-shaped portal even as the ground buckled beneath her feet-- Seeing his master’s grimace, the darker vulpine bowed his head and simply suggested to call forth the tsukumogami before proceeding to the shrine. A grim nod from the woman, her heterochromatic eyes sliding down to the two katana that lay beside her futon. Her personal kodachi was silent, its steel far too young to be self-aware. The uchigatana beside it, however... when she had first come into contact, its voice had been muffled from centuries of sleep. The time spent in her presence while she’d been unconscious had stirred it, and now it rested in almost sullen anticipation, as if saying, “Get on with it.” She smirked dryly at it.
"Alright, let's get this done, then." Stepping into a more open area of the room, Airi drew the blade from its scabbard, momentarily admiring the exquisite craftsmanship and balance. "Thy spirit is known to me. Awake and breathe my onmyoudo. Arise, take form, and speak thy name."
Kotodama was tricky business, given that all words held power. Learning to temper emotion and draw with intent had been one of her greatest challenges. But that was neither here nor there, the thought brushed aside as the sword shivered lightly in her hands and began to glow, motes of light falling like pale petals. As she took a step back, she relinquished her hold on its hilt, no longer required to keep it aloft.
Of flowers, the sakura; of men, the bushi.
Airi allowed herself a sardonic smile. In the time of the samurai, one's sword was considered their soul. How fitting was it, then, that the tsukumogami of a katana would manifest in the image of the ephemeral perfection? The light had pooled onto the tatami, solidifying into a distinctly humanoid shape, the pink glow fading to reveal a kneeling man before her, one hand clasped around the hilt of his steel form. He cut an odd figure, a well-worn cloak draped over his body, deep-set hood obscuring part of his face in undyed cloth and shadow. Sunlight glinted off the medallion resting against his chest, throwing stark contrast into the mountain relief carved upon it.
"I am Yamanbagiri Kunihiro." Ivory lids slid open to reveal piercing blue eyes, which darkened into a scowl as the tsukumogami regarded her. "...What's with the look? Does the fact that I'm a duplicate bother you?”
"On the contrary," came her cool retort, returning his glare with a level gaze. "I hadn’t quite expected to be entrusted with such a storied blade so early on. Though... thinking on it now, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Master Kousuke was never one to skive on quality, especially given our circumstances..." She shook her head, as if to dislodge the memory of her teacher’s quiet smile from the forefront of her mind. "But I digress. My name is Chousaki Airi, a saniwa."
At this, Yamanbagiri's eyes narrowed into frosty slits. "A saniwa, huh...?”
"I apologize if my status upsets you, but unfortunately I cannot change who I am.” This time she had to consciously swallow any rising animosity in her own heart, her ability to keep her tone even made difficult by the unjustifiable amount of venom in the sword’s voice. “I am a child of the twenty-third century, one of but a handful of people dedicated to preserving the true history of the world from those who would change it for personal gain. To that end, I seek the cooperation of swords to help battle against whatever forces they may dispatch. I hold the power to give an inanimate object's spirit corporeal form, as I have done you. A... creator of wielders, to an extent."
If the blond had anything to say to that, she gave him no time to, silencing him with hardened hues as she continued, "I have no illusions as to what my mission entails. My foe will not hesitate to cut me and my allies down, and I must be equally ruthless. History left to run its course unadulterated will be dooming countless of lives to grisly and untimely deaths. It will be a lonely, harsh, bloody existence, but I will walk this path all the same. Now, knowing the strength of my resolve, Yamanbagiri Kunihiro, wilt thou giveth thine blade to mine cause?"
For a moment, the kotodama melted any ice in his features, but he quickly composed himself. Airi watched the sword ruminate on the information she'd disclosed, patiently waiting for his answer. It was obvious this spirit held some degree of disdain for saniwa, which would very likely colour his decision significantly. But she was not here to convince him; she was here to command him. The ideal being the former, of course, but as things stood... At length, Yamanbagiri lifted his gaze back to her.
"Just tell me one thing. Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?"
Her hesitation lasted only as long as it took to gather her thoughts. "Because even if the history I know is imperfect, the choices that led to it still have as much meaning as any other choice. Good or bad, pleasant or painful, favourable or unfavourable, if history and our pasts could be changed so arbitrarily, then there would be no meaning to the life we are given. We would be no better than scripted pawns, with no sense of dignity or responsibility."
