#samuuru

“Natsuki! Help me here!”

Working together with Natsuki, they clear the area of debris in no time—

And sees someone who is definitely not the Samura he last saw at the Senkutsuji Temple. But Uruha can’t mistake these features for anyone else – his wavy dark hair, the scowl between his forehead, those deep purple eyes that groggily opens at them…they could only belong to one person.

“Who is that?” Natsuki asks cautiously, looking at the person Uruha is pulling out of the rubble and patting down clean.

“Samura-san.” Uruha answers without hesitation. He grabs the younger-looking Samura before him by the shoulders, looking him up and down. “Samura-san, it’s you, right?”

“What are you talk—” The voice that comes out is Samura’s, but also isn’t his. It’s devoid of years of cigarette and age, the tone of a teenager who has just recently settled into adolescence. Samura stops in the middle of talking, his hand coming up to touch his own throat, realizing the sudden difference in his tone, as well.

Uruha sees at his fingers then, barely visible underneath his coat sleeves that are suddenly too long for him. Instead of the wrinkled, calloused skin Uruha’s more familiar with, what he sees now are smooth, slender fingers that seemed to have picked up the sword just not too long ago.

“Do you know who we are?” Uruha asks the boy before him, unsure which Samura is he talking to.

It feels strange to think of him as his Samura. This form he took is a younger Samura who was just about to meet Uruha Yoji.

“Of course, I know the two of you.”

“Good,” Uruha breathes in relief. He’s the Samura he knows. Whatever happened during his fight with the Sword Master, it somehow reverted his body back several years younger. Then, he realizes his hands are still tightly gripping Samura’s shoulders. He immediately lets go, as if he has touched a hot surface. He just can’t touch him casually. “That’s good, Samura-san. It’s still you.”

The last time they were face to face, Samura had meant to kill him. Now, they stand before each other, the matter of Uruha’s ‘assassination’ dangling in the air to be discussed.

“I’ll…go look for Yura’s body. He should be secured before anything else happens.” Natsuki says, sensing the atmosphere between this pair of master and disciple. “You deal with this.”

“Thanks.” Uruha turns to Natsuki with a grateful smile at which Natsuki rolls his eye at.

“I’m not doing you a favor.” Natsuki grumbles before leaving.

“Good thing Suzaku’s revival worked on you,” Samura says as soon as they are alone, breaking the short but tense silence. “You are its first human. Of course, I wouldn’t have used it if I haven’t mastered it, but…seeing Chihiro be revived still made me feel at ease about your condition.”

Uruha briefly runs a hand across the spot where Samura cut him down. It hasn’t been that long, but with all that has gone down here, it already feels like a lifetime ago. He isn’t even sure he would get to see Samura again, and definitely not like this.

“I understand why you did it, Samura-san. You have no need to further explain things to me. But,” Uruha curls both his fists on his lap, looking his master in the eye. “You should have asked me to help you, at least. I would have gone with you in a heartbeat.”

“Which is why I didn’t.” Samura says, his pensive expression looking out of place in such a youthful face. “I’ve already dragged you in so many hells. This should have been the last one, mine alone.”

“But Chihiro won you over, didn’t he?”

“That, he did.” Samura heaves a sigh, raising his hands before him. These are the hands of someone who is still learning how to strike faster than the eyes can see, hands not stained with blood yet. Samura knows it’s the same body, but without the marks of the past decades, he does feel like reborn. “How old do I look to you?”

To describe this encounter as strange is an understatement. Uruha has witnessed transformation sorcery, changing one’s appearance is no big deal to him. But to see the man he has been watching for years turn back into this younger form is enough to make Uruha question his reality.

“Fifteen.” Uruha answers without even thinking.

“How could you be so sure?”

“Because I met you when you were at that age.” Uruha smiles. “I’ll never forget how you looked that time.”

Back then, this same boy was looking at him through scrutinizing eyes, standing over a foot taller than an eleven-year-old Uruha, a sword strapped by his waist. Uruha remembered feeling a mixture of fear and amazement – fear that he still didn’t know what the old man wanted from him after taking him away from the streets, and amazement that he finally met someone so alike to the samurai he liked hearing about in people’s stories.

