Whetstone

Wisps and clouds of strong-smelling iron ushered out the open window, filling the pleasant forest air. Dew hurried to hide in the dirt below. Chirps rattled in the leafy branches, and birds fled holding their breaths.

‎Miyuki crouched beside the naked pathway. The cobblestone curled into his soles as water hurled from the outdoor tap, collecting in a small bucket. His palm eased under the cool pour, washing away the soot and something heavier— guilt.

‎He never liked how the sword-making poisoned the peace.

‎Gentle breezes greasy and grey. The sunbeams dimmed. Grass jostling while the butterflies sought sweeter fragrances hidden within the forest, far from the cabin. The trees swayed, unsettled, like forgotten churches mourning the silence left by their tiny, tweeting choir. Spring had scarcely budded and yet the colours had already began rotting.

‎The morning's beauty eroded! Why don't humans care about these lives?

‎When the bucket overflowed and water kissed his sandals, Miyuki's thoughts finally stilled. He flipped the faucet off and, as he made his way with it perched on his shoulder, heard creaking from the porch:

‎"Gah, boy! How much longer are you going to take?" The fuss unusually laboured, even for an old man.

‎Miyuki's face jerked up, the he jogged like the task just resurrected in his mind. Sheepishly setting it down, he stared as the water sloshed and spilled over the rim, his jaw tight.

‎"Why I'm well-melted now, no need to rush," the old man grunted, lowering himself on a stool with a sigh.

‎Miyuki grabbed a towel off the clothing wire. ‎"Sorry, Master," he smiled. "I got distracted. I just hope it was worth it."

‎The old man squinted. "What was?"

‎"The home-wrecking."

‎"Pshh," Wringing the towel, he dabbed at the thin sheen of sweat twinkling at his temples, smearing the chalky carbon ebbing his cheeks while muttering, "Again with that? Don't think that I'll start feeling for them— they're birds! Look around. Plenty of trees left. But if they still want to crap on mine, then they can expect some retaliation."

‎"I suppose you're right," he murmured, "Still... it saddens me to see them chased away like that. So suddenly, like they're waiting for something awful to happen any second—"

‎"What are you, a man, or a bleeding heart?" He cried. His wooly brows knit, filling the standard wrinkle lines all elders seem to assume after years of chronic disapproval. "Nonsense, Miyu. If you get any softer than this, I might have to take a look inside before the meat spoils."

‎Miyuki was tempted to argue, ask what being 'soft' meant, call out his taunt and indifference, but kept his mouth shut. The old man was so persistent in the traditional way of things, not even the memory loss had cracked him. Not a word misspelt in his moral manuscript— however outdated.

‎However apathetic.

‎For Miyuki, his Master's stubbornness was terrifying. It wasn't the kind that yelled or struck— it was colder than that. The kind that forgot.

‎Because in truth, he was anything but soft. Only hunks of metal and wire, piled on top of each other, screwed into place. A plastic heart, injected with whatever lab-grown fluid that only sounded like blood. Glass eyes, automated voice, his smile down to the exact time his finger twitched— all of it cleverly ran under a false human drape. The worst of, however, was easily merited by his carefully coded, cruel costume of empathy.

But his Master had stopped seeing it.

‎Days like the present went by moody and passive, but the gallery spread vast; gloom, manic, overly-intrusive, and softer, more affectionate ones where he pampered Miyuki like a child.

‎But Miyuki's favorites were the sleepy evenings in the cabin sipping tea when his Master's remembered old tales long from his past. Stories about his late wife; a beautiful woman. Even at rest, her memory seemed to whisper music, or poetry left unwritten.

‎"Her father despised me!" crackled he, "Oh, but I could never love anybody again, lest it be my dear Shinomiya. God knows she's my sincerest blessing."

‎Other times Miyuki had to tip-toe through what felt like a minefield.

‎The suspense of each day similar to flipping through a book at random, then peeking one eye carefully open to see whether you landed on a terrible spoiler— or a bit of harmless banter between characters.

‎Nightfall draped the sky under it's twilight veil, stars shining softly through the lacework, as moonlight scattered like petals.

