✧ Shotoku's Promise

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Shotoku cautiously trodden down the path down the hill, sprinting agilely beside the marsh full of chirping crickets and fireflies. The silt beneath him wet and dragged his hakama down, slowing his movement only mildly. His katana soundly clacked and bustled inside of the scabbard bound at his waist while he ran through the grass, alerting any wildlife near to flee. From behind the tall grass and horsetails, he watched for eavesdroppers, eyes gleaming like two fireflies, glowing a cool scarlet under the moonlight. When all was silent, he snuck through.

The full moon shone high in the dark sky above the wet moor, continuing to whisper psalms and words to him as he went along.After a few minutes, the cold breeze turned warm and brushed against Shotoku as if there were a crowd of people walking by his side, murmuring in his ears  It was as if his ancestors walked beside him, guiding his feet through the dark night.

That night, whatever the moon would share with him was sacred. Tonight, she called him. No one else would have known he was out there. 

Shotoku approached a coarse scar in the landscape he was on, familiar with the vines and flora that grew around each and every surface they could find. The seldom scent of incense and fruit filled the air, indicating that the place had not seen light for a while. In this scar of land, stood a dark cave. The closer Shotoku was drawn to it, the stronger the stale scent became, making his nose and eyes twitch.

Rotten. He plainly thought to himself. A rotten place.

Without much thought, he continued to push his way through the opening, shaking the silt and filth off of his clothes. The path inside was dark and unsuspecting, and so quiet he could hear each individual water drop fall from the stalactites. He expected not to see anyone at all.

Shotoku made sure to creep along quietly, careful not to disturb the cave or bump into anything dangerous. The water drops he heard from just moments ago fell on his face, and later soaked his clothes with musty residue of gravel.

Reaching a spot where the moonlight peaked, Shotoku stepped on the grounds of a sacred temple, where the scents were also familiar to him. Furthermore, his assumption was correct; it had not been touched in years, not even by the priests. The whole place seemed completely abandoned, the wood structures cracking apart, swallows making their nests in rubble, and other lower creatures wandering and chattering about. Everything was either falling apart or covered in dust, all except for the statue of Neorah in the center of the clearing.

The small animals scattered upon Shotoku’s watchful gaze upon her.

Her statue still looked quite polished, like it had been kept recently. It was almost eerie, how she was there.

“Neorah, I call for your presence.”

Shotoku’s voice echoed through the clearing, sodden and alone. Standing before her, he searched the statue’s eyes for any sort of divinity; any sign which indicated her consciousness. Yet, he found nothing but the eeriness of the cave. The water continued to run down the ceiling and drop from the stalactites, making a slow dripping sound as it went on. No sign of life.

Shotoku curled his lip into a snarl. Was this some kind of joke? Was he being made a fool of again?

He couldn’t understand why the divine had called him forth if not to speak with him. Why wasn’t the goddess speaking to him?

He waited for a moment longer, before speaking in a low growl.

“Why have you called me here?”

After a few seconds, a significant breeze blew into the cave from behind him, fussing with his hair and clothes. A bright golden light shone from his backside. 

“Truth. You must find yourself, Shotoku.”

Seek truth.

The familiar voice had returned to him! Her soft and (now) sodden voice echoed quietly against the rock walls. It wasn’t Neorah’s, but still, someone familiar! Shotoku picked up the strong marigold scent of the spirit it was bound to. It drifted in the open air around him and made his nose hurt. He winced.

“Who are you?”

With another small breeze, the spirit appeared before him, materializing with a cloud of mist. She looked at him then tilted her head, 

“I am Amara, of your divine ancestors,” she said. “Messenger before you, Shotoku.”

This was the first time she had ever shown herself to him. Shotoku’s gaze was firm on the woman, not even wavering the slightest by her title. His hairs stayed on end, angry like a frightened cat. 

“Why am I not speaking to Neorah?”he asked. “Has she fallen so far as to not even answer prayers?”

The spirit shook her head, the gems in her locs jingling as they shook from side to side.

“It is you who has fallen, Angelus Shotoku.” 

The winds from outside of the cave blew against the exterior of the cave, producing a quiet and eerie shushing sound. The room suddenly felt heavy. The presence of others were watching them.