Now, in the same body, Samura doesn’t look so much like a samurai anymore. He was also just a kid when they first met, perhaps forced to act responsibly after being assigned to look after a grubby eleven-year-old who didn’t even know how to draw a sword, much less than how to hold it. He is now back to that state, a kid who would need an adult to guide him. Uruha is that adult now.

“Kunishige really outdid himself. How can a sword achieve something like this?” Samura pulls his now-oversized coat closer to his body, as if to make himself smaller. “I know this is my body, but it also feels like it isn’t. Not to mention…” He put a hand over his heart, feeling for something. “Tobimune disappeared, but I can still feel its spirit energy stirring within me.”

“If anything, that is your sorcery that unlocked Tobimune’s full potential, Samura-san. You must have had a strong reason to want to live. The enchanted blades will always answer to their wielder’s will.”

A strong reason for living, huh?

“Iori,” Samura suddenly says, remembering the daughter who’s waiting for her. After years of running away, he finally had the chance to see how much she’s grown up. After achieving his goal here with the enchanted blades and the Sword Master, he should be making up for those years he deprived her of a real family. “My daughter…she’s still in Kyoto waiting for me.”

Uruha takes a while before remembering the baby he briefly saw almost eighteen years ago. It was just a short encounter, after all, Shirakai Itsuo wasn’t so heartless that he wouldn’t check on his first successful disciple’s first child. Though, Uruha had an inkling Shirakai-sensei just wanted to check if the baby was a boy and if he could, in the future, be a practitioner of Iai White Purity, as well. How come Uruha’s only remembering this again now? Did his memory get altered or something?

“Once everything settles down here, we can go together,” Uruha suggests. “I’m sure the two of you haven’t had a proper reunion yet.”

“Like us?” Samura winces, looking back at the only proper disciple he had in his life. Echoing the words he had told him back at the temple, he adds, “We…haven’t had a proper chance to talk. Even until now.”

“We’ll get our chance.” Uruha inches closer to Samura then, adjusting the oversized coat on his body, rolling up the sleeves so that Samura’s hands are free. He does the same to the hems of Samura’s pants, rolling them up to his knees. Once done, he meets Samura’s gaze with a determined look. “I won’t die again, and neither will you.”

Ever since Shirakai completely dumped Uruha’s training under his responsibility, he had tried his best to be an adult Uruha could emulate, even if it meant putting distance between the two of them. A distance that didn’t exist in the first place when they were just a pair of Iai students.

What good did it do them, though? Uruha saw it as challenge, exerting every bit of energy to get licensed for Iai just so he could catch up to Samura. Which then led to Uruha being drafted along with Samura to the war, to being chosen as a wielder of an enchanted blade, to being complicit in the death of two hundred thousand lives, to living the rest of his life carrying that sin, and to be struck down by Samura himself in Samura’s attempt to atone for everyone.

Perhaps, trying hard to be an adult has doomed them from the very start.

And perhaps, Tobimune knew that too, and when it gave its last breath for Samura’s rebirth, it gave him this form where he could start all over again.

“I can’t take care of my daughter like this,” he says in resignation, looking again at his now youthful hands. Iori is seventeen, and in this form, she even seems more reliable than him. What type of father can he be in this situation?

“I’ll take care of both of you!” Uruha earnestly replies, holding Samura’s hands between his. “We can stay at the dojo, rebuild everything. I’m sure Shirakai-sensei wouldn’t mind. And if Iori is there, maybe Kiri would second guess about destroying Iai? It’s only her grandpa she’s really going after, anyway. If sorcery turned you like this, I’m sure we’ll find a way to bring you back. Don’t lose hope, Samura-san.”

Samura chuckles then, Uruha’s rambles about the future stirring something akin to hope in his chest. For the longest time, he thought getting by alone is the best way to course through this life. But again and again, he’s proven wrong. By Inori, by the Masumi, by Chihiro…and now, Uruha lays before him a future where he is surrounded by the people he cares for the most, a ragtag of personalities, but still a family.