‎Inside, the rich candle glow sifted through the old man's hair, white as hailstones. Miyuki sat cross-legged on the floor before him, steadying the table so that his Master could hone the blade— drawing its edge across the whetstone until it whispered with ease. Each practiced swipe sang a sharper tune than before, slicing through the thin, trembling water that carried its sanded bits.

‎"Keep still." The old man tilted the blade, his stillness unwavering despite the stern command. "To master anything, Miyuki, you must listen as though it's the first lesson you've ever received. That clears your biases. Makes sure you won't be sending out kitchen knives and pocketing the price of a katana."

‎Miyuki hummed, loyally observing his Master's hands; just a thin sheet of skin stretched over sticks. Those long nimble white fingers that moved so precisely, veins hardened like cords, knuckles rising and dipping like hills.

‎Miyuki stirred the leaves over the stove, then prettied up a tray— pearly, gold-rimmed cups and sugar cubes stacked just right.

‎"Hey... did you leave something in the forge?" he asked the old man, catching a familiar fiery outline.

‎The old man, rattled by the possibility, lowered his novel and glared into the furnace. Now hanging off the edge of his seat, he shrugged. "Uhm... Well, I don't recall putting in another..."

‎The second his Master's breath hitched, Miyuki was already wielding the tongs.

‎"Hold on— I've got it," He tapped quickly across the stone floor until he was bent under the roof.

‎Upon knocking it, he found that the steel echoed seemly and hadn't melted yet.

‎"Thank God," he sighed, poking his head out and yelling back— "It's fine! A little gooey, but fine," then wiped the soot off his nose. "I'm taking it out now,"

‎The boiling heat bombarded his arm, piercing it like millions of molten needles. Yet, he persevered. Fighting the flares, scraping it forward till the heavy lump rolled close enough to be bitten by the tong's jaws.

‎"Got it!" With his feet planted firmly, Miyuki gritted his teeth and dragged the little menace out.

‎"Miyuki! That fire could've easily eaten your arm!" The old man flicked over his flushed face before, spitefully, splashed a bucket of cold water and drew the mouth shut with a clatter.

‎The forge wept bitterly in defeat.

‎"Probably should've done that first," Miyuki inhaled a handful of fresh air, sighing.

‎"If we'd done that first, then I'd have missed the pleasure of watching your ego grow three sizes," his Master quipped in mock-awe. "Or hatch, rather."

‎"Will you stop poking fun at me? I think I've done well. I deserve at least a good job, reluctant or not."

‎"Now you're demanding praise? My mistake," he clutched his heart dramatically. "I'll head to the shrine right now and offer some pocket lint in your honor. It's a hefty collection, y'know. Been building up for years."

‎Miyuki caught the cracks of sincerity showing through all that sarcasm but spared no sympathy for it.

‎He sighed, hung the tongs, and returned to the tea he spilled. During his 'heroic swoop-in'. The old man had a knack for humbling Miyuki the moment pride touched him.

‎"Anyway, you ought to be more careful, Master. What if the steel had stayed in there any longer?"

‎"It would've been wasted, that's what," the old man replied, inspecting it with a frown. "I've always wondered what you'd do in a situation like this. But you're cautious; more than I ever was. These lumps aren't cheap."

‎He paused.

‎"Something's eating at me, Miyuki. I'm not so foolish as to forget things like this... and yet for the life of me, I can't remember when—"

‎ Miyuki struck a match, kindling the wick. The flame caught. He stuck the candle into its holder and stood as light crept across the old man's face—

‎Frightened.

‎A cold shrill rippled down Miyuki's spine.

‎"Oh god. Master! What happened? Are you alright?" He quickly dragged a stool beside him, eyes frantic.

‎"— Please, sit down. What's wrong? Talk to me. Is something—"

‎

‎"Your arm."

‎"What? My..."

‎He followed the old man's gaze. The synthetic skin on his forearm had melted into big, ugly blisters; plastic bubbling, sagging in grotesque folds. ‎A burnt rim circled the blasted metal plate beneath, fine sparks hissing out like fireflies fleeing the wound.

‎His existence unraveled.

‎Miyuki stared. Still. Unmoving. Lips drawn— gaping, seeking air that he didn't need.