Shotoku tried to search her voice for any kind of malice, any kind of resentment, but only found a strange concern. She seemed to notice him peering into her mind.

“In your pursuit of good, you’d gone astray,” she told him. “Blinded by grief, you’ve allowed yourself to fall into despair. These burdens engulf you like raging flames in a forest. If it goes on, there will be nothing left of you.”

The hairs on Shotoku’s neck rose higher in self defense. Blood roared in his ears as his heart pounded faster.

“The stars allowed me to fall, and soon they will let me painfully bleed to my death!” he growled. “It is the likes of the spirits which have bestowed my grief. The spirits; who gave me fire, and ask that I not destroy!”

His shrieks of fury shook the very earth, sending the lower creatures in the cave scrambling back into their own dwellings, away from divine intervention. 

“I was never given a choice,” Shotoku continued furiously. “You’d never given me a choice!”

The marigold spirit looked down upon Shotoku with her wise eyes, wondering and observing the angry and confused swordsman. Then, along with her eyes, came pairs of others, appearing from behind the shadows. Although their eyes seemed sightless, they all gleamed with something more.

 It seemed like pity. 

Amara’s gaze was unchanging, yet it burned into his soul.

“That is what you believe?”

Shotoku’s breath was irregular and jagged.

“If the stars didn’t kill me, everyone else would’ve.”

Amara paid no heed to his accusation.

“You always had the choice,” said the marigold spirit. “But you’ve done wrong, and now you run. And to run, it is not your choice.”

Shotoku felt his hands become stiff. 

Why did everyone always assume that? He wasn’t running from anything. He’d finally had the actual choice to live his life as he wanted and now the spirits are accusing him of straying off of his path; the path that they had paved for him; unending bloodshed and grief. 

The memories and years past flashed through his eyes.

The loud cracks of the whip as it slashed across his back, the eyes that watched him stand down to weep, the fire, the gazes of millions. Ill-fated omens, exile, and betrayal.

His hands trembled. It was all too familiar, but he had done nothing to deserve such things! 

Done wrong? I was a mere man who had only done what the stars commanded of me! I had no choice in the things I did! 

“If I had done things according to my own will, you all would’ve let me perish!” Shotoku shouted. “Even though Jiyu is a wretch, it wouldn’t still be here if I hadn’t done what I did!”

The eyes continued to glower. 

“You did not have to kill…”

There was no other way, Daihono would’ve destroyed us all!

Shotoku curled his lip into a fierce snarl.

“You carve me this ill-fated destiny, and expect me to follow it?”

He turned back to glare at Neorah’s statue. Her stone cold gaze stared down at him stoically. 

“This is the truth you make me seek?! Answer me!”

Just like before, she did not answer him.

The Marigold spirit closed her eyes with pity for the swordsman. “She cannot help you now,” she said. “You must find your own way, only then can you bring yourself to understand the truth.”

“I am ready for the truth now! Don’t treat me as a lowly peasant!”

Shotoku screamt, but Amara had already vanished, the scent of marigold disappearing with her. And he was left alone with nothing but the moonlight shining down into the opening above, to the moon.

“If this is what awaits me, then I am better off being a stray!”

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Yet again, the sun had risen to see the dawn, along with Shotoku, slowly waking from his stiff slumber. The morning was cold just as all the others had been, thanks to winter, but today, it made his bones ache and breath frigid. Shotoku lay on his side, unbothered to even sit up.

The thought of starting the day anew filled him with foreboding and dread, especially with his visit from the night before. It had been only a few days since then, but his mind stayed clouded like fog. The scent of Amara’s marigold lingered, her words never leaving him. He lay there, thinking about what to do next. Should he head to work today?

Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week?

Shotoku frowned. No, he couldn’t wait any longer. 

What a pain.

He never thought that he would feel so horrible about his own job. He had finally found his way back to normalcy and Neorah had to ruin it with her pests of messengers! 

Groaning, he pushed himself up to get out of his bed.

“Divine messengers!” he sneered. “I haven’t a clue!”

He headed for his closet and shuffled through the hangers to find his work clothes. He lazily changed out of his dirty yukata into a sleek dark one, and only let his fingers comb his hair back to “tidy” it. Heading for the door, he kicked on his shoes and a thick coat to keep warm. Then, he made his way outside to work, for the first time in 3 months, at least.

