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A single blade of grass plucked from a green field would go unnoticed; but to take a flower from a bouquet of seven, the crime was stark, significant, and immediately discovered. Most wounded by this theft was the holder of said flowers. He related his dolorous misfortune to a fawning girl so emphatically her beauty went rather unpraised. Had he been whole and in his usual good humour, Tokugawa Yoshitora would have appreciated her beyond that of a sympathetic listener. It must be noted, however, that the sore subject was first struck up by the girl who, seeking for a reason to approach the handsome young man, brought attention to the many swords he had. Yoshitora, though not ungrateful, could only enjoy less than half her words as the wound was still fresh at his side.
The incident occurred a few days prior in Ueda. Ever the wanderer, he had spent the night at an inn he rather liked and was patron to before. It was a more expensive establishment which housed the traveling upper crust, and perhaps it was because of that prestige that the inn was visited by petty thieves that night. Yoshitora had enjoyed his time at the bathhouse but returned to find his room ajar. A suspicious pack of so-called merchants were named the prime suspects by witnesses outside, but by the time that was determined, the damage had long been done. The innkeeper had apologised a hundredfold, groveling on the ground with such vehemence he might as well have been begging for his life instead. It was a miserable party all around. The least Yoshitora could do was issue his forgiveness for a crime the innkeeper had no hand in.
Such were the events Yoshitora recounted to the fair lady. He had kept his voice relatively low at first, but his emotions gave way as he spoke, and he had half the restaurant’s attention by the end of it. The young woman sidled in closer to him at the end of his monologue. Her warmth and charming smile offered some comfort to Yoshitora, and she looked up at him with a sweet and sympathetic smile before recommending him to alcohol. He smiled back her with a somber air that seemed to enhance his charm. Miserable as he was, Yoshitora was no less keen on reading intent. He leaned in close where their noses almost touched, and an amourous air arose.
“I’d be delighted to bask longer in your presence,” he whispered, “but I don’t drink.”
While he was saying that, another young woman, who had been sitting at a table adjacent, took her leave. Her hair was tied back into a low tail at the base of her neck, and her features, while not unpleasant, could only best be described as unremarkable-- the simple manner in which she wore her kimono was far from the height of fashion too. She kept her gaze grounded as she went. Her brisk pace disturbed the audience from the romantic scene, but she was just as soon forgotten in their next breath. Outside on her own, she took a moment to reflect on the tale she unwittingly overheard. The Tokugawa’s woes did not inspire her sympathy very much. Misfortune, like death, was indiscriminate. From that thought, she had to wonder if it was also fate’s caprice which merged their paths. She knew he had not recognised her then, but still the sight of him when he first walked inside drew a visceral reaction from her. She exhaled deeply. She had originally planned to make a straight shot to Edo, but seeing as he was around, she determined a slight detour to Yamanashi was in order. Little did she know that also headed toward Yamanashi was another Tokugawa Yoshitora-- or at least, a man whom many believed to be Yoshitora.
Ichirou, having found himself a shiny new sword, practically sparkled with all the confidence of the world. The gleam of the sword’s golden hilt was the object of much praise and admiration. It stood out from the rest of the arsenal on his person which were merely hollow scabbards behind a pompous paint. Still, the swagger in his steps, that peculiar way his hair was styled, and how awesomely handsome he was made him the spitting image of Yoshitora. Ichirou was virtually a walking star. He summoned crowds with a single flash of a smile and flip of the hair. His radiance enraptured everyone into singing his praises: a stupefying spell that made people blind to the pickpockets that swiftly threaded in and out the scene like skillful mice. And if Ichirou’s dramatic retellings of fictitious adventures could not hold court, then he would brandish that newly acquired sword and make a show with it. It was a simple but effective system Ichirou devised with his three younger brothers, Jirou, Saburou, and Shirou. Such success bred confidence among the thieves-- a confidence which, when combined with the faults in their characters, quickly spoiled into arrogance. With his loyal brothers promoted to servants of the Tokugawa, Ichirou set off towards Edo, firstly arriving at Yamanashi. The closer to the capital, the heavier the purses. The brothers marched on valiantly despite the risk of their ruse being discovered growing with each step.
