Katsumi Gozen: I Watched The Sun Being Born Everyday
Posted: Thu Mar 24, 2011 11:23 pm
I had a childhood many would envy. Even knowing where it has led has not diminished the comfort and security that still fills my memory when I think of it. They say to truly tell a story, start at the beginning. So I shall.
I was born in Uwaji, capital of Wa, located on the island of Tsukishima to a minor Samurai official named Takeda no Kenshin, who served as assistant to the port-master Daimyo Yajiro Tadanori. It was no position for a warrior, but the Samurai of Wa had abandoned the way of the sword several centuries before, except as an instrument of status, and replaced it with a mastery of tea, poetry and honor.
I might have been expected to grow up as the favored daughter of a government official, content to surround myself with comforts and suitors whispering platitudes in my ears except for two things: the yellow plague, and Bushi Uesugi Shingen.
The yellow plague, because it killed both of my brothers leaving me an only (and spoiled) daughter. The Bushi because he was my armsman from birth and spent more time with me then the rest of my "family" put together - time he spent filling my head with the tales of how things used to be. Blood, Guts, Glory, Honor. These were the words he stressed over and over.
My social class may have descended to the level of polite sybarites, but I was descended from warriors and warlords, men who ruled the battlefield by the strength in their right hand. Soon enough he was teaching me the basic judo-ka holds that were used by both Bushi and Samurai, and how to hold my father's katana, which he often forgot to carry with him to his work.
Oh, my mother tried to interest me in the arts, or dance or acting. Anything but spending my time listening to the horrific stories Shingen told me - for the more bloody, the more we delighted in them. She enrolled me in classes to learn the barbarians tongues: common, elven and dwarven, so that perhaps I could work with my father at the port if I would not accept a woman's role.
Her efforts may have born fruit if my father had owned the courage or fortitude of his ancestors, but all he had was a mind devoted to culture, and a honor that knew no sense. He could not find it in himself to deny me the things I enjoyed, and so I was allowed to have riding lessons, swordsmanship training, armor made for me. By the time I had become sixteen I would have been ready to fight a war, if we could have found one.
For the Empire of Wa was quiet, too quiet. A quiet that denies the raging chaos underneath. Everyone knew the yakuza ran a massive criminal enterprise, and that you either got paid by them, or silenced. But on the surface, to a foreigner or politician, it appeared we were living in a fairyland.
The yakuza came to my father in the spring of my seventeenth year. The informed him that he was to let a shipment come into the port and it was not to be inspected. My father, motivated no doubt by his sense-stunted honor, refused. He would not bend for them, but he could break.
A month later the Daimyo came to my father and said proof had been laid before him that my father was facilitating smuggling. He released my father from his oath, and removed him from his position immediately. My father was Ronin. His damnable honor, his only thing he valued, compelled him. He had killed himself with his katana, curse that he remembered to take it, before the Daimyo had even exited the room.
The situation, needless to say, was perilous. My father's precipitous action only made him look more guilty. My mother and I were dislodged from our estate, our possessions confiscated. I managed to keep my armor and sword by having a loyal servant smuggle them out. My mother, distraught over the whole thing, went back to her family's estates but that was not for me. Indeed, even if I had wanted to they would not have the spawn of a thief there.
I wished that I had someone there to guide me, and I will admit it was Bushi I wished was there. He had passed on to his ancestors years before but his lessons remained. Except, now I could see that even he had been blinded by culture and tradition. Honor was worthless, Victory was everything, because victory meant you lived another day. What use do the dead have of honor? Glory was fool's gold, Triumph was everything.
I let myself be subsumed by the culture of Ronin. I would not be too proud to follow that path, and I did indeed find people to employ my skills. Known only as Katsumi at the time, I performed many missions, fought in pitched battles in alley ways and ship's decks. I won the appellation Gozen, a term of respect (and fear I hoped).
By the time I had reached twenty I was a name in the Ronin community. Finally, I had amassed enough credit and favors with the yakuza to discover who ordered my father's name smeared. I killed him. Nothing epic, or awe-inspiring. It was holy or righteous. I thrust my katana into his guts and spilled them all over his breakfast table.
Like my father should have.
I booked passage on a ship to the Sword Coast the next day, knowing Wa would be forever denied to me anymore. I had grown up watching the sun being born everyday. Now I would only be able to watch it die. It seemed an apt metaphor for how my life was going. But rest assure, I will survive. I will thrive. I will emerge victorious. Because I won't allow the alternative to happen, and if you can't impose your will on the world, what's the point of living?
