Older times called for a strict childhood, where one such boy sought something beyond long, long scrolls lined with tiny text. A lot of the time, he was made to face the lack of a father’s warmth, only for it to be surpassed by the cold, cruel hand that ruled all. And the other children stared, gawping at the difference in size—deciding openly that no young kit of this village should be so large in size at his age. It was unnatural, abnormal, an outsider to them. Someone they couldn’t connect to, nor find the want to. Thus, he had little connection. But there was one person who minded it not—his mother’s tenderness always welcomed him with open arms. Despite his rigidity and awkwardness, so long as he had his mother to return to, nothing could smother him into shame. No—she reassured him that he just be himself and not hide. That his size was because he was meant to be the successor, the strength of the village, and that is why he grew tall so quickly.
One later evening, when he often slipped out of the main estate, craving solitude under the moon, the large child would routinely busy himself with a book or two. One which he would genuinely read; stories of elite martial artists and rebellious swordsmen, and one filled with the study of Sutras he had as backup, so the cruel hand of his father would not strike him down, should he be found. Crickets chirped the tune of a night still young, the flashing glow of will-o'-the-wisp in and out of darkness, and even the crisp, cold occasional breeze that ruffled his hair; all of these things brought a strange sense of comfort in the isolation of nighttime in the village. That’s right.. Why did he favor the night more than everyone else? Did it add to his disconnect? Nothing he pondered too hard, that is.
Flipping the page, he notes the sensation as every hair rose to a bristle on the nape of his neck, earning a pause in his movement. The large child’s fluffy ear flicked with anticipation—was he not alone? The chill of his father’s approach was absent. It couldn’t be him. In his stillness, he’d listen more, nose wiggling, wrinkling, then releasing.
“Can I ask what you’re reading?” questioned the darkness.
There was hesitation in the boy’s response to this. The voice sounded strangely kind. At least, kinder than his father’s. Something was glinting under the moon’s light, slowly emerging from this darkness, yet he was still unable to make out this figure. It was almost like light shining against a smudged glass, but he was inclined to eventually respond.
“..A book,” answered the boy.
“Well, of course, silly. I mean, what is the book about?” the voice pressed gently.
The boy hunched forward, somewhat bashfully. His bushy tail lashed, unable to hide the sudden interest he took in this voice. The unexpected company had previously denied him the chance to realize this was the voice of a woman.
“A book of Sutras,” the boy voiced this in a cautious tone.
“Not that one. The other,” she prompted.
The boy’s brows knit, still unable to make out her form. Now the fact that he was being watched truly set in, caught in his innocent lie. An inevitable warmth ran across his cheeks, eyes casting down toward the truth that sat so obviously in his lap. Was it fine to admit?
“..A book on Far Eastern swordsmen—I was just curious,” a more defensive tone took over the boy’s words.
“What about it has your interest?” she’d asked calmly, despite his defensiveness.
“..Why are you asking?” he said, sounding a little frustrated. He stood as if to meet this voice. Now he could tell that the glinting light was like brass.
“Is it so wrong to know?” she responds with yet another question, her form creeping forward to meet the boy.
Stepping out of the darkness before him was a tall woman. Taller than any woman in this village. Tall enough to tilt his head back as he took in her form. Her brunette hair framed eyes of gold. Her kimono, humble in patterns, no less gorgeous—a jarring shade of metallic brass to stand out. Long, thick hair, dark brown like fresh soil with lighter strands toward its ends, poured over her shoulders. The way she carried herself did not match the matronly tone she used when addressing him. There was something about her that felt untouched by the patriarchal expectations of his village. Her presence alone took control of the situation.
The boy nearly dropped his book at his oblivious gawking before he was quick to catch it by its cover. Not a lick of defiance rose from him. He’d gently set the book atop the other, straightening out his yukata. No words came to him for a moment, and in return, she was most patient. He couldn’t help but question himself where her ears and tails hid—this wasn’t the typical form of a kitsune as he knew.
“Uh.. the sword.” He finally states, breaking the silence.
“What about the sword?” Her head tilts.
“..Why.. a weapon made for blood.. It is worshiped so much.” The pauses in his response seemed to indicate he was unsure of his words or unsure how it felt.
“I see,” she pauses, “To a good swordsman, there’s more to the sword than blood.”
His eyes widened a moment, not quite expecting this divine-like presence to take interest in the sword, let alone his response regarding his reading. Her elegant build didn’t seem meant for it, but he waited to be proven wrong yet again.
“More than learning to kill?” His response finally showed genuine intrigue.
“You learn this when you learn to wield it,” she keeps her words simple, especially for a child. “And when you learn to wield it, well, you learn more about yourself.”
“..Myself?” He was confused by this statement.
She answered with a nod. Her words weren’t polished, but they carried a quiet tenderness. Something within him, she could see. Though she doesn’t make this obvious, she instead entertains the boy’s intrigue. The woman could tell that something was almost muffled. Very muffled. Muffled by things around him. But there was an opening, as if the moon’s shine was a stagelight presenting him.
“Don’t suppress your curiosity. But know that it will bring pain, and further along, it will bring a warmth that surpasses this pain.”
The words were intimidating, but a spark lit up in his eyes. Long gone from routine, now ignited by this woman’s vague prophecy. Was it enough to even call a prophecy, or was she messing with him? How long was she watching him in the darkness? Something tightened in his chest, reaching in, clamping around his heart, and all he could do was swallow, realizing his mouth and throat were dry from the initial tension in him.
“I—I..” he stuttered, swallowing again, “I’m afraid.” The words shot from his mouth like a dart.
“Afraid?” along with the question, she would descend to her knees upon the cobblestone at their feet. “What is it you fear?”
“Disappointing everyone. Being shunned,” she reminded him of his mother. The way her presence alone would easily drive him to open up. Words he’d never direct to any other.
“Have you ever thought for yourself, instead of everyone?” A smile formed as she asked this.
That question irked him for some reason. Thinking for himself, or putting himself first in any capacity, seemed foreign to him. This was a thought that would’ve never crossed his mind until this woman brought it up to him. Wouldn’t this make him a selfish person? It almost felt like he could get angry at himself for allowing the idea. It almost sounded like an illicit practice.
“..No. I want to serve the—the people of my village,” stated firmly, eyes meeting hers.
She continued to smile at this, despite her questioning. She had a feeling, though hearing it aloud was different. And perhaps it was different for him as well. Though she wished to linger on the thought, clouds crept over the moon, leaving only thin strings of light through brief openings. Another moment passes, and the warmth of her hand found itself between his fluffy ears. No movement, no grip. Just rested. It was strange. In a sense that this stranger, with a simple touch, melted almost through him. Somehow, a mixture of both comfort and discomfort took him over. Once this touch seemed to suffice for the woman, she parted from him in the blink of an eye, distanced back into the darkness.
“And people can be served with a sword—Kyubei. As long as the wielder knows himself.”
Her words with this strange tone of knowing caused his heart to thunder. How did she know his name? But the more he questioned, the more he realized that she was fading away, as if the darkness meant to eat her up again. That bright glint of gold vanished from his sight.
Rushing forward, he found his efforts meant with an empty set of steps. Even though the depth of darkness his keen eyes were able to break through, it felt as if she was meant to be ‘unseen’ by him. He couldn’t be too loud—especially not to invoke the wrath of his father finding him out here alone. A sadness hung in his sinking eyelids, and those words stuck to his heart. The disbelief of her sudden exit was shaken off, and the boy looked where he ran from—where the books still were. Soft steps carried him back, picking up the book of his true interest.
The courtyard was empty now. Spare for the book of Sutras.
