Chapter Text
Before duplicates and time displacement and all those things that make a simple life extremely hard to have, Squad 1 was just a name for the first squad.
Tsurumaru was its captain.
And so, he was there, when Mikazuki Munechika was received. They had been wary, about sending him out to a saniwa-- the most beautiful sword in Japan, no, the world, was never a blade suitable for combat. He would be better off as a cultural artifact, they said. He had no merit in war.
Tsurumaru agreed with them.
He had never laid his eyes on Mikazuki Munechika, never been in the same vicinity as him for long enough to remember his face. He only remembers a name, belonging to the Ashikaga family, a heirloom that reminded them of better days, days where they deposed his former owner, and he had never seen battle. It was impossible for him. He is a beauty, not a weapon, even with a cutting edge.
But the saniwa kept begging.
Not asking, not sending letters, begging. Bloody begging, on the floor and all. Who the hell begs like that in 2205? The saniwa never spoke of themselves-- in fact, Tsurumaru doesn’t even know their name. He’s never laid eyes on their face, either, because it is always shrouded in black cloth, hanging off that ridiculous onmyoji hat-- as if they were always in grieving. How can they even see through that, Tsurumaru wonders, and perhaps the saniwa has a sixth sense that overrides eyesight. That would explain why they always know when Tsurumaru’s going to pop around the corner, never showing any surprise.
“They’re not going to listen,” Tsurumaru said once, and the saniwa shook their head. They shook it hard enough for their hat to slip off for a moment, though they recovered before Tsurumaru could catch a glimpse. The saniwa did not speak much, communicating in only minimal gestures, so the visits to the modern cities to see the saniwa beg was the most emotion Tsurumaru had ever seen from them.
The fact that they actually did listen, in the end, was the first surprise.
Kousetsu, in the third position of Squad 1, was the person who answered the door. Imanotsurugi, at the second position, was the one who made the most noise-- call Iwatooshi, call Iwatooshi, he’s here, Mikazuki’s here!-- even though he technically couldn’t remember Mikazuki. Iwatooshi, in the fourth position, came barreling forward, so Shishiou and Mitsutada followed out of pure curiosity.
Tsurumaru, as the acting captain, was the only one who wasn’t shooed away when the saniwa started to bring Mikazuki to life.
Maybe he just didn’t have the eye for it, but there was nothing beautiful about Mikazuki.
His spirit burst forth, almost instantly, in a shower of light that reflected on glass windows. The saniwa was speechless-- they are always speechless, technically, but this is the one time they did not know what to do as well, and they simply stood as Mikazuki spoke.
“Mikazuki Munechika,” he breathed, and the saniwa exhaled as well. “They call me Mikazuki on account of the many patterns on my blade. Please take care of me.”
The glow from the summoning finally began to fade, but before it did, the light shone on the sword-- his real body-- and made Mikazuki shine in a splendid array of colors.
A rainbow. The saniwa thought he was a rainbow, a beautiful pot of gold, rising from metal and steel. But gold is soft, easily broken, and (honestly) Tsurumaru can only see a pompous peacock.
Mikazuki stepped forward. It was a very small step, on his toes, as though he would fall over if he went any faster. And with that small step, Tsurumaru took one good look at the curvature of his blade, and its beautifully curved hamon that also cursed Mikazuki with a weak body.
Yes, Tsurumaru took one good look and thought, Oh my god. He’s going to die.
“Welcome to the Citadel,” Tsurumaru greeted anyway. “This is the saniwa, and I’m the assistant sword, Tsurumaru--”
“No,” the saniwa said, and it was the first time they’d ever interrupted Tsurumaru. The surprise from him was tangible, because always, he was the mouthpiece, the one who knew exactly what the saniwa was thinking--
(In reality, the saniwa simply found no reason to disagree with what Tsurumaru thought they meant until now.)
The saniwa stepped forward. “Transfer Iwatooshi to the Squad 2. The first position of Squad 1 will now be held by Mikazuki Munechika.”
Tsurumaru’s hands fell, and Mikazuki only smiles back in response.
Right, then. The saniwa definitely begged for Mikazuki to send him on a suicide march, that was it.
---
“I want to see you fight.”
The Citadel was so much quieter, then. Imanotsurugi was almost lonely, the only tantou that stood in the building, a product of reaching through time and forging-- most of the other tantous were still considered national treasures, and had no one beg for them as much as this saniwa did for Mikazuki. The fields were smaller, three horses stood in the stables half-empty, and there were only two squads. The saniwa had proven themselves to have exceptional ability, bringing forth Shokudaikiri Mitsutada, Iwatooshi and Imanotsurugi from the depths of time within the first few days of their service. They were assigned to Edo, and they patrolled the era with as much pride as they could.
