Work Text:
“Aruji-sama… I have something to speak with you about.”
If he is being honest, he doesn’t think he is truly ready for this. If not now, though, then when?
So Imanotsurugi turns the dial on the time device once more, and opens his eyes again at Kurama.
The mountain air is the same as he remembers it; the thrum of familiar spiritual energy sending a shiver up his spine. Unbidden, a laugh bubbles its way up his throat, and he drops his pack to the ground with a soft plop before running, climbing, jumping, flying . It’s like nothing he’s done before, not since manifesting a human body, but at the same time it just comes so naturally.
The flutter of feathers, the rustle of leaves. The click-clack of his geta against stone. It all feels so incredibly right .
Shouts from the temple in the distance break his stride. The indignant cry of the monks, the playful laughter of disciples. His eyes fall closed, his mood sober again. Yes, that’s right. No matter how much he wants to, he can’t play like usual now.
His eyes scan through the crowd of disciples, now being chastised by the head monk, until they settle on a figure he knows all too well. Lord Yoshitsune .
Just like when he saw him during their first sortie to Atsukashiyama; just like when he saw him again, this time captaining their sortie. That same feeling bounces around in his stomach again. Yet just like the last time he saw his former lord, there’s something not entirely right about it.
Young Ushiwakamaru turns to run back into the temple, none the wiser, the koshirae of a tantou bouncing against his hip. A tantou that isn’t Imanotsurugi.
Like the air being pounded out of mochi dough, he breathes out. Yes, he knows he ought to have expected this sight; Lord Yoshitsune had all but confirmed it when he didn’t recognize his name. But still, part of him wanted to hope —that the warmth he remembers of being pressed close against his lord’s stomach; the long days he spent by his side, witnessing every moment in the making; and even the hot ache of despair of being used to finally take his life—that those moments actually happened.
And now, he feels…
Hm. He doesn’t actually know what he feels. That’s strange.
—
I wonder if the tantou Lord Yoshitsune had there will manifest a spirit… aruji-sama, do you think you could try? Oh, but I don’t know what it was named, so I guess it could be hard to find it… Don’t worry, aruji-sama, I believe in you!
The years go by, and everything happens the same way Imanotsurugi remembers it—for the most part.
Benkei is as loud and boisterous as ever, as Iwatooshi is. There’s a naginata on his back, and it isn’t Iwatooshi either. That fact brings him comfort, somehow, and the realization of that makes him feel guilty.
Why should he be happy at the fact that both he and his best friend don’t seem to exist in history?
Nonetheless, he continues to watch, as Lord Yoshitsune fells enemy again and again, blade sharp and indestructible. It’s odd, though; he doesn’t know this sword. But then, even in the history he remembers, he doesn’t recall the name of the tachi he was technically partnered with.
Not that any of that matters, when Lord Yoshitsune soon finds a new favorite.
It’s a quiet night, several days before the Battle of Dan-no-ura is supposed to begin. The steward rushes up to Lord Yoshitsune’s tent, a bundle in his arms. "A gift from Lord Yoritomo!", the boy cried, which caught his attention immediately. In the history he remembers, there was no such gift, after all.
And as Lord Yoshitsune draws this sword, a tingling feeling runs down to his fingers. Because this sword, he knows.
It’s Hizamaru—one of their newer comrades back at the citadel.
That’s right, he and his brother had introduced themselves as treasures of Genji. Imanotsurugi himself had said that they may have crossed paths—before they all realized the truth, that is. And Hizamaru had been oddly familiar with the time period, Lord Yoshitsune’s whereabouts and actions, the positions of the Taira army; which he had hastily tried to brush off at the time, but neither Imanotsurugi nor Mikazuki truly believed the excuse.
There's only one thing left that confuses him: why did Hizamaru hide this fact?
Lord Yoshitsune crows in the distance, praising the beauty of the blade. "I'll call it Usumidori! For the pale green of this steel brings back memories of Kumano. The mountains in spring… ah, I miss them."
And Imanotsurugi remembers that scenery as well.
Days later, as expected, Lord Yoshitsune triumphs against the last of the Taira, the newly minted Usumidori in tow. Watching his lord in battle will never stop being amazing, but this time it’s like he’s found new wings. He leaps between boats with ease, each slash powerful and decisive. And the sensation that settles in his stomach, watching these acrobatics…
Imanotsurugi blinks—for a minute, it’s as if he was back in battle himself, watching Hizamaru bring down even the largest HRA member.
The tingling in his fingers fades away, and he is awash in a different feeling. It's like that one he gets sometimes, playing for hours with Iwatooshi. The one where despite how his muscles ache with exhaustion, he wants to get up again and play even more, to have all the fun he could ever have and then some, for the moment to last forever .
…What's that feeling called, actually?
—
Do you think that Hizamaru-sama would mind it if I called him Usumidori again? Lord Yoshitsune was right that he's a really beautiful sword, and his hair is green too! Oh, but if I call him something different then Higekiri-sama may never remember which one to use… Maybe I'll just call him it in my head! It can be our secret, aruji-sama!
Everything is on fire. The voice of Yasuhira, strained from battle, raises all the same: “Capture Minamoto no Yoshitsune!”
The only difference between the last time he was here and now, is that now he’s not in the middle of the fray.
Benkei lets loose a ferocious shout, the clang of metal against metal almost drowning him out. Lord Yoshitsune calls out to him, the anguish in his voice audible even from his vantage point. Imanotsurugi’s stomach turns; he knows all too well what happens next.
He closes his eyes, unable to watch this time. He still remembers—the squelch of blood against his blade, the warmth running down his hilt, and the final clatter against the cold hard ground as his lord’s body drew its last breath.
He wonders how the other tantou in Lord Yoshitsune’s hand will remember this, if there is a tsukumogami present. He wonders how Hizamaru feels, since he did catch a glimpse of the familiar blade at Lord Yoshitsune’s side.
He wonders why he himself doesn’t feel as agonized as he thought he would. Why the primary thought in his mind is now about the saniwa, back at the citadel.
“Join me in the next world, and the next,” he murmurs, knowing this is about the time when Yoshitsune would be saying these words himself. Even this doesn’t burn a hole in his heart like they would before.
Until we mount to paradise on a purple cloud.
Ah, he thinks he finally knows what that feeling is.
Even for a sword like me, I still have a place that I can call home. And that’s by aruji-sama’s side. I’m no longer a mamorigatana just for Lord Yoshitsune, and that’s alright with me.
I am a sword that will protect you. So please wait for me; Iwatooshi and I still have a performance for you!