Of course, he didn’t want Samura to die. He couldn’t bear to lose one of the few people who showed him care, who made him feel the warmth of being held close to one’s chest, made him feel secure in this ever-turbulent world. He could only wrap these worries in a thin veil of dark humor and foolish innocence, fearing that if he pushed too far, Samura might think of him too childish.

After all, he still wondered if Samura was just tolerating his presence, if Samura just feared rejecting Uruha would mean the dojo would lose the Iai he had only recently mastered. Samura didn’t look like it, but he cared about Shirakai-sensei’s legacy. Was he only a legacy to him?

But then, whenever Samura gathers him into his arms – just like what he’s doing now, after putting out his cigarette, walking to Uruha’s direction, and pulling him up – and holds him, his steady hands gripping him tight as if to leave a mark, Uruha would feel even without Samura speaking it aloud that he truly cared. Even if this thing between them had no name, there was this that Uruha could hold onto.

Uruha wrapped his arms around Samura’s waist in response. Maybe if he held on tighter, he would be convinced not to go.

“You already think of me dead? Do you have so little faith in me? I won’t die so easily.”

“You’d let your comrades die before you?” Uruha raised his head to look up, his chin resting right on the spot above Samura’s heart, “That doesn’t sound like you at all, Samura-san.”

“Shirakai-sensei is with me; you think he’d let me die?”

“I think he will be the first one to kill you if you humiliate our dojo.”

“Hah, that’s true.” Samura sighed, his brows furrowed, and his eyes closed. For a while, he pondered in silence with Uruha still wrapped around him, his face going through a thousand expressions. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked down at Uruha. “Alright, fine. We can kiss. Close your eyes.”

Uruha did as he was told, taking a deep breath. He should make it easier for Samura, right? Like, maybe open his mouth a bit so it’s easier to have their lips meet, and then–

Samura pulled on his tongue.

“Mmph!” Uruha’s eyes opened wide in surprise, the taste of cigarette lingering at the tip of his tongue where Samura was pinching it. “Mhat are mou doing?” He struggled to speak, a pool of saliva already pooling at the bottom of his mouth. In his eagerness, he had stuck out his tongue without realizing.

“What are you doing? Why are you sticking out your tongue like that?” Chuckling, Samura let go. “What are you, a frog? A lizard? Do you think I’m an insect you can eat?”

Uruha spat on the ground and glared at Samura, trying to push him off, more flustered than annoyed. “You’re so mean!”

“I’m not being mean. I’m teaching you.” Samura reached out his arm sleeve and wiped the side of Uruha’s mouth. “Listen, if you stick that tongue out when you kiss someone else, they’re going to run away from you.”

“But you aren’t running away.” Uruha had no interest about someone else. Not now. Maybe not ever. In his mind, there was only Samura to chase after. Quieter, he added, “If you stay, it would be enough.”

Silence fell between the two, the hidden words behind Uruha’s statement clear – can you not go to the war? Can you stay here with me?

“You know I can’t.” Samura said with a sense of resignation, his voice mellowing. “Come here, I’m sorry about your tongue.”

Uruha, still feeling at a loss, let himself be pulled into Samura’s arms once more.

Samura’s right hand came up then and cupped Uruha’s cheek, his thumb tenderly brushing over the marking around Uruha’s eye. Meanwhile, his other hand was on Uruha’s slim waist, firmly holding onto him. Uruha kept his eyes on Samura’s, their purple ever so breathtaking, even more so than a night sky full of stars. Will I lose this to the war?

“Close your eyes,” Samura repeated, his voice breaking through Uruha’s troubled thoughts. “I promise you, it’d feel better.”

Despite being tricked earlier, Uruha still followed. The truth was, he would blindly follow Samura anywhere if he asked. But Samura was a good person, and he would never lead Uruha astray.

In the darkness, Uruha could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. The air before him moved; Samura must be right in front of his face right now, but he didn’t close the distance immediately. His breath brushed Uruha’s lips for some time, almost as if teasing.

