FALSE BLADES

My fist clenched around the handle of the shinai, my feet shuffling around in careful circular steps. These motions always felt so familiar, as though I had practiced them many times before. Holding the bamboo imitation of a blade before me, the ending leather cap pointed up and forward at the person standing in front of me. A saki-gawa is what I knew it was called, but I always just called it “the leather cap.” Both of my hands clasped tight onto the handle, the hilt, or most properly the tsuka.

It was one of two swords I had been found with. It was the lighter one, hurt much less to be hit with than the wooden blade that was dubbed its sister. A bokuto, or a bokken as I always wanted to call it, a solid wooden imitation. I sometimes called it a waster, but I always felt like it was a bit degrading to call it anything similar to a waste. It had served as my weapon for quite a time. I may not remember any real use of it, but the chips, scrapes, and scratches made it obvious it had seen use.

I could only wonder when.

That dream was no help. That recurring dream that felt so real but held things I couldn’t make sense of. I always pictured myself somewhere else, a strange and cold room with dark walls lit in multiple shades by various devices. Like little fireflies marching in step or dancing in a festival. While I dream I know their names, their functions, how to use them, and more. They seemed perfectly ordinary. Yet when I wake, when I try to remember what they are, the impression is left vague. I had hoped that after countless repeats it would grow clearer.

It hadn’t.

A heavy thump pulled my attention from the memory; a foot landing forward outside of me and my opponent’s twin orbital positioning told me that it was time to pay attention once more. They had gotten impatient, or perhaps bold. Had my opponent noticed that my mind slipped away or were they simply acting brash in hopes of gaining the first strike. This was not an uncommon start to my matches; I always get too lost in thought while sparring. There is something about the event and cautious drumming of our feet on the mats that provided my mind a nice foundation to wander on.

My right hand, holding lower on the hilt, shifted to the side in a sudden jerk. The end of the shinai flew the other way, smacking their downward swing to the side. This motion felt all too familiar, but I wasn’t sure if I was meant to do it with this weapon or another. Stepping forward, I shot my weapon forward at their shoulder. I only needed to land the strike, but I was so into the motion that it slammed into their clavicle with enough force to send them stumbling backwards.

“Ksh—That’s gonna bruise…”

“Ah, I’m sorry. You need a moment?”

He rolled his shoulder, aged white hair pulled back into a ponytail. A sly smile took his lips as his eyes squinted. He chuckled at my worry. This was nothing at all to him as he shook his head and walked back to position. He was much taller than I was, lanky and slender, you wouldn't think a man obviously hitting his upper ages would be so calm about getting battered day and night. But here that man was, standing before me by the name of Luz.

“Nah, I’ll be good. Now, get yourself ready. I was testing to see if your mind was still with us. Barely came back on time, had to move in a rush, ended up putting too much force into the blow. You really need to stop making a habit out of that, Moor.”

Pulling my arms back, we returned to our initial positions and held stance. I was unsure of the name of the way I was holding my weapon, the way I was standing, but I knew how to do it. I figure there should be a name, but it never came to me unlike the names of the weapons themselves. It was a curious thing, as my opponent lifted their blade upwards over their head. It made me think of an ox, but something about that was definitely wrong.

I’m sure he was saying something more as we stood at the ready. I wasn’t listening, my mind was too focused entirely on his stance and waiting for the call to begin the next set. My right hand vibrated with anticipation, itching to swing. So as we stood there, I fidgeted as I always did. I was told many times to stop, but it simply didn’t work that way. They say it is unlike a warrior to shudder so visibly, but I never considered myself a proper warrior. I knew how to fight but lacked the code. It seems like something I must have picked up for less than typical reasons. Something that was not as serious as it is now.

So, as time stood still in that moment, I was quiet. I ignored whatever Luz was saying, whatever compliments or critique it may have been, and let my mind return to the dream. I started to move my legs when the voice called out, but I wasn’t mentally all there. This was how it was for me. The sting of battle wasn’t foreign, but it never was anything too life threatening. It must not have been.

Those lights, I knew what they were in this very vague and distant sense. The associated memories just refused to click into place. I couldn’t even tell you what they did. I know that I, that other me, would press down lettered squares with his fingers, but the language was unfamiliar. I know he fidgeted with strange tools that caused things on the screen to change or something caused voices to respond from his earmuffs into his ears. The voices of people far, far away.

The thoughts of a foreign existence roam in my head, detailed with the tinge of rationality and memory that I cannot grasp. He had armor, multiple sets. One was placed against the wall with a shinai like my own, and by focusing on it, I can recall the name: a bogu. But there were other sets, one with an unreal mesh face on the helmet and a very bright white. It was for a different weapon for sure. It was placed next to it, along with a wall covered in mountings: swords, axes, spears, and some firearms. That person, that other me, was definitely a warrior of some type.

Why else would they be armed to the teeth like that?