堀川国広

Most things never find themselves recorded in the pages of history, Horikawa thinks to himself as he rubs his hands together and tucks them back into the sleeves of his hanten. Like the little bugs swarming the banks of the Ichino river, microscopic children from this vantage point engaged in some game involved frigid rocks, frozen fingers and the passing flakes of breakaway ice meandering along the slow currents. Or the old man trudging along the path that follows the high ground on his way bath to his home and wife on the outskirts of town. At a great distance, he fades into the swirling snow.

And certainly all of them are more important still than any mention of the weather report. A bitter cold spell for the Musashi province flecked great white puffs of lazy snow on a singular winter day, seemingly insignificant except in retrospect.

Next to him, Izuminokami sneezes and Horikawa smiles at him fondly. His nose, where it peeks out from the scarf, look cold and red and not unlike a certain deer from a song the tantous had been singing only days before and he thinks he would like to kiss it. Instead he gives his partner a nudge.

Izuminokami grumbles, “He could have at least sent us off with a bottle of sake. Maybe some of the chicken.”

“Then you would just complain it’s soggy.”

“Okay but what about it’s the thought that counts?”

Time aside, nestled together in the entrance of a roughhewn rock cave, indiscriminate from the hundreds of others that surround them on the hill, it feels like worlds apart from the party they had left behind.

All they had for company now, was the dwindling warmth of the fire and the spirits of the tombs that now housed them, whatever remained of them from a bygone era so far out of reach, not even the retrograde army had thus far succeeded in touching it. Some of the entrances remain sealed with heavy slabs of volcanic rock.

Tomorrow, or the day after, the Hojo clan would trample through the fresh fallen snow with their standard on their way to confront that of Uesugi to reclaim Matsuyama castle and, in the process, erase all traces of the old man’s passage, already reduced to faint depressions where footsteps once fell. At times history is indeed a river. The banks may shift and change with the start and end remaining relatively unchanged. But sometimes a sharp bend gives way in the face of catastrophe leaving the isolated pool of precipitous events and memories to dissolve, less than forgotten. Until that moment, they have only each other.

They have no complaints.

Another sun of snow accumulates before Horikawa shifts again. His fingers protest the cold as he tugs at the knots of a furoshiki..

“It’s a little early but I picked up something for you.”

Izuminokami looks over his shoulder. Horikawa can feel the hot breath against his cheek. From the bag, he extracts a ceramic carafe, glazed and stoppered with a rough wooden cork. The characters splashed across the face of it are unmistakable.

“It’s not chicken but-“

“Kunihiro!” Izuminokami grabs the bottle with one hand and throws another around Horikawa’s shoulders. “Where did you get this?”

In reply, he merely lifts his hands and wiggles his fingers with a sly grin that Izuminokami returns with a laugh. The stopper comes out with a pop that echoes faintly in the cavern. The smell is sweet and crystal like the sake within, barely aged but meticulously distilled.

“Shall we warm it up first?” The bottle is halfway to Izuminokami’s mouth as Horikawa swaps it out for a small wooden box, leaving him little choice in the matter. It's only when he pouts that the wakizashi relents and tops off the pair of masu cups. Then, he pokes at the fire, until a hole in the coals opens for him to deposit their remaining prize away from the immediate lick of open flame.

Horikawa settles down again with his own cup and they settle together again to drink, surrounded by the companionable warmth and the intermittent crack as bark splits from wood.

Izuminokami sighs. “This is the best. You’re the best.”

Horikawa presses his fingers tight against the corners of his cup. His lips quirk. “What’s that? Do I have to cut you off already?”

“Are you complaining?” He scoffs. “Maybe I should pick up where I left off. You weren’t complaining then.”

Suddenly Horikawa finds himself engulfed in the blue mantle of their own private standard as Izuminokami, smirking, shoves him to the ground. The floor of the cave is cold and uneven despite the slight cushion of moss but his cheeks are flush. Dark hair drapes a curtain around him. It flickers like the fire, damp and ornamented with flecks of melting snow. Horikawa reaches up to run his fingers through it and as he leaves them there they start to numb.

He reaches with his whole body toward the figure bending over him with its magnetic eyes. Its cute red nose. Even as he relaxes back into the ground from which they came.

That’s when something curious happens. A break in the storm. It starts as the waxing moon glancing out from the cloud cover. The world outside is silent as a tomb.

Horikawa slides his hand from Izuminokami’s hair, to his neck, tracing the fringes of his voluminous layers. He shudders and the skin pebbles beneath the touch.

“S’cold…” He murmurs, not much for a protest.

And the moon struggles, thin rays slumping around them and into the depths of their shelter. It’s a near futile effort against the glow of the flames at their side. Then Izuminokami gasps.

Horikawa looks into the cave. Then out. The light is everywhere, creeping up the chiseled walls, golden green and ethereal. Finally, he realizes it’s coming from him. Or the place precisely below him and all around. The moss is lit by a cold fire.

It sweeps a patina of dancing greens on reds across his partner's face. If it weren’t for the visible clouds of breath he would have thought they had stopped altogether.

Izuminokami speaks first but rather than break the spell they weave a new one all their own. “This is the part where we say Merry Christmas?”