‎"It's— It's not—" he looked up, stepped back, yanking his sleeve down. "I-I'm not."

‎The line withered, quiet as a whisper.

‎Thick smoke spun inside of his head— hot, hot, hot. His stomach twisted so tight it wrung acid into his throat.

‎Why couldn't he say it?

‎"You're not my son."

‎The silence gnawed his open wound, where the truth was still raw.

‎Miyuki's fingers twitched— tensing— then locking. Again and again. Malfunctioning.

‎He cuffed his wrist, "Don't say that, Master. Please don't say that. I'm yours. I b-belong to you, and I love you. I'd never leave your side, no matter what. Remember?"

‎But the betrayal had struck his Master stunned.

‎"Hey..." Static soared like a spell through the wires strung in his ears, screaming like a siren in a tunnel. "Don't go giving up on me now. I'm still your student, aren't I? I'll be more tactful next time. Promise. Come, we'll get this old thing patched up, and—"

‎"Get out."

‎"Master..."

‎"GET OUT!" The old man shoved Miyuki off of him. Then— snatching him by the shirt— shook him, hard. "Who— Who the hell are you? Where's my son— what did you do to him? Tell me where he is, dammit!"

‎Miyuki stumbled back, his spine striking the counter. Circuits sputtered; balance recalibrated. He barely found his feet—

‎—just in time to throw himself aside as the tongs whizzed past his head like a bullet.

‎"Please! Just listen to me! I haven't done anything," he gasped, "I just want to take care of you. That's it!"

‎But his pleas fell on deaf ears.

‎His Master's wild eyes crawled their way towards the stove. The rim bubbling as tea hissed and boiled over.

‎Fear surged inside Miyuki's heart like hot steam. He scrambled upright— wary of the man's every movement, his good hand gripping chair behind him.

‎"Who are you?" He muttered; low, deliberately. Squeezing the pot's handle till it squeaked, skintight to his palm.

‎"Another one of those useless hunks of metal, eh? Screwed together, piece by piece— like some pathetic, people-playing doll?"

‎"No! You've—" he shook his head, tearing up, desperate. Breathing, "Please, just listen to me! It doesn't have to be this way."

‎But his loyalty seemed to flicker, dimming as he inched himself closer to the cabin door, now swaying open.

‎"I'm Miyuki," he pressed on, voice cracking, "The same Miyuki who's taken care of you, cooked your meals, been your right-hand. The one who'll carry on your legacy: Your swords, to be marvelled at for years to come. How could you say such things—?"

‎He screamed over him, vicious and loud, teeth bared: "It was all fake, wasn't it!? You and your company, p—planning this— sick experiment on me! Trying to get in my head!"

‎Miyuki swallowed, then slowly, tentatively, held up his glitching hand.

‎"I know you're scared, but... I'm real. I promise. Nobody's here but you, and me, alright? You're all I have, Master."

‎The old man's speckled skin pulled so far back in rage that it looked ready to peel off his skull. His scowl the last thing Miyuki saw before bailing out the door, tea drops spitting at his heels.

‎He fled the cabin, the old man's slurs exploding behind him like gunfire.

‎You fakeblooded bastard!

‎

‎Miyuki had always regarded his Master as a good teacher, and for that reason loved learning sword-smithing whenever he could. Only fond memories were tied to that practice. For the old man— it was one of the things he still remembered how to do perfectly, until yesterday. His comfort resonated within his craft. Gifted with wisdom and a most curious pupil eager to absorb it all. In a way, it felt like meeting him as the man he was before his misfortunes hardened him. The man he might've been, had life not worn him down.

Mockborn!

Miyuki winced, recalling the hate in his voice.

‎He settled beside a river not far from the cabin, plucking the charred bits off his skin, cleaning himself up best he could to face the old man again. His torn shirt hung stiffly on a branch, drying in the sun.

‎Early as dawn, he'd wandered about the woods on the virtuous quest of gathering leaves to bind his injuries. Not that he'd heal— it was just something to do, to keep his hand from trembling and freezing up again. He'd still have to make the sorry trip to the city and beg a tech shop for spare parts.