And then, a kiss—

It was warm and gentle, like the slightest flutter of a bird against the soft flesh of his bottom lips. Uruha parted his mouth instinctively, willing to take in more of Samura, putting out his tongue again despite the earlier advice. But this time, it was only a slight lick. He had always wondered how Samura would taste like – he tasted like cigarettes; there was no surprise there. What surprised Uruha was that…he enjoyed the taste.

He needed more.

He took a small step forward, clutching at Samura’s shirt as he tried to get more of that bitter and earthy taste on his tongue, committing it to memory before it was taken by the war. Uruha’s breath trembled as Samura let him indulge in the kiss, meeting his fervor in kind. No part of Uruha’s lips were spared from Samura, not even his tongue, and when they finally break apart, Uruha could swear he could still feel Samura’s mouth on him.

“Not so bad for a first, yeah?” Samura asked with a melancholic smile, tucking behind Uruha’s ear a lock of hair that had fallen out of his neat ponytail. Looking into his eyes, Uruha fully realized there was no holding him down. Samura had kissed him as if it was their last.

“You–“

Uruha headed directly for the dining table, his eyes landing on the housing pamphlets. “Have you found a new place yet?”

“Don’t mind that.” Samura expertly swiped the pile from the table and tossed it to a corner where a trash bin was. “I smell food.”

“I was going to buy fresh ingredients, but I realized you might not have a properly equipped kitchen here.” Uruha laid out the takeout meals he bought on the way, all still steaming hot.

“Now you’re just doing too much—”

The aroma finally reached Samura, causing his stomach to rumble embarrassingly loudly. With all his concern, he had forgotten to have a real meal for a while.

“Your body seems to disagree.”

“Stupid stomach.” Samura clucked his tongue, pulling out a chair and sitting begrudgingly. He placed a hand on the table, landing directly on the pair of chopsticks Uruha had prepared next to a takeout box. He felt Uruha’s eyes still trained on him. “What is it?”

“…Nothing.”

Samura began digging into his food, all complaints drowned by the fact that he was famished. Despite everything, Uruha knew to get his favorite. He was so absorbed into his meal that he didn’t realize Uruha had already moved away from the table and started with his self-appointed tasks. By the time he noticed, Uruha was just finishing loading the last of his dirty laundry in the washer. The scent of laundry soap hit Samura’s senses and sent him running.

“What are you doing?!”

“Cleaning?” Uruha asked, confusion in his tone as he pressed some buttons.

“You don’t have to do that.”

The washer started, as if to make a point that Samura couldn’t do anything about it anyway.

“You’re not my retainer, Uruha. I’m barely your master now. You don’t have to do all this.”

“I know. But I want to.” Uruha stood his ground, his steely gaze reaching Samura’s perception. “You’ve helped me all these years. Let me do this, at least.”

Uruha was a bratty kid, but when Samura took over as an assistant instructor, that side of him vanished, replaced by an almost docile student unyielding in learning the sword. The last time he argued to get his way was the day they had to fight for the war. It was a bit surprising facing it again now in the body of a young man who had already gone through the horrors, as if this small infuriating but innocent part of his struggled to be preserved in the middle of all he went through.

Samura treasured that.

“Do whatever you want.” Samura gave way, resigning to the balcony and put an unlit cigarette between his lips.

From his bare feet, he could feel the vibrations as Uruha moved about the official residence, moving furniture and sweeping dirt. In the Kamunabi’s defense, they did offer regular housekeeping, but Samura insisted on not having any. Who knows how they would arrange things around the house? He was still getting used to living as usual without his sight. His progress was of course tremendous, but still, he would prefer to be left alone especially now.

But Uruha’s different. He’s not just anybody. He’s the first precious soul that Samura had touched and led to this path of blood and death, the first person who Samura had learned (and failed) to care about. He was a part of Uruha as much as Uruha was a part of him. He would know how Samura would like to arrange the things around him; he would know what things Samura would throw away. And even if he didn’t, Samura would find himself agreeing to whatever Uruha decided for his space.

Samura was just about to return inside when he felt Uruha’s presence come closer.