As he walked by the different streets, he felt eyes graze at his back and heard murmurs arise in the townsfolk. None of them dared even let their voices go over a whisper, in fear that the samurai would attack them the second he’d hear. The cold made his fingers stiff and numb, and his breaths narrow.He wished he could just disappear into thin air, so that his name would never be spoken again. He tried to avoid their gazes, focusing on getting up to the clearing where his office was.

“Looks like the fox swordsman found his way out of his burrow!” a deviated voice shouted from afar. “Come look at him, everyone!”

The hairs on Shotoku’s body bristled at the annoying child. He bit his tongue back to keep himself out of trouble.

“How do you sleep, knowing you’re a killer?” the young voice said again. “Mystic murderer! Traitor!”

“The great messengers of Neorah have fallen!” another one agreed. 

The remarks sank into his skin, but he kept the recall of memories well hidden to himself.

Shotoku approached the cabin slowly as he let his eyes wander on his dusty exterior: it hadn’t been touched at all, not even vandalized by the guttersnipes around town, either by breaking in or painting the walls, as all the other establishments in town had endured. Walking inside, it was cold, empty, and stank of dust. Shotoku rubbed his nose to keep himself upright. He went around the rooms lighting oil lamps on the walls, making sure that everything was lit properly. With the lights, the office was just a tad bit warmer, but it remained empty. 

He set his things down on and beside his desk: his purse, coat, and lastly, katana, which he had carried underneath his layers, hidden away. He stared down at it prolongedly, unblinking, wondering if he really should’ve had that kind of display at a doctor’s office. 

It won’t hurt. He thought. After all, anything could turn up, and he would need it to defend himself.

Leaving his things where he left them, he wandered the building to familiarize himself with it once more. As he passed the different hallways, he realized that he had left more things behind than he thought. Running his hand across the wall, he could feel the different layers of plaster and paint, which he’d apply only when the children he treated drew on them. On the walls were several mentions of thanks, custom paintings, and everything else that reminded the samurai of what he used to have. He scoffed at the pictures of Neorah, but continued on until his fingers slipped into a door frame.

He stood in front, gazing upon a bedroom kept still. It was his.

Sometimes he’d be too tired to come home, and because of that, he would sleep there.

Shotoku wandered around the space, rekindling in whatever he could find. Inspecting the room, his eyes were suddenly drawn to something important, even more so: a picture of his ex-husband, Thierry Liberius, sitting on his nightstand. A sharp pain jabbed in his heart as he recalled the night which they had separated. 

The feeling of guilt weighed him down from head to foot, but then he shook it off, remaining headstrong on his righteousness. It was in his past, and there was no need to dawdle.

 Neither men were within proximity either way. There was no chance Shotoku could make up for what he’d done, even if he wanted to.

Did he?

Shotoku sighed before plopping straight down into the chair at his desk. It’d been a long, and incredibly uneventful day, though, that might’ve been what he preferred. His eyes still hung heavy, and his body stayed aching with the same soreness from before. His eyes languidly bore into his files and papers, while his eyelids threatened to give way to darkness, to sleep. 

But then, there was a loud knock at the door. 

Shotoku didn’t expect any clients so late at night, however, he went to the entrance without haste. 

Opening the door, he was greeted by a familiar face. His deep pink irises bore grimly into his own.

“Shotoku, your presence is requested at the council of swordsmen.”

His tone was curt and unkind. His big and bushy ginger beard shook with the cold wind. Looking at the dark gray bags under his eyes, Shotoku could conclude that he hadn’t had a good sleep in a while.  Shotoku tried to peep into his mind to see what was nagging at his side, but he only found a tense cloud of fog and prickly bramble hiding whatever was on his mind. He kept his secrets well to himself.

Shotoku noticed he also held a scroll of paper in his left hand. It was small, but its aura was full of foreboding. 

Something was wrong.

He stared at the ginger almost blankly. Shotoku wanted to shoo him away for even trying to consult him after his retirement, but he stayed, intrigued by the contents of the scroll. “King Dvalin,” he retorted “Have you a broken skull I need to treat?”

However, nothing could prepare Shotoku for what he anticipated.

His eyes widened as Dvalin puffed up and told him,

“Jiyu has come back, and they have come for you.”

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