Horikawa nods.

The seconds that comprise the storm’s respite contract like the space between them and the world around them that closes into the space of their holy sanctuary. They come together. They can’t say who gets there first because it doesn’t matter. And then Izuminokami’s lips close over Horikawa’s

They don't believe in god. Barely in the fragile uncertainty of their own divinity. But another kind of scripture comes to Horikawa from across the river of time.

Between the conception and the creation, the emotion and the response, falls the shadow. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory forever and ever.

Their life is very long indeed.

Better to have faith in one another.

As he pulls back, he can only whisper.

"Hallelujah."

Izuminokami knows exactly what he means.

And the night wears on. The clouds return and the lights fade and as the snow fall resumes, it's still a poor veil to their effigy. But it hard matters at all with no one left to remember it. Sometimes that moments that shake the world leave no more trace than a relic buried in a tomb.

In two days, Hojo Ujiyasu and Takeda Shingen would march on the castle, vanguard to the battle that would detain them all in the mountains of Musashi for three months. Their victory would prevail over the second battle waged in the shadows.

The children would play another day.

The river would flow on.

And they would turn toward home and their footstep would fade as soon as they closed the book on this particular chapter.











notes
takes place during the seige of musashi matsuyama castle which supposedly started in December
nearby one can find the hundred caves of yoshimi which are kofun era tombs that house hikarigoke or schistostega moss
completely incongruous use of ts eliots the hollow men i am very sorry
and you know
the bible

Merry Christmas

Horikawa Kunihiro is born again in the spring.

On one of those frenetic mornings with the birds buzzing at first light and the nearby stream swelling with the winter runoff until it's bursting at the banks.

Even Izuminokami is awake at this hour, a victim of the discord, and he's just tying his hair up for a day of fieldwork when footsteps drumming up the veranda cuts through the rest of the house. The crescendo ends with a bang as the wood lined paper door slams into it's frame. It leaves the silhouette of someone standing in the glare, panting to catch his breath and finally the figure dissolves into Yasusada.

"It's him!"

"Ha?" Izuminokami pauses in his preparations to fix Yasusada with a half-hearted glare. It was early, even for Okita's swords, to start their daily banter; even earlier for them to resort to dragging him into it. "What did he do this time?" he asks while already imagining the clash resulting from Yasusada and Kiyomitsu's opposing brands of fervor.

"Not him!" Yasusada cuts in quickly. "Horikawa Kunihiro."

Somewhere in the garden a bamboo fountain, overflowing with fresh water, drops with a vibrant snap. Or maybe it was just the sound of his brush dropping to the worn wooden floor beneath his feet.

He barely registers the walk to the forge as Yasusada drags him along in the daze. What sticks out to him more than anything is the violent shade of pink as the cherry blossoms are just starting to peek out from their buds that line the otherwise skeletal tree branches. The last vestiges of winter still cling to the ground in the form of dirty snow that looks and feels more like shards of ice. Nothing like the fluffy blanket that had delighted the smaller swords only a couple months ago.

Each step he takes feels languid and heavy like someone is playing the morning in slow motion, forcing him to appreciate the scene.

And then it's all washed out, blocked by the warm light, not by the omnipresent glow of the forges but of the smiling face that's awaiting him.

"Kane-san!"

Izuminokami feels something twist inside him.

Horikawa moves to close the distance between them in a few long strides, reaching for his hands. "They said you were here but I couldn't believe it until... well... you're here."

He looks up at Izuminokami, waiting for him to say something, but all the other sword can think is that this isn't a dream. Even if he hadn't been expecting it, there was no mistaking the blue of his wide eyes, the black sweep of hair across his forehead and even the splash of scarlet trim that puts him all into perspective. He looks down at their hands so fondly entwined and then something feels like it's about to break.

"Took you long enough." Careful, he extricates himself.

"Kane-san?" Horikawa's face falls but only slight but it's still enough to finish him off.

"I won't say I'm not glad you're safe, Kunihiro, but..." For all the years they were together, Izuminokami spent twice as long alone but facing him now, it's like all that time is a mirage that dissolves the closer you get to it. Still, he forces himself to finish before the lump in his throat makes good on its threat to silence him. "It's a little late to miss me, isn't it?"

The ensuing shock gives way to a loaded silences that resonates throughout the room.

Yasusada is the first to break it. "What's up with you?" He puts himself between the two swords but Izuminokami is already turning, out the door and back on to the path that leads back to the main house.

"Hey! Don't just run away!" But Horikawa grabs his arm and holds him back.



He finds Izuminokami seated on the veranda. His legs fold under him with his elbows making dents in his thighs like a stubborn child, statuesque in his defiance. The eaves drip down around him and bleed through the cracks in the wooden boards. He looks like he could just as easily sink into them as well.

Horikawa takes a seat beside him and a little behind, where his presence is less seen than felt. He traces the gold trimming his gloves and his crest reflects back the morning light, almost too much to look at. So he turns his attention to the only other thing worth watching.

