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[ Old folks, they're sneaky.
The days after the return from Egypt had been flurry of activity. Muramasa had set Yuta to work from the moment he'd shown up looking aimless and they'd sorted out the issue of the barrier: clearing the spring brush that began to grow around the building while they were halfway across the globe; finishing replacing old boards in the walls; sanding down lengths of wood for other prjects to a smooth finish. Most important is the fuel. An endless parade of transporting charred logs from the smattering of mounds of dirt and wood that Muramasa'd set in the woods, then an endless pile of fragile, crumbling, charred wood, sitting next to the smithy that splinters with a glass-like sound and leaves soot in every crease of Yuta's hands until its time to wash up and make dinner, and finally the endless task of cutting and sorting the charcoal into usable pieces for the forge itself, which sits empty, hungry, and cold inside.
After a week of splitting glass sounds and quiet chopping, Muramasa starts the work of melting down some of the scrap metal he's collected: rusty nails, an old bike chain, the despised carpentry hammer that was in the toolbox they found in an old storage room. The charcoal pile stops growing but Yuta's chore of cutting and sorting remains as the forge begins to consume the fruits of his labor. Tools begin appearing unannounced, like the spare charcoal hatchet that has become Yuta's out of necessity, and a small fleet of hammers.
One afternoon, a week after the forge begins to eat through the charcoal pile, there's a second bundle next to Yuta's hatchet when he arrives to begin cutting and sorting, wrapped in plain dark fabric. Peeking out from under the bundle is a bright scrap of paper, addressed to "Okkotsu" in a sharp, decisive hand. The unsigned note inside reads:
This one's yours.
Inside the bundle is a long wakizashi, sized perfectly for Yuta's lanky frame. Sheathed in an unadorned saya of plain wood, stained in a warm, handsome, dark color, it has an unassuming air at first glance, but the other fittings are clearly meant for use in battle rather than storage. The tsuba is sturdy iron, shaped like a swirl of flower petals, and the tsuka-maki is a simple dark blue cotton, laced up in an expert manner.
If Yuta unsheathes the blade, he will find an edge so sharp that it barely even needs any pressure to cut things pressed against it. That's as much of a signature as the wave-shaped hamon, or the name hidden on the tang under the handguard.
Of course, this is an afternoon where the old man's off on a patrol without him. It just seemed better to save them both the trouble of fussing with the rigamarole of courtesy, is all. ]
The days after the return from Egypt had been flurry of activity. Muramasa had set Yuta to work from the moment he'd shown up looking aimless and they'd sorted out the issue of the barrier: clearing the spring brush that began to grow around the building while they were halfway across the globe; finishing replacing old boards in the walls; sanding down lengths of wood for other prjects to a smooth finish. Most important is the fuel. An endless parade of transporting charred logs from the smattering of mounds of dirt and wood that Muramasa'd set in the woods, then an endless pile of fragile, crumbling, charred wood, sitting next to the smithy that splinters with a glass-like sound and leaves soot in every crease of Yuta's hands until its time to wash up and make dinner, and finally the endless task of cutting and sorting the charcoal into usable pieces for the forge itself, which sits empty, hungry, and cold inside.
After a week of splitting glass sounds and quiet chopping, Muramasa starts the work of melting down some of the scrap metal he's collected: rusty nails, an old bike chain, the despised carpentry hammer that was in the toolbox they found in an old storage room. The charcoal pile stops growing but Yuta's chore of cutting and sorting remains as the forge begins to consume the fruits of his labor. Tools begin appearing unannounced, like the spare charcoal hatchet that has become Yuta's out of necessity, and a small fleet of hammers.
One afternoon, a week after the forge begins to eat through the charcoal pile, there's a second bundle next to Yuta's hatchet when he arrives to begin cutting and sorting, wrapped in plain dark fabric. Peeking out from under the bundle is a bright scrap of paper, addressed to "Okkotsu" in a sharp, decisive hand. The unsigned note inside reads:
This one's yours.
Inside the bundle is a long wakizashi, sized perfectly for Yuta's lanky frame. Sheathed in an unadorned saya of plain wood, stained in a warm, handsome, dark color, it has an unassuming air at first glance, but the other fittings are clearly meant for use in battle rather than storage. The tsuba is sturdy iron, shaped like a swirl of flower petals, and the tsuka-maki is a simple dark blue cotton, laced up in an expert manner.
If Yuta unsheathes the blade, he will find an edge so sharp that it barely even needs any pressure to cut things pressed against it. That's as much of a signature as the wave-shaped hamon, or the name hidden on the tang under the handguard.
Of course, this is an afternoon where the old man's off on a patrol without him. It just seemed better to save them both the trouble of fussing with the rigamarole of courtesy, is all. ]
truthfully, neither did i.
[ Not something he might have normally admitted and burdened his kouhai with, but his classmates aren't here and Yuji is the only one who was there and will understand. So, a tentative offer: ]
let's try to figure it out together?
[ Not something he might have normally admitted and burdened his kouhai with, but his classmates aren't here and Yuji is the only one who was there and will understand. So, a tentative offer: ]
let's try to figure it out together?
[ Yuta might have a year on Yuji when it comes to being a sorcerer, but really, no amount of time could have ever prepared them for any of this. How are they even supposed to begin coping? Yuta sure has been doing it pretty poorly for the most part. ]
then let's rely on each other.
maybe that doesn't necessarily make it any easier either, but i find that not being alone always helps at least a little.
then let's rely on each other.
maybe that doesn't necessarily make it any easier either, but i find that not being alone always helps at least a little.
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