Ambition drove them forth. It also wrung their savings thin. The disguise as elites was an expensive upkeep, and by the time they arrived at the city, Ichirou was too withered to muster half the charm he needed to play pretend. He resigned himself to a conspicuous tree’s shade and laid himself there while his brothers explored the area. The group agreed to each investigate his own corner of the district and as such they dutifully split. They would regroup at a later hour.
Of Ichirou’s three younger brothers, Saburou was the most bold and clever. Above all, he was hungry. Saburou mingled himself closely with the wandering shoppers of the marketplace. He made himself both a shadow and companion of any one person, discretely plucking morsels from baskets and shoulder poles alike. Through this method the thief satiated his hunger. He still had to bring some form of harvest back to his brothers, however. Saburou separated himself from the scene for a moment. He cast a cursory glance over the people around with a languid eye where his net eventually settled upon an aging man with the ambling grace of a half-oared boat. It’d be an easy catch, and Saburou had no qualms over taking candy from a baby-- neither extremity of age groups would put up much of a fight, after all.
Saburou quickly snuck back and around a grocer to intercept the old man on his path. In his excitement to filch the old man he did not slow or consider that someone else might have been traveling through the alley’s shade too. The collision was violent. Saburou landed square on his butt; the young woman he rammed into was sent sprawling onto the ground. This woman, it must be noted, was the very same as the one introduced earlier before Ichirou. She had landed rather painfully on her side but was pushing herself upright before Saburou even registered what happened. The moment it clicked, however, Saburou was scrambling up onto his feet and rushing to her aid.
“Oh, a thousand apologies, miss! Are you all right?” He hurriedly dusted her off, patting her here and there, this way and that. Saburou pocketed a small bag of coins as she batted him away from her person.
“I’m fine. Just don’t touch me.”
“Right, right. My bad!” Saburou laughed. The young woman was rather miffed by the invasion of her personal space but was otherwise unharmed. Not wanting to linger around a hissing tiger, Saburou casually began his retreat, turning away from her. “Welp, don’t wanna keep my bros waiting. Be seein’ ya~” He took all of two steps before he was stopped.
“Hold a moment.” From their brief interaction she detected something saccharine about him, but her mastered expression revealed nothing more than mild annoyance to the young man. Saburou, on his part, knew to play along. He shot his brows up in feigned surprise.
“What’s up? I didn’t drop something, did I?”
“No,” she replied evenly. “But perhaps you can return to me something ‘I dropped’?”
At first Saburou thought to act innocent. He’d admit it was impressive the girl found out so quickly. Something akin to excitement thrilled within him. Saburou tried not to laugh. How she tried to intimidate him with a scary face was doing the opposite for him. He let the pouch drop from the recesses of his sleeve into his hand, where he then held it up between the forefinger and thumb, giving it a taunting little waggle.
“Sorry, lady. Why don’t you come and get it yourself?”
And then he was off. Saburou burst into a full sprint back around where he came from and out into the open streets. His sudden appearance startled a few people nearby, but Saburou, after making a sharp turn, continued on his way at a calm and casual pace, effectively blending in with the urban scene. Such was one of his favourite tricks to employ. The subversive tactic never failed him, and the image of his victim’s flustering frustration was a comedy like none other. Against a girl, the thief felt all the confidence his escape was complete. He glanced over his shoulder, reveling, and the young woman looked back at him, unimpressed. She made to grab him by the arm but Saburou leapt away right as her fingers brushed his sleeve.
The scream he let out was almost embarrassing to anyone who heard it. If the squeal which interrupted all conversations failed to catch the street’s attention, then the mad chase which ensued certainly turned their heads. Some onlookers speculated a romantic falling-out: a young man was sprinting for his life with a woman hot on his heels.
“Crazy bitch! Stop following me!” Saburou gasped. The woman appeared completely unaffected by the run, on the other hand. Her patience, however, tired, and her steps slowed to a stop.