“Everything’s settled,” he announced proudly, “There’s still the clothes in the dryer, but I’ll leave that one to you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Why don’t you just go back to the dojo, Samura-san? It’ll be easier for you; you don’t have to look for another place anymore.”

“And walk eggshells around Shirakai-sensei? No, thank you.”

“I heard he’s leaving.”

“To where?”

“I don’t know. But he keeps mentioning it. Kiri-chan’s been going to the dojo a lot, I feel like sensei is planning to drop her there if he does leave.”

“So you already have someone to take care of.”

“I’m still learning but…I can take care of you, too.”

Samura bit on the cigarette end, the unlit tobacco falling off on the ground. This bastard…

“Is this your grand plan? Cleaning my home in the hopes of sniping me right after my divorce?”

“I’m not – I didn’t think of it that way. Do you think of me so negatively?” Uruha sounded like he was sulking, and for a moment, Samura almost felt guilty for throwing such an accusation towards him. “I just wanted to show you that there are people who still care about you. That you don’t have to be alone like this.”

“Uruha, you’ve just turned twenty, barely an adult. You have a whole life ahead of you. The world is vast. Why do you chain yourself to this? To me?”

At twelve years old, Uruha didn’t know much about the world. He only knew to follow the way of the sword, and for that Uruha who had nowhere else to go and found himself in an infamous dojo, that meant following Samura Seiichi.

Follow his stance. Follow his swing. Follow him to war. Follow him until Uruha could stand side by side with his master and call him his peer.

But the war gave each person a different ghost to carry on with even long after its conclusion, to be dealt with in their own unique ways.

The next thing Uruha knew, Samura was headed for a path he could not follow.

Family? Weren’t the people in the dojo enough? For a short while, Uruha held animosity in his heart, until the day he attended their simple ceremony and Uruha saw just how Samura glowed next to Inori. It was the most beautiful expression he had seen on Samura’s face. He had never made Samura look like that before. In the end, he didn’t find it in his heart to hold any more bitterness and only wished the couple his best wishes.

And yet, he couldn’t let go of his attachments. Why was that?

“Because I’ve yet to reach you.”

Not only his swordsmanship, but also his heart.

Samura recalled the younger Uruha in his memories – always smiling and trailing behind him like a duckling. But once he officially became Samura’s student, a certain distance grew between the two of them. Samura thought it was just part of growing up. But…

Was Uruha chasing after him all this time? Was that why Uruha insisted on following him through this path of blood and death?

“Have I always been so far?”

Suddenly, he felt Uruha’s warm and fragrant hand reaching out, landing gently on the side of Samura’s face. Despite his apparent calm, Samura could hear Uruha’s racing pulse against his wrist. Samura patiently waited for an answer – if he knew this now, then he’d know how to deal with Uruha later. He couldn’t keep dragging him in places he shouldn’t be. He was the older one between them two, he should have been serving as a role model for his only junior.

If only he could understand Uruha’s heart…

“Please take care of yourself, Samura-san.”

Then Uruha stepped forward and planted a light kiss on Samura’s cheek.

Even before Samura could react, Uruha had already turned on his heel and slipped out, leaving a dumbfounded Samura on the balcony.

Worldly desires...

This wasn’t a problem he could deal with in a single night.

Giving up for now, Samura pulled out the lighter from his pocket and lit his cigarette.

“…Alright, you can sleep here tonight. I’m warning you though, I snore. Loudly.”

Samura hasn’t even finished speaking when Uruha was already huddled under the covers, his painted eyes curved into a smile. The earlier tension on his person dissipated into thin air.

“Not a problem, Samura-san! It’s much louder at night where I come from.”

No wonder he had a hard time adjusting to this dojo.

Samura took in the last of his smoke and crushed the barely lit stub, throwing it out his window. The dojo wasn’t secluded in some faraway place, but it wasn’t smack center on a busy district either. When one listened closely, murmurs of the city’s night life permeated the north entrance, while nature’s symphony filled the southern yard of the dojo. Having been here for a few years, Samura had already tuned out these sounds. It should be enough noise to lull one to sleep, though.

He eventually slid into his small bed, now even made more cramped with Uruha on it. He turned to his side, making most of the space he had deprived himself of, and found Uruha looking at him.