I was born in Uwaji, capital of Wa, located on the island of Tsukishima to a minor Samurai official named Takeda no Kenshin, who served as assistant to the port-master Daimyo Yajiro Tadanori. It was no position for a warrior, but the Samurai of Wa had abandoned the way of the sword several centuries before, except as an instrument of status, and replaced it with a mastery of tea, poetry and honor.
I might have been expected to grow up as the favored daughter of a government official, content to surround myself with comforts and suitors whispering platitudes in my ears except for two things: the yellow plague, and Bushi Uesugi Shingen.
The yellow plague, because it killed both of my brothers leaving me an only (and spoiled) daughter. The Bushi because he was my armsman from birth and spent more time with me then the rest of my "family" put together - time he spent filling my head with the tales of how things used to be. Blood, Guts, Glory, Honor. These were the words he stressed over and over.
My social class may have descended to the level of polite sybarites, but I was descended from warriors and warlords, men who ruled the battlefield by the strength in their right hand. Soon enough he was teaching me the basic judo-ka holds that were used by both Bushi and Samurai, and how to hold my father's katana, which he often forgot to carry with him to his work.
Oh, my mother tried to interest me in the arts, or dance or acting. Anything but spending my time listening to the horrific stories Shingen told me - for the more bloody, the more we delighted in them. She enrolled me in classes to learn the barbarians tongues: common, elven and dwarven, so that perhaps I could work with my father at the port if I would not accept a woman's role.
Her efforts may have born fruit if my father had owned the courage or fortitude of his ancestors, but all he had was a mind devoted to culture, and a honor that knew no sense. He could not find it in himself to deny me the things I enjoyed, and so I was allowed to have riding lessons, swordsmanship training, armor made for me. By the time I had become sixteen I would have been ready to fight a war, if we could have found one.
For the Empire of Wa was quiet, too quiet. A quiet that denies the raging chaos underneath. Everyone knew the yakuza ran a massive criminal enterprise, and that you either got paid by them, or silenced. But on the surface, to a foreigner or politician, it appeared we were living in a fairyland.
The yakuza came to my father in the spring of my seventeenth year. The informed him that he was to let a shipment come into the port and it was not to be inspected. My father, motivated no doubt by his sense-stunted honor, refused. He would not bend for them, but he could break.
A month later the Daimyo came to my father and said proof had been laid before him that my father was facilitating smuggling. He released my father from his oath, and removed him from his position immediately. My father was Ronin. His damnable honor, his only thing he valued, compelled him. He had killed himself with his katana, curse that he remembered to take it, before the Daimyo had even exited the room.
The situation, needless to say, was perilous. My father's precipitous action only made him look more guilty. My mother and I were dislodged from our estate, our possessions confiscated. I managed to keep my armor and sword by having a loyal servant smuggle them out. My mother, distraught over the whole thing, went back to her family's estates but that was not for me. Indeed, even if I had wanted to they would not have the spawn of a thief there.
I wished that I had someone there to guide me, and I will admit it was Bushi I wished was there. He had passed on to his ancestors years before but his lessons remained. Except, now I could see that even he had been blinded by culture and tradition. Honor was worthless, Victory was everything, because victory meant you lived another day. What use do the dead have of honor? Glory was fool's gold, Triumph was everything.
I let myself be subsumed by the culture of Ronin. I would not be too proud to follow that path, and I did indeed find people to employ my skills. Known only as Katsumi at the time, I performed many missions, fought in pitched battles in alley ways and ship's decks. I won the appellation Gozen, a term of respect (and fear I hoped).
By the time I had reached twenty I was a name in the Ronin community. Finally, I had amassed enough credit and favors with the yakuza to discover who ordered my father's name smeared. I killed him. Nothing epic, or awe-inspiring. It was holy or righteous. I thrust my katana into his guts and spilled them all over his breakfast table.
Like my father should have.
I booked passage on a ship to the Sword Coast the next day, knowing Wa would be forever denied to me anymore. I had grown up watching the sun being born everyday. Now I would only be able to watch it die. It seemed an apt metaphor for how my life was going. But rest assure, I will survive. I will thrive. I will emerge victorious. Because I won't allow the alternative to happen, and if you can't impose your will on the world, what's the point of living?