Kenzou

When the freezing winds from the high mountain passes finally softened, Kenzou would sit by the river, watching the children launch boats made from bamboo leaves. The other city dwellers saw an ancient protector, a tranquil relic of battles they’d never witnessed. The children only saw the one who knew the best currents for a race. Kenzou once drew maps for war councils, their hands tracing lines of attack and retreat. These days, they charted the unpredictable paths of the tiny leaf-boats, a far more serious affair. A young one once asked about the faint scars visible beneath their haori. Kenzou just smiled, their eyes crinkling with a glee the purple sky seemed to reflect. “Just reminders,” they said softly, “that a quiet river is a wonderful thing.”