Tsurumaru doesn’t even know if he has pride anymore, though. He can’t say he’s jealous of Mikazuki, since being relieved of the role of captain also meant that he didn’t need to deal with paperwork or distributing information. (It also meant not many visits to the big cities with the saniwa, though, so that kinda sucked.)
And yet, Tsurumaru says that to Mikazuki. I want to see you fight. Mikazuki does not rise to his feet. He remains sitting on the wooden steps looking out to the evening sun, and he simply smiles.
“Ah, are you that interested to see? I’ve only arrived this morning, after all.”
He’s spent the whole day with the saniwa, learning… assistant things with the saniwa, or something. Tsurumaru was too puzzled (and surprised, how impressive…?) to really investigate. Since Mikazuki doesn’t get up, Tsurumaru bends his knees instead.
“Well, you’re the captain now, aren’t you? I wouldn’t want to be caught by any nasty surprises out in battle,” Tsurumaru reasons. “I want to see how you fight. You’re the prized work of Sanjou Munechika, right? As the product of his disciple, I’d like to see how our styles differ.”
That isn’t a complete lie. Mikazuki nods and finally gets up.
Tsurumaru pulls at the hilt of his own body-- the hilt is embroidered with gold, but unlike Mikazuki, it is also reinforced with steel. Whatever defense Mikazuki has is minimal.
Mikazuki tilts his head. “Should we not use training swords?”
“I want to see how you fight with yourself,” Tsurumaru replies. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a help token right here. I was supposed to give it to the saniwa, but seeing that I was deposed…”
Okay, maybe he’s a little bitter.
Mikazuki simply smiles and nods. (As if not questioning why Tsurumaru wouldn’t need two help tokens, one for each of them. As if he already knew, what the outcome of this would be.)
“Let’s go to the courtyard. It might be in the middle of summer, but it’s cooling at this time of the day.”
Perhaps Mikazuki has heard things about Tsurumaru, from the rest, or from the saniwa. How he would always have a trick up his sleeve, about how he kept pulling pranks wherever he went, about how he had performance anxiety on April Fool’s day-- (who the hell spread that rumor, Imanotsurugi come back here--)
But he follows, anyway. He still follows, with that smile on his face, fading sunlight lighting up his face as Tsurumaru quickly whipped around and thrust his sword to the direct left of Mikazuki’s face.
His smile does not drop.
His eyes look like the moon.
“...Did we already begin?” Mikazuki tilts his head, and Tsurumaru blinks at his minimal reaction.
“Well, I guess so.”
And Mikazuki nods again, before grabbing the hilt of his sword.
Then, he grabs Tsurumaru’s sword, by the sword, letting the blade cut into the palm of his hands before he intentionally collapses.
“What--”
Tsurumaru has barely any time to react as Mikazuki goes down, gloves slashed and blood already on his sleeve. He goes down too, not forcing his sword away quickly enough, not slicing against Mikazuki’s hand in order to force himself out of his grip-- and that’s the point. Mikazuki forces Tsurumaru’s weapon on the ground, ignoring the pain, and quickly drops his knees to press onto the metal of his sword, keeping Tsurumaru pinned while his own sword is raised to Tsurumaru’s face.
“Did I win?”
Tsurumaru breathes, and almost says, What the fuck.
(Souza uses a similar technique, against Yasusada, in front of the saniwa’s room. Dropping down and changing the dimensions of the sword fight, forcing the opponent to look up and down instead of just left and right. Maybe it’s a caged bird thing?)
Instead, though, he breathes-- and at one point, that breath all left his lungs, in some form of unrestrained but not manic laughter. Mikazuki blinks, suddenly unsure about what to do, before smiling and laughing along.
Tsurumaru laughs, probably for hours, it feels, though the sun is still up when he stops, barely dipping over the Citadel walls.
“--You’re full of surprises,” Tsurumaru finally says. “I like you.”
---
“You’re better at this than I imagined.”
Tsurumaru says that, after their first sortie. This is their first time through Osaka Castle (and the last time that it won’t end in disaster), and the saniwa had made a special request-- that they observe the fighting. It’s too dangerous be damned, they just shrugged and came along with the swords.