She extended a graceful arm forth. A silent gale picked up. Then, with a sharp flick of the wrist, her fingers pointed to the back of the thief’s head. Saburou, sensing he was no longer pursued, chanced another peek behind. Seeing the distance between himself and the wench, he burst out into a triumphant fit of laughter. But as humans must face forward to see where they’re going, Saburou, mid-chortle, ran straight into an oxen cart. The adrenaline that coursed through his veins greatly diminished the bodily pain but none of his pride’s.
He jumped onto his feet ready to shake his fist at the poor farmer and his ox and cuss them into tomorrow, but before he could so much as utter a syllable, a darting silhouette shot from the skies and began pecking and scratching at his face. Saburou cried and redirected his curses. He desperately fought back against the crow with one hand while the other he used to shield himself.
From the chase, to the cart-collision, and then the aerial assault, quite the crowd began to gather around the unlucky man. The young woman he had been so desperate to escape from caught up to him then. She calmly dismissed the bird and proceeded to deliver one sharp kick to Saburou’s shin. He fell like a cut tree and immediately began to howl.
“How dare you!” he wailed, clutching his leg. “How dare you injure a servant of the illustrious Lord Yoshitora!” By invoking the Tokugawa name he had aimed to scare the wretched girl but she remained unaffected. Her stern expression seemed to darken further and she looked down on him. Meanwhile, murmurs rose from the bystanders at Saburou’s words.
“I don’t care,” the young woman glowered. “Just give me back what’s mine before I take it from you myself.”
Saburou yelped when she drew in close. Instincts flared and he threw down the modest sac at her ankle. The small ‘clink’ of coins gave him the satisfaction it hit her. It was the only gain he would have against her before he scurried off with his tail tucked between his legs.
All that, the real Tokugawa Yoshitora witnessed amongst the crowd. He had been as surprised as the rest when he heard his name mentioned; perhaps even more so as he could have sworn upon his remaining blades he’d never seen the felled man before. His gaze lingered on the mysterious woman as the crowd began to disperse. He did not approach her but turned on his heel before she saw him. Her features were just as stranger to him as that self-proclaimed servant’s, but the shade of her kimono, that faded persimmon, he felt as though he’s seen it somewhere before. As the young woman had forecasted, Yoshitora had indeed planned to return to Edo where he could formally sulk and embrace his lovers-- especially Yuugao. He would apologise to her for his carelessness and affirm his affections to her anew, yet, where the road diverged, he decided on a whim to visit Yamanashi instead. Seeing that girl again, Yoshitora had to muse on the fine line between coincidence and circumstance.
He spent the rest of the afternoon in aimless leisure. He walked around as if he were part of the local life. The earlier disruption was, of course the talk of town, and Yoshitora kept a nosy ear out for all the gossip and variation the people had to offer. He retracted his attention when when he overheard one scandalised woman loudly declare to a group that the girl had killed an innocent man in broad daylight. There were a few incredulous responses but others seemed to believe her every word. Yoshitora merely shook his head and continued on his way. He eventually stopped by a teahouse to give his legs a little break. It was a quiet shop near at the end of the street, humble, and distanced from the clamours of the main stream. He had sat down on a bench outside for one sip when he was approached by three men, their looming forms blocking out the sun. Yoshitora looked at each of them inquisitively starting from his right. Surprise flickered across his handsome features when he saw the last of the trio: it was the humiliated pickpocket, alive. That simple realisation told him all he needed of the company that graced him. Yoshitora set his cup down on the ground.
“Hey, there. Can I help you three with something?” His casual address seemed to set them off.
“’What can I help you with’ he says. You can help us by keeping your damn word for once!” Shirou, the rightmost one, exclaimed. Jirou, at the center of the trio, piped up next.
“We’ve been searching all over for you!”
Last but not least, the barrage was topped off by Saburou, still inwardly nursing the bruise he got from his botched heist.
“I waited for you by the gate, but you never showed up.”
They each looked at Yoshitora expectingly with genuine hurt in their eyes. Yoshitora could only stare back at them, speechless.
“Sorry, but I don’t remember making any promise of meeting you guys at a gate,” he said at length. A collective groan erupted from the brothers at his response.