‎With his 'wounds' wrapped up, all Miyuki had left to do was slip his shirt on. But, upon lifting himself off the ground, spotted a red dot on the small rock assisting him. The rock was slimy and wet, barely winning against the river's splashes; so Miyuki let the ladybug crawl onto his finger.

‎Having tied his trousers, Miyuki set out for the cabin. Peeping at the ladybug one more time, dancing on the thin daisy petal which he'd housed it in. It's wings seemed to buzz 'thank you'.

‎Not a smidge of iron-smoke was to be seen or smelled anywhere. Not even hammering steel was to be heard.

‎Worry whirred in Miyuki's stomach. He should have hit the halfway mark by now. The old man would light the forge first thing after waking up. Had something bad happened?

‎Was it his fault?

‎Miyuki picked handfuls of morel mushrooms.

‎The tree stumps turned rarer. Some steps later, a naked pathway—paving the way into an outdoor sink. Miyuki had nothing rehearsed, even if he wanted to.

‎The illusion was long broken.

‎

‎Miyuki took slow, deep breaths.

‎Wiping his clammy hands, calming his heart—until the fog settled in his mind.

‎Then, looked ahead.

‎The old man sat outside. His head visible through the wooden railing, but hung low, pondering. Eyes empty.

‎Miyuki's first instinct screamed to run up the stairs, shake some life into him, weep and apologize— apologize for lying, tricking him, treating him like a fool. Never being a good enough pupil, friend— let alone son.

‎He climbed onto the porch, where relief nearly took him out.

‎Breathing; shallowly. The sharpening table knocked over and a small, but deep cut bleeding out his finger. As if a piece of his soul had been stolen, and he sat now after a relentless search, waiting to die.

‎Miyuki, cradling the mushrooms still, stepped into the cabin to find it completely trashed. Cabinets wide open, scattered plates, the chairs doubled over and one missing a leg. And, as he imagined, not a dish in the sink.

‎So, Miyuki started by slinging up the tongs.

‎

"May I?"

‎The old man's eyes lifted languidly. Uncertain of what to do, what he was asking permission for. His limbs felt worn, back stiff; like a whole tree trunk was jammed against his spine.

‎He tilted his head to see a tin medkit sitting on the table— reminded of his nicked finger.

‎Instead of using his dry mouth, he nodded.

‎

‎The disinfectant stung like fire licking at open flesh.

‎He sucked his teeth— the burn almost holy, if it weren't for the carer's gentle tending. His cold hands fostered a unique warmth, like that precious feeling of being home, or a big brother soothing his sibling's scraped knee.

Most of the way up the old man's hairline wrinkles gathered. The fair-haired boy knelt before him gaining his affection.

‎"Miyuki?"

‎"Oh— yes?" his head perked up like a dog's ears, sticking the bandage's edge on.

‎"Why did you leave me?"

‎The old man swore that he'd never witnessed such a drastic change of expression.

‎"I..." he stammered, eyes wide as two blue moons. "Well..."

‎"Why, when..." the old man scoffed, "I just wanted you to be careful around the fire— but you're so— so clumsy, boy."

‎Going on about how he loves his son. Wanted him safe. Reproaching him for running off on such a small matter.

‎That he was not disappointed, just worried.

‎"—I only want the best for you. But that wasn't the way 'bout it, I know, and I'll bet both my hands never to do it again. Sorry, 'kay?"

‎Miyuki's head ducked between his shoulders, hands two strained fists. A tear dripped off the tip of his nose and he whimpered; sniffling, dragging a sleeve across his face.

‎"I'm so sorry, Master."

‎The old man smiled. He patted Miyuki's hair and cooed him closer until he bumped his knee. At last, allowing himself to weep. "There, there— softie. You ought to wring this pair dry later or I'll strangle ya with it, got it?"

‎He huffed, mumbling a meek 'yeah'.

‎The old man whacked his shoulder. "Now, then! Where's that beautiful smell coming from? You picked mushrooms, huh, you fox!"

‎"It's stew," Miyuki managed through a thin wall of composure, helping himself then his Master up onto his feet. Smiling solemnly, "I think you'll like it."

‎

‎Their hearts, like steel, had clashed—but in the cooling silence after, they remembered: swords aren’t forged without fire, nor bonds without pain.