They did listen to stay behind the lines, at least.
Mikazuki smiles in response, though he never really did stop smiling. His clothes are torn, there’s blood all other his feet and his clothes are burnt from the blazing fires of Osaka Castle as they grabbed the saniwa and ran the hell out of there. After eliminating the Retrograding Army which made base camp right on the damn castle steps-- Imanotsurugi is stronger than he looks, and he basically carried the saniwa like a sack of flour, yelling at everyone to get out!, and somehow, somehow, they actually got out before the castle collapsed on them.
It almost ended in disaster. This is the last time they will be so lucky, but Tsurumaru doesn’t know that.
The same saniwa is currently surveying the scene, making sure everything is going as planned, before they will return to their time. After a while, Mikazuki looks up. “Haha, well, I suppose I’ve grown tired to simply watching everyone else fight for me,” he finally says in response.
(He’s grown so tired of it. One thousand years of that is a thousand years too many.)
Kousetsu has no time to mourn whatever disaster occurred here, because Imanotsurugi yanks on his hair, almost bored to tears without Iwatooshi-- Shishiou and Mitsutada patrol the area, making sure there’s nothing else.
Mikazuki and Tsurumaru sit with the saniwa. The fires are beginning to wane.
“Lady Nene--”
And then, Mikazuki catches himself, coughing into his sleeve. “Sorry, Master. Haha, I’m mixing up names in my old age.”
Neither the saniwa nor Tsurumaru stir in response. It’s not a name Tsurumaru remembers hearing before, exactly. (Besides, none of them know the saniwa’s name, right?) Mikazuki continues. “Should you not be checking the historical records while looking?”
The saniwa shakes their head.
They continue staring, staring at the fires, at the castle as it fell, representing the end of the Toyotomi-- and then the saniwa gets up, signalling that they’re ready to go back. As if they are sure, so sure that things will go exactly as history planned.
As if they were there before, even though this is their first time to Osaka Castle.
(Perhaps, if Tsurumaru thought further about how their saniwa is just as displaced in time as they are, he would realize that Mikazuki did not call them by the wrong name. History is cruel, and sometimes it is crueller to be kind. The saniwa always knew this, before any of them came to life, gained tangible forms under their power-- and they are kind, always kind--)
“What did you say, again?” Tsurumaru brings up the topic, while Shishiou and Mitsutada rush to return. “About not wanting to watch everyone else fight for you.”
“Hm?” Mikazuki tilts his head, while the saniwa quickly walks to pull Kousetsu and Imanotsurugi back.
Tsurumaru turns to Mikazuki. (There is nothing beautiful about Mikazuki. He is covered in blood, the heirloom of the Ashikaga shogunate, who smashed the Hojo into pieces-- but also avenged his first owner, destroying his killer’s family, ending his legacy. His eyes look like the moon, but there is no merit in that, no way it can help them win this war.)
“Your sword style,” Tsurumaru begins, “is the most dangerous and clunkiest thing I’ve ever seen, actually. You’ve destroyed the enemy, but as our vanguard, you’re going to get yourself into real trouble soon.”
Mikazuki nods, continuing to listen without much of a change in expression. The saniwa finally manages to get them all together, and raises the time device.
“It’s obvious that you taught it to yourself. You watched others fight, and you went from there.”
(Except he’s only seen one real fight, seen others break in his master’s hands as the enemy forces converged on the shogun. He plays that fight, over and over, analyzing his master’s sword style, realizing why he was compared to a warlord rather than a shogun, and-- how it meant nothing, in the end.)
“Your sword isn’t suitable for battle,” Tsurumaru finally says. “But you can still fight. That surprised me, honestly. It’s the biggest surprise I’ve had since I’ve been working under the saniwa. So, if you want to really protect others, using weird techniques like what you did to me isn’t going to work on the field.”
The time device envelops them in light. It shines on the steel of Mikazuki’s sword, and he looks like a rainbow.
“So, I’ll teach you.” Tsurumaru sees Mikazuki’s eye brighten, not just from the light as they travel through time. “Our captain’s got to be good. All for the sake of the mission, right?”
Perhaps so, but as the Citadel floor materializes, Mikazuki smiles. As in, really smiles, because he does not yet keep a million secrets and commit atrocities to protect those around him-- he is learning, now. He will learn how to protect those here, those who he still has.
(And the saniwa, who is horribly biased towards him, and perhaps he knows why.)
“Alright,” Mikazuki says. “Thank you, Tsurumaru.”