Kendo no Go
In the Language of Kendo:
A Fanfic in 100 Chapters
by Akai Kitsune
80: Prism
~*~
There
were, Kenshin realized one day, after a long bout of deep thought which was
not brooding, whatever Kaoru might say, three very different yet equally
important roles in the process of the Revolution. He wasn't quite sure how
this revelation came to him, and could only say that it was true, in his
perfectly honest opinion.
It was very much like the
work of fine craftsmen, working with wood, slowly creating a piece of art
through a process of many steps and different laborers, each with a single
duty to perform before his job is finished.
It began with the designer,
the man - or collective of men - who sought a beautiful vision of what
something should be, using his own knowledge and the resources available to
plan the entire project from beginning to end. Each step was carefully
modeled, cleverly drawn out, and such ideals were passed on to the men who
carry out his plans. Katsura-san was such a man, Kenshin thought to himself,
remembering his employer's calm, collected expression, his soothing yet
thoroughly convincing voice, who could lead armies of men with a mere
beckoning of hand. He possessed a dead man's vision of a greater Japan, and he
fought and strove to ensure that it happened, though the hands of those who
worked beneath him.
Those men were the plain
carpenters, Kenshin then imagined, men such as himself who were used as tools
to take the given designs and instructions and transform it into a reality.
The rough work often required that the old pieces be torn apart, in order to
bring up the new, stronger and more beautiful work. There were many
carpenters, he recalled, and most of them were expendable, no matter how
strong or important they seemed to be.
The third and final part of
the triumvirate was, of course, the finisher, who refined the rough projects
of the carpenters and formed the final ideals, presenting to the world the end
design when it is brought to life. Those men were the survivors, old designers
who were less known, yet recognized for their ability to carry on despite
their losses, for the sake of all they had gained and won. Kenshin thought of
Okubo, Yamagata, and those government officials who were uncorrupted by greed
and conceit.
He thought, he did not
brood, but for a long time his mind dwelled on these things, wondering if the
process had, in the end, changed much of anything besides the names of the
rulers of the country.
People did not change.
Once, in
the market, Kaoru had shown him a puzzling Western invention - more art than
any sort of consequential tool - something the shopkeeper called a prism. A
glass object formed in the shape of a triangle, which could, when held in the
proper light, could create a brilliant rainbow of coloured beams.
He still was uncertain of how
it worked - something to do with sunlight, he was sure, but the vendor hadn't
spoken the language well enough to explain properly - but the effect it had on
his wife was no less strong, and he couldn't help but purchase the item for
her. She smiled at him, delighted, yet not quite understanding the depth in
which he held the strange invention.
On the way home, he
considered how similar his previous thoughts of the revolution and the little
prism were. Three sides, a triangle had, separate yet equal and eternally
connected. The prism would not work without all the existing sides, and each
side was useless without the contributions made from the others. It was odd,
yet somehow fitting at the same time. The very speculation that such a simple
thing could carry so much idealism made him smile.
He had
forgotten, in his blissful new ponderings and theories of the past - ones he
could think back upon without regret or misery - that the prism had a forth
side, one which held the other three together. A base, in a sense, yet the
final and ignored piece of that puzzling creation of man.
He had forgotten that there
was a fourth role in the completion of the revolution, in the finalizing of
the era in which all could live peacefully.
He thought of it late that
night, lying on his back and staring at the shadowed ceiling, Kaoru dozing
serenely beside him. The prism rested on the dresser across the room, and as
his gaze drifted towards it, his eyes widened in realization.
In the work of exquisite
craftsmanship, there was another duty to perform. There was the tinker, the
tool smith, who followed after all the others to cleanse and mend the broken,
discarded tools left behind, slowly piecing them together again with fine
hands and a wise mind.
Kaoru was that sort of
person, he then thought, brushing his fingers through her hair, allowing them
to linger before he curled closer to her, his arms drawing around her waist.
She had taken in a lost, homeless hitokiri, wandering aimlessly through the
country he had helped form with his bloody sword, and transformed him into
something new, something better. A tool for a much greater purpose: the
purpose of creating a family.
'And you did a good
job, koishii,' he thought with a musing smile, thinking of the toddler who
slept peacefully in the next room, and of Yahiko, Sano, and Megumi, who were
farther away but not far enough to forget. 'You held us close even as we
tried to leave you, never giving up, never surrendering to what we thought we
wanted.'
'A great craftsman,
my Kaoru.'
~*~
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