“What?”

“If I am to be trained by Shirakai-sensei in the way of the sword, does that make you my senior brother?”

Samura was an only child, and the dojo wasn’t really popular, what with Shirakai-sensei’s temperament and all. Even his own child, who was supposed to be around Samura’s age, didn’t even bother to learn their father’s sword style. That was to say, Samura really had no concept of what being a “senior brother” was.

“Pfft, that sounds too archaic, does it not?”

“But we’re samurais!”

“We’re swordsmen, in general, yes. Samurai, not so much. In any case, you can just think of me as a senior. Like, we’re in school or something.”

“A friend?”

“Yes, I can be your friend, too.”

Just then, Uruha moved closer and sniffed the air right in front of Samura.

“What are you doing?” Was this his idea of a friendship ritual?!

“I’ve been wondering about this since earlier, but you smell like an old man, Samura-san.”

Samura felt a headache coming. Give the kid an inch, and they would take a mile. “If you’re here to complain, you better go back to your own room.”

“I’m not! I wouldn’t dare!” Uruha suddenly sat up, his face theatrically twisted into an aggrieved expression.

“How is smelling like an old man not an insult?”

“I just meant to say, you smell like…some people I don’t like. So, I’ve always hated the smell of cigarettes. But you’re not them, And now I’m thinking I don’t actually hate that smell.”

Just then, Samura’s heart twisted at Uruha’s words. He still didn’t know what Uruha’s history was, and he didn’t want to assume the worst. After all, Uruha’s face still bore the innocence of one who haven’t been submerged in the mire of this world. Maybe Shirakai-sensei came to have found him at the right time. And Samura would ensure the rest of his years in the dojo would be a good one.

“Don’t go and pick up smoking. It’s bad for your health.”

It was the night before the enactment of their plan to subdue Soga, or rather, it was more accurate to say that Samura only had a handful of hours before it begins. He should be sleeping already, a rested body was akin to a rested mind, and heaven knows how much support the rest of the enchanted blade wielders needed from him. He must be in pristine condition if they were to succeed. Instead, he was outside their quarters in the wee hours after midnight with only the crashing sound of the waves as his company.

It was hard to close his eyes when he could see hundreds of thousands of corpses atop one another, all because they failed to see that their most trusted ally didn’t share their convictions at all. The bodies Samura had slain himself during the invasion were more than enough to chase off sleep. Now with him being complicit to what tantamounted to a massacre, it seemed that even if he died, he wouldn’t rest either.

He took a long drag from his half-lit cigarette, burning it through to the end, feeling the smoke creep its way down his throat to his lungs, filling up his body where a soul should be. Right. At this point, he might as well have no soul.

As he exhaled this poison out of his body, he felt a familiar presence approach. He tossed the cigarette butt to the side and turned around, coming face to face with Uruha. His hair was down, gently swaying with the sea breeze, and a large blanket was wrapped around him as if he was wearing one of his usual robes. The sight was a bit amusing if not for the situation they were about to be in.

“Can’t sleep?”

“A bit. Can I hang around here with you, Samura-san?”

“Of course,” Samura scooted to make space and patted the spot next to him. “Could use the company.”

Uruha sat down and faced the scenery before them – what remains of Shokoku Island after Soga’s Malediction.

Uruha shouldn’t be witnessing something like this. He should have never been part of the war in the first place. It was his own fault, Samura thinks, training Uruha so diligently that he made a name for himself at sixteen. If Samura knew the war would come, he would have let Uruha play a bit longer and enjoy his youth. But it was far too late for what-ifs and regrets.

Samura lit up another cigarette; he was down to his last two sticks. “I don’t remember you having a hard time sleeping during the invasion.”

“I didn’t feel like I would die any minute then.” With Kumeyuri and the other enchanted blades, they were indeed almost invincible.

“You know I won’t let you die.”

“I know that.” There was something in Uruha’s tone, but before Samura could even begin to decipher what it was, Uruha suddenly remarked, “I like you, Samura-san. I really do.”