“Argh, I knew it! Ichirou’s shit-ass memory strikes again!” Jirou cried, throwing up his arms in despair.
“Excuse me?” Yoshitora was more confused than offended, but the brothers took his exclamation as a sign that he was more affected by the latter. Beneath the friendly banter and gibes from the three, the words Saburou proclaimed before the crowd flashed upon Yoshitora’s mind, and all the pieces clicked like a snap. He gave Jirou, Saburou, and Shirou a commanding look and made the appropriate inquiries their leader would have made. He demanded a report of anything noteworthy around, if they ‘found’ anything of worth. Almost beaming with pride, the thieves brandished their harvest of coins and trinkets as they gave short narratives of their exploits. Yoshitora couldn’t decide whether to be alarmed or impressed.
“So, what about you? Anything interesting?” Yoshitora redirected to Saburou, rejoining the conversation with a cheeky grin. Having been witness to that public episode firsthand, he wondered what kind of fancy Saburou would spin to save face. All eyes fell on Saburou whose face turned so red iron could be struck on him. For the next hour or so the young man cried and cursed about a savage wench that he swore used some form of black magic on him. Yoshitora was inclined to agree on the last part but lightly chastised him for speaking so rudely of a woman.
“Who knows? Maybe she has something in common with you,” Yoshitora winked.
“Ew. Don’t even joke about that!” Saburou shuddered. The thought of the glare and kick she gave him still filled him with fear, though he could not quite recall what she looked like. “Anyways… Did you get your hair cut today, Ichirou? You look great, man.”
“You think so?” Yoshitora smiled as he bashfully touched the end of his topknot. His expression then warped into something mischievous as he stood from the bench. “Maybe I should get a trim, haha.”
He brought a hand over Asagao’s hilt. The brothers stared at him, uncomprehending. Somewhere in the distance a temple bell announced the entrance of evening. A breeze passed.
At the first gasp and stretch of horror in their faces, Yoshitora drew his sword in a flash.
“You’re not—” The truth was never voiced as Yoshitora cut each one of them down-- their belts, to be exact. The trio’s clothes dropped open and they screamed in terror. The unharmonized chord drew out several curious heads from the surrounding houses. Yoshitora joined them in watching as the three ran off into the sunset. He sheathed Asagao as he shook his head in disbelief it took them so long to notice he was not, in fact, their Ichirou. It was not the same as having Yuugao back, but having shamed those men with her sister, it was the least he could do to avenge her.
Off in another part of town, at another gate different from the one the brothers had waited for Ichirou at, the actual Ichirou was nowhere to be found either. He had slept through the afternoon and the appointed meeting time then woke up to determine his younger brothers were all still frolicking about when he found none of them waiting for him. And so he set off to round them up himself-- a task he didn’t spend much time on as his attention was caught by one gorgeous young woman along the way. He wasted no time dousing her with exceedingly flowery words about her beauty. The compliments cast a pretty blush to her fair complexion, and Ichirou was ready for more when a sharp tap on his shoulder interrupted him and he was introduced to her lover. He did not threaten Ichirou with violence but merely sent him scampering off after a terse agreement on her beauty. Ichirou personally rather the guy chose to fight him instead. That way he he would have had a chance to show off his strength.
Ichirou continued his search with the setting sun. A group of three would stand out somewhat, he thought to himself. Perhaps he ought to ask around for their whereabouts, and to his convenience, there was someone just ahead of him. Ichirou hurried up to her.
“Hey!”
As coincidence would have it, the young woman was, of course, the one that dealt with Saburou and whom Yoshitora had vaguely identified from her clothing. At the sight of the broomed coiffe, the ginkgo yellow kimono, and what appeared to be seven swords-- she started.
“Tokugawa Yoshitora…” the young woman grumbled, tired. She had hoped not to see him again so soon, if ever at all. Displeasure filled her entire expression. Ichirou, in his quest to find his siblings, forgot the role he cast himself as. He looked at her, confused.
“Er, what?”
That simple utterance prove to be his undoing.
