| [Jan. 5th, 2012|08:05 am] |
Ryouma licked whipped cream off his upper lip and reached for the boxes again. “Kakashi’s doin’ better, I think,” he said cautiously, untying the ribbons of the square white cake box. “Gained weight. Looks like he actually sleeps like normal people do.”
He thought of Kakashi hunched over on the bench outside the kimono shop last night, face hidden in his hands, shoulders stiff under Ryouma’s arm. “He’s not happy. They’re trying to get him to take a genin team; he failed ‘em. An’ yesterday he had a fight with the Hokage.”
The rest wasn’t his to tell, even if it sounded like Asuma agreed. He opened the box instead, inhaled sugar and chocolate and mocha and cream. The frosting was a little smudged from its rough journey; he swiped a streak off the inside of the cardboard and sucked it off his finger while he turned his attention to the second box.
This one was long and flat, unfinished pine, with what was presumably the shop’s name stamped in discreet black characters at the bottom of the lid. Ryouma didn’t recognize it. He pried the lid off, distantly aware that he was holding his breath and not caring at all. Even if this was a gag gift—which seemed increasingly likely—it was a present.
The lid came off. Light glimmered on the black leather sheath of the knife lying cushioned in pale wood shavings. The short, notched grip was guardless and nearly as dark as the leather: polished horn, if he was any judge, pitted to provide a firm hold. The fittings on the sheath were blackened steel.
After a moment Ryouma remembered to breathe. He drew the knife out with an unnaturally steady hand, turned the watered steel blade to catch the light. It was perhaps sixteen inches long, with a straight, hollow-ground, single-edged blade, wide at the hilt but tapering dramatically to a needle tip. The back edge was broad for strength, but the thickness below had been ground almost entirely away in a T-section extending almost to the point. On one side of the blade, just beneath the hilt, the smith had etched the character for dragon.
“Elevator pitch for you,” Asuma said, across the table. Ryouma tore his gaze away from the knife to meet a broad, knowing smile. “This is a traditional blade from southern Wind Country; I think it’s called a peshkabz. Supposed to be real good at piercing armor. I was just gonna get you the knife, but the shop owner had a couple cool ideas.”
He tapped his finger on the black leather sheath, just below the steel locket, where a carrying ring would fasten to a belt. “Got Konoha’s symbol burned in here, so it won’t catch the light, but you can still see it up close. And the first kanji of your name etched here.” He touched the blade. “‘Cos the ninja is the weapon, right? So now if you run into any more Suna nin, you can kill ‘em with irony.”
“I’ll be sure to explain the pun,” Ryouma said, dazedly. He tried the blade against the back of his arm; it sliced the hairs as cleanly as a razor. It might have been designed as a thrusting weapon, but the strength of the blade and the edge would clearly hold up to slashing strokes as well.
Every weapon he’d ever owned had been regular service issue, from genin kunai to ANBU katana. Solid, dependable, mass-produced, soulless. This...
This was like a living thing in his hand.
“I should prolly be sayin’ something like Oh, you shouldn’t have,” he said at last, looking up again. His voice was husky, and his throat hurt. “But if you tried to take it away again I think I might have to stab you with it. So I’ll just say thanks. More’n you know.”
Asuma smiled, and lifted his coffee in toast. “Welcome back, man.”
“Yeah,” Ryouma said softly. He looked down at the wave-patterned blade, blinking hard. “Thanks. It’s good to be home.” |
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