Izuminokami is still a bit disheveled after being interrupted. The layers of his kimono are uneven and his hair is starting to come loose. Horikawa aches to reach out and touch it. To make it as real as it looks, to make sense of this sensory overload that comes from seeing, hearing, feeling, all the puzzle pieces that put together the experience of being alive.

"I'm used to people staring but have you actually got anything to say?" Izuminokami is looking at him now and frowning and even that he wants to touch. To smooth out the lines that crease such a perfect face. More than the sun, looking at him hurts.

Horikawa bows his head again and the apology is on the tip of his tongue when he says, "I'm not sorry."

Izuminokami is the one staring now. It blazes so hot he could melt.　　Right back down into the simple iron composite of his parts. "You don't even know what you're sorry about."

Horikawa's face burns in close proximity to the heat and light and he reflects it back in turn. But as he looks up again, to stand by those words, to defend against the incendiary accusations, he realizes they've never been farther away from each other. The few inches that separate them is profound, more than enough to contain all the years and distance they accumulated in their time apart and leave a gaping intraversable gap where little remains to fill it in.

"That's not fair." I wasn't here, he thinks. And who's fault is that, he remembers. "Maybe I was wrong, but given the chance, I couldn't do nothing."

He clutches his fists in his lap, but no matter how he shifts around the stones of the past, how hard he tries to rearrange them, nothing brings him closer to the other side. It isn't an obstacle that can be cleared alone. It's heavy and he wasn't built for strength and that's why...

"I tried to save you. You can't hold that against me," he finishes, futilely.

"I don't." Izuminokami replies. It's heartfelt and Horikawa believes him immediately. "I had a lot of time to think about that. Why you did it."

"I know that."

"You don't!" he snaps again and Horikawa winces, his hands all threaded in knots now.

Like the hair that's flooding over his shoulder and the snow that loses its hold on the ornamental trees, Horikawa watches Izuminokami come undone.

"How long has it been?"

"What?"

"How long. How many years."

It's a strange question for them. For swords whose lives could be measured in generations, in the lifetime of stars blinking in and out. But Izumiminokami is expecting an answer and Horikawa is at a loss for what it could be. "Well. They said it was the year 2205 right? So that would mean at least 250 years."

Izuminokami smiles and without knowing the answer, Horikawa is left feeling no small modicum of guilt. "That's how long it's been for me. But what about you?"

Suddenly, Horikawa doesn't feel so far apart from him at all. Suddenly, he can't help thinking back on the gulf of experience that separated them. Their first moments together in Aizu with Izuminokami fresh and unblemished, completely untried as he held fast to Horikawa's blood stained hand because he was told to trust him. The first time they shared the battle field with Horikawa guiding him until they shared the same crimson mantle. For all that Horikawa looked up to him, Izuminokami had followed in his wake every step of the way.

Until there was nothing there, no one left to cling to. At some point, he ceased to be and countless seasons passed without him and what Horikawa failed to see upon their reunion was just how old he looks now. He wonders how many attributes they still share.

"I'm not like you," Izuminokami admits, practically giving voice to his fears. "Like Nagasone. Yasusada."

"No," he agrees, "You were made with a purpose."

"Exactly! So without that..." He sounds momentarily lost. In truth they've been adrift for a long time. And he's frantic. "You were the only one left."

Izuminokami Kanesada. Twelfth generation uchigatana of the famed Kanesada school. Beloved sword of Shinsengumi vice captain, Hijikata Toshizo.

This is the gift that was bestowed upon Horikawa. But that wasn't all.

These things fade with time. The school has long since forged it's last sword. The Shinsengumi remains as pages to fill the history books and tv dramas. But one mark of distinction survives, as pure as the day it was first spoken.

Like concentric stars caught in each other's gravity, two snow flakes spiriling together on a blustery eddy. When one falls, the other destabilizes, lost to space, the storm or the ocean's tides. Amidst the symphony of sensations that assault Horikawa there's one that overwhelms him now. It's the feral roar of the canons that aren't really there, the violent blue of flowers from centuries past, and the ship that casts a shadow over this curse they call memory.

Little by little it drizzles over him like there's cracks in the roofing tiles. It drenches his heart with the shame of realization. Horikawa can't bring himself to look at him but feels his expectation bearing down on him all the same.

"We were partners," he answers, finally.

When Izuminokami speaks again, it's like he's picking up the pieces of something that dropped and shattered, careful to avoid all the sharp edges as he handles them. And still struggling to hold it together, he searches for Horikawa's hand with his own.

"We still are"

xxx

Horikawa finds him, and then, closing the distance, he spreads his arms further to encompass Izuminokami instead. Helpless as a lonely drop of rain against the forces of gravity, he falls into place. The weight of him comes as a surprise. With slow growing smile, Horikawa thinks back on the countless masters that had remarked the same upon holding him for the first time. But Izuminokami wouldn't know anything about that.

No. He was a singularity.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting, Kane-san."

"Ah. Welcome home, Kunihiro."

They stay like that, beneath the veranda, with the birds gossiping and the damp flower buds sparkling and without a single cloud in the sky as vast and blue as the sea, they could both swear, it felt like rain.

But even after the storm they finally had each other.

How's my driving? Anon enabled, comments screened.