“I know that, too.” Samura responded casually. “You’ve already said that before.”

“And you’ve already rejected me. I know you have Inori-san waiting for you, and I’m not even asking for anything in return. Whatever happens after this, I just need you to realize that my heart never wavered.”

Samura knew that, as well. Could he call himself Uruha’s master if he didn’t know his student? If only Uruha knew to place his heart somewhere it deserves to be. Why fixate on a shell of a man such as him?

“If there will be an after this, I hope to build a family. So that there is a future I can look forward to.” Samura turned to his student then, offering a peaceful smile towards a face which was close to tears. “I’m done running for nothing, Uruha, so you should already stop chasing after me.”

It was poetic, Samura had to admit, that the first time he and Uruha became intimate, it was back at his old room at the dojo.

Uruha snored lightly next to him, sweaty and naked and beautiful and everything Samura had deprived himself of. Years later, free from the eternal contracts and back to the place they used to call home, Samura finally came to accept the affection he had been harboring for Uruha. Fortunately on his part, despite his advice, Uruha never stopped chasing after him. Sure, there were detours for both, but ultimately, they still found one another.

Samura reached out for the last cigarette stick laying on the bedside table, careful not to disturb Uruha’s sleep. But it was for naught, as the moment he moved, the bed shifted and Uruha startled awake.

“Seiichi?”

“Hey, Yoji, sorry. Go back to sleep.”

Uruha ran his gaze to where Samura’s outstretched arm was, realized his goal, and grabbed the cigarette before Samura could.

“No. No more cigs for today.”

“Didn’t you tell me you don’t hate the smell of cigarettes?”

“I clearly remember you also told me that smoking is bad for the health.” Uruha tossed the cigarette to the floor, much to Samura’s disappointment.

But before Samura could voice out a complaint, Uruha had already pulled him by the nape and kissed him on the mouth. This brat was so greedy, it seemed that their earlier session wasn’t enough. Samura also couldn’t get enough of him either way, so he kissed back hard until they both needed to catch up on their breaths, which for highly trained swordsmen, meant a long time.

“See?” Uruha laughed against his tender and almost bruising lips, “You don’t need cigarettes. Only me.”

Rebuilding the dojo back up from the ground would take a while. Shirakai-sensei was still going around in the wilderness, and Kiri had no intentions on lending a hand either. Iori promised to help, but she also had her own life and commitments. And thus, there was that certain truth that in the years to come, there was only him and Uruha.

And maybe some sticks of cigarettes when Samura could sneak a chance.

What Samura soon realized — even without the master saying out loud — was that Uruha’s first kill had already happened, long before he ever picked up one of the dojo’s training swords. He was a kid plucked from the red-light district; one didn’t have to think too far of the things that happen behind closed doors.

Since being under their care, Uruha never had to kill again. With a wooden blade in tow, Samura ingrained into him the very spirit of Iai. And Samura made sure that Uruha didn’t have to take a life as long as he was around. Their master might be a beast of his own, but it didn’t mean they had to be one, too. Iai is a principle, a way of life. The quickest blade is the kindest one. It fits Uruha well.

But if there’s one truth in the world, it’s that peace never lasts for long.

An invasion threatened the country; sorcery was revealed to the world. With the nation at risk, the government summoned master swordsmen and sorcerers from all over the country. The dojo, with its acclaimed style, had no choice but to send their very best.

Not for long, Uruha killed again. Samura witnessed it with his own eyes; he tried not to stay too far from Uruha in the field.

It was clear early on that Uruha with his sword and sorcery was a force to be reckoned with, causing him to be marked both by allies and enemies alike. When a particularly focused attack came to him, Uruha dealt with it without needing Samura’s backing. And after he had sliced three bodies clean, his eyes sought Samura’s in the chaos, caught his gaze, and smiled.

I’ll catch up to you one day, the words of a younger Uruha echoed in his ears.

It shouldn’t be like this.

When the enemy forces dispersed and their camp had a short moment of quiet, Samura immediately made his way to Uruha’s quarters. He found him just finishing wrapping a gauze around a wound on his arm, fresh blood seeping through the material.