Yoshitora would have responded with more suave at his name, and the voice that croaked out was definitely not the Tokugawa’s. She fixed the stranger before her with a frightful stare. Bit by bit her scrutinizing gaze unfurled the differences in their features, and Ichirou’s disguise began to peel off. Ichirou was handsome, yes, but his face was longer, his cheekbones more pronounced. The young woman’s eyes traveled down to his hips where one particular sword stood out at his side. Golden wrappings round the hilt wound down to a guard composed of entwining moonflowers; its regal air far outclassed the other swords on his person, and the sad bemoaning that started this entire story sprung forth in her mind. She nodded to herself.
“Plucking a sword from a member of the shogunate-- I almost commend your bravery.”
“Wh-what?!” Ichirou instinctively reached for his sword. He took several steps back to distance himself from the ominous girl.
“And to subject yourself to such a hairstyle too… Surely there must have been another way?” Her sigh was weighed with such profound pity Ichirou had no chance to defend himself. Who she was or how she saw through him became secondary concerns with one strike of the sword. He revealed the blade’s lethal sheen, but the young woman remained unfazed. She remained impassive against his aggression. Ichirou’s hands trembled, and he hesitated. He had always been a thief but never resorted to taking lives. If the woman revealed the truth to anyone, however-- it would mean the end for him. With all the valour of desperation, Ichirou charged at her with every intent to cut her down. In the beat of his first step, a long-handled sword materialized in the young woman’s hands; in the second, as Ichirou swung his blade, she countered him with one precise strike. Her attack effectively knocked Yuugao from Ichirou’s grip, and the sword clattered onto the ground. Ichirou tried to dive after the weapon but was stopped by the tip of a nagamaki pointed right at his jugular.
“Give it up,” the young woman said, then gestured to the empty sheath at his side with her chin. “And that scabbard too.”
Under the surveillance of mortality, Ichirou did as he was told. He fumbled to pull out the scabbard from his belt before throwing it far past her shoulder. He had hoped it’d distract her, but her vigilance remained sharp on his every move. Ichirou held his hands up in surrender.
“Are-- Are you done?” he cried.
“… There are less tawdry ways you can tie your hair in.” The young woman lowered her weapon. “Make yourself scare before I cut that unsightly thing from your head.”
Ichirou didn’t need to be told twice. He liked his hair quite a lot, so he ran away clutching his wounded pride, tripping on his feet as he went. The young woman sighed an exasperated sigh. Her stoic hid it well, but the absurdity of her day left her rather mystified. She peered over Yuugao. There it was, the famous sword so dearly missed by its original wielder. Quietly, she picked it up. Never would she have imagined she’d ever lay a hand on one of his belongings. It was tempting to make off with it. Almost. Yuugao would have undoubtedly fetched a handsome price with its superlative craftsmanship.
“I’ll be taking her back now, if you would be so kind.”
At his voice, the young woman could not find it in herself to be surprised at his appearance then. She turned to face him. Yoshitora was standing a short distance behind her. He had already returned the scabbard to his rightful side.
“It seems fortune spurns you these days,” she said, coolly. Yoshitora shrugged.
“It happens to the best of us.” He extended a hand towards her. “My sword, please.”
Loathe as she was to take orders from the likes of him, the young woman did as asked nonetheless. She thrust the sword to Yoshitora by the handle. Yoshitora couldn’t help but smile at her attitude as he took the katana from her. Just like that, Yuugao was reunited with her sister sword and Yoshitora was whole again. He looked at the peevish woman with a teasing glint in his eyes.
“That trick you pulled earlier today... Did you steal that from that little lady of Ezo?”
“You talk too much.” She had no intention of prolonging the conversation and was already walking around him when Yoshitora spoke again.
“What, you’re just going to leave without challenging me to a fight? You wound me, Karasu Tengu!”
At that, she stopped. The nagamaki she had summoned earlier was still present in her hand. She shifted her grip around its handle, and a sudden gale rustled the trees and rippled the waters nearby. In the next blink of the eye, her figure was replaced by one more familiar to Yoshitora.