The woman heard the spirit blow a soft snort through his nose, but the man lifted his blade flat up toward her, head bowed in deference. "Very well. For better or for worse, I, Yamanbagiri Kunihiro, pledge myself to your service... Master." Quieter, to himself, she caught, "Let's see if you'll be any different..."
Accord forged, Airi returned him his scabbard before beckoning him to follow her and the two myoubu out to the shine. The late morning sun filtered in to cast bands of light upon the dark varnished wood, dust motes from the recently opened screens dancing in the golden beams. Yamanbagiri seemed to sense the divine energy that permeated the space, for he ground to a halt at the threshold, lips set in a thin, uneasy line. His saniwa, having no such reservations, glanced back at him with a small nod of approval.
“Very good. Relax, just wait there and watch if you’d like. I’ll be done shortly; Lord Omoikane is an... efficient god.”
So saying, she stepped into the center of the room, seating herself into a meditative stance. It did not take long; within moments, the world around her, then a few moments more her own breath and heartbeat, had dimmed into a low blur. Another presence pressed into her mind, an aurora of gold and lime and azure.
=Ah, Futsunushi’s vessel. I was wondering when you would show.=
My apologies, Lord Omoikane. There were--
=Complications, I know. You were always Kousuke’s odd duck. Better late than never, I suppose. Let us begin.=
Receiving the gift of another god was an unusual sensation, the swirl of colour seeming to seep into her from every pore of her body, leaving her skin tingling like it would in the latent static of an oncoming thunderstorm. She felt the energy congregate on her forehead, prompting a momentary bemused thought of how fitting that the blessing of the god of knowledge would settle within the third eye chakra. The thought was cut short almost instantly by a faint vibration, like harmonizing tuning forks, and the technicolour faded. She felt rather than heard the disruption immediately after, a rending of time that rippled violently through her like a shockwave. Numbers and characters raced past her mind’s eye, dizzying in conjunction with a flood of images too quick for her to study. She came back to herself abruptly, senses aflame as if she’d surfaced from being submerged. Dimly beyond great gulps of air and ears ringing with the sound of a man’s defiant roar Airi heard a sharp intake of breath and the loosening of a katana from its sheath. Yamanbagiri’s agitated honey gold barely managed to puncture through the miasma of crimson-laced deep purple that swam before her eyes, lingering even after the gift had stilled.
“Hakodate.”
The word left her breathless lips even as it rang down the hall, Konnosuke pattering into view moments later. His darker look-alike stopped arguing with the blond touken danshi at his presence, eager to hear details of this announcement.
“Konnosuke! I take it this means the synchronization with the council room was a success.”
“Konnosuke.” Rising shakily to her feet, Airi briskly brushed her streaked bangs out of her face to wipe the last beads of sweat on her brow. “The time dial. Take us there, we’re going to Hakodate, May 1869. Yamanbagiri, your first directive: find and subdue the History Rerograde Army, and protect the flow of history.”
“That was fast,” the tsukumogami quipped as he waited for her to snatch up her kodachi and fasten it to her hip. “Don’t you spiritual types usually need hours of meditation?”
“Like I said,” she replied, shooting him a dry smirk. “Lord Omoikane is an efficient god.”
And with that, she brushed past him and down the corridor after her vulpine aide. She did not notice Yamanbagiri sheath his blade with deliberate measure, scrutinizing gaze lingering on the terse grimace set on her face.
Everybody wants to marry the sword boys and that’s great and all but what if you fought them instead?
Inspired by this post
Izuminokami Kanesada
Who wins: You
Look at me, there is no possible way you could lose this. Just talk about Hijikata and he’d probably cry or something. Easy win
Tsurumaru Kuninaga
Who wins: Nobody
He looks like a small fluffy animal, do you want to punch a small fluffy animal? Don’t fight Tsurumaru.
Yamabushi Kunihiro
Who wins: Yamabushi
Okay I know why you want to fight him, I want to fight him, but he’s bigger and stronger than you. There is no way this could possibly end well.
Kasen Kanesada
Who wins: Kasen
I know what you’re thinking “Lol look at him he looks like a truffula tree, I can take this guy easy” but don’t do it he somehow managed to work in an anecdote about his name and brutal murder in his introduction quote. DO. NOT. FIGHT. KASEN. KANESADA.
Gokotai
Who wins: Nobody
Why are you trying to fight a sword toddler, what is wrong with you? Don’t fight Gokotai holy shit.
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