“Uruha?”

“Samura-san!” Uruha jumped on his seat in his surprise, the gauze momentarily forgotten. “It’s already late, shouldn’t you be resting?”

“Just wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine,” he grinned, raising his arm up and acting cool. “My wounds are all skin deep, you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not concerned about that.” Samura carefully grabbed his arm anyway, finishing the wrap himself. “You…killed again earlier, yeah?”

“Yes,” Uruha didn’t miss a beat in response, “It felt weird. It’s been a while. But I’ll get used to it.”

Samura flinched. These words shouldn’t be coming out of a kid’s mouth, but adulthood often comes earlier for the unlucky ones.

“That’s not something you should get used to.” He lightly pushed Uruha’s forehead with a finger, as if to drill into his brain the point. “I told you, disarm if possible. Wound when necessary. With your skills, you can avoid killing altogether.”

“It can’t be avoided! We’re at war—”

“Yes, but this is not your war alone. Think of yourself as support. You don’t have to be a hero.” Samura knew it was pointless to say so. If anything, the fight today made him realize that Uruha clearly belonged on the battlefield. But if there’s anything he could do, even a tiny bit, to protect him from all its truth, then he would do it.

When the enchanted blades were forged and Samura was picked to wield Tobimune, he found an answer to his dilemma. With this blade that could cover the battlefield in one swift stroke and its flames that healed their own, he could turn the tide of war before Uruha was submerged by it even more.

Yet, no matter how fast his sword work was, he was still a step too slow.

Another enchanted blade was forged. Rokuhira chose Uruha. Uruha’s fate was forever sealed in this warzone.

The more Samura killed, the more blood came to drown him in his nightmares. He knew these deaths he brought upon their enemies was for the greater good, but killing was still killing. Every corpse that fell by his sword went to haunt him in his sleep. Yet, the scariest of them all was Uruha – no, he did not kill him, but by bringing him into this war and not preventing him from being contracted to an enchanted blade, he might as well have given Uruha a death sentence.

And this worry seeped into the darkest parts of his mind, creating a corpse of his student in the middle of all the bodies he had slain. He tried to reach for it, for him, wading in a mess of blood and guts. The distance didn’t seem to close, though, but the sight of Uruha’s corpse became clearer until hollow eyes and spilled blood stared back at him, Tobimune somehow stabbed deep onto his side.

Samura-san, the corpse spoke in his mind, Have I caught up to you now?

“Samura-san!”

Samura startled awake, cold sweat dripping down all over his body. Where was he?

He looked around –

Worried green eyes illuminated by the dim orange glow of a nearby lamp stared back.

“…Uruha?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

Samura squeezed his eyes shut, grounding himself into this reality where Uruha was breathing and next to him. His hands were still clutched onto Uruha’s arm, pulse drumming in a constant rhythm beneath his fingers, blood pumping inside his body instead of gushing out. He’s awake, Uruha’s alive.

“I’m sorry, Uruha.” After one final squeeze, just to make sure this really was reality, he let go of Uruha’s arm and sat up on his bed. “You shouldn’t be seeing me like this.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Samura-san. Don’t act as if we haven’t lived together all these years.” Uruha’s voice was devoid of any judgment. “The war affects everyone, even the strongest of us. If not, could we still call ourselves human?”

Samura opened his eyes once more, his gaze focusing on Uruha’s. This past year, he observed his student on the battlefield, the white crane that brought upon illusions of carnage to the enemy camp. Only now had he seen Uruha’s face again this close – since when had he lost the plumpness in his cheeks? Since when had those wide eyes sharpened at the edges and carried a deadly shine instead of its usual sparkle?

In leading the way on this path to hell, he had forgotten to look back.

Even with an enchanted blade, Samura had never felt so human. There were forces in this world too great to even divert, the only way to survive was to flow with it. They were still a pair of master and disciple after all.

“You’ve been through a lot.”

“It is an honor to fight in this war with Rokuhira-san’s blade, to defend this country alongside you.” Uruha smiled – it was a peaceful one. “No burden is too great.”

“It’s a burden we both carry, don’t forget that.”