Samurai Stories

While supporting US forces during the Boxer Rebellion in China in 1900, Col. Richard Coolidge (NU Class of 1863) acquired a piece of ancient clamshell-style chest armor from the Palace of the Seventh Blood Prince in Beijing. He later donated it to Norwich University, where it sat in collections storage for more than a century, mislabeled as Chinese. Student researcher Sean Michael McCrystal (NU Class of 2017) studied Coolidge’s armor and proved that it actually belonged to a Japanese Samurai warrior – likely a flag bearer — of the Miyoshi or Hosokawa clan. It dates from the chaotic Sengoku period, mid-to-late 1500s, after Portuguese traders and missionaries arrived in Japan with guns, but before Tokugawa Ieyasu took power as Shogun and expelled all foreigners. Ultraviolet light revealed extensive bloodstains that suggest the last person who wore it in battle was probably beheaded. When McCrystal teamed up with a forensic scientist at Madonna University to test the blood, he discovered possibly the most fascinating fact about this enigmatic armor: the person who lost their life in it was probably African.

If an object could talk, the Samurai armor in the Sullivan Museum and History Center would have quite a story to tell. Unfortunately, we can never know for sure what happened to this armor and the person who wore it. There is historical evidence that at least one African slave brought to Japan by the Portuguese did become a Samurai warrior, but there is no historical record for this particular Miyoshi clan flag bearer. How did he rise to the status of Samurai? Under what circumstances did he lose his life? And how did his armor end up in the Palace of the Seventh Blood Prince in Beijing?

Students in the Fall 2025 History of Civilizations classes undertook the challenge of filling in the missing details with fiction, based on our knowledge of the African slave trade, Sengoku Japanese culture, armor-making, Samurai training, warcraft, and politics. Each of the stories that follows is a historically plausible account of what might have happened to the armor, its maker, or its wearer in sixteenth-century Japan.

DeForge: Thank you for taking the time to talk about your Samurai Stories. Where did you get the idea for this project?

Gray: I have loved our Samurai armor in the Sullivan Museum ever since I first got to Norwich in 2007. It was one of the first things I found in the museum when I went over to check out what the collections were like.

The Samurai armor had such a great story. It was a mystery, so I started asking the museum education director to bring it out so I could show it to my class. During this time, I just went off what its label said—that it was from China—not knowing the real history behind it.

This armor was labeled as Chinese, which I found interesting, until one of my students, Sean Michael McCrystal, told me that it was not Chinese armor. I told Sean Michael, “No, look, it says right here on the label that it’s Chinese armor. It’s got to be Chinese armor.” Eventually, this question of where the armor came from turned into a student summer research project.

Sean Michael went into the Sullivan Museum and was able to prove the armor was Japanese Samurai armor, not Chinese armor. He also researched what period the armor came from, along with a lot of other facts. The student also did an analysis on blood that was on the armor. And this is one of the most interesting parts. The blood on the armor kept coming back as African; it may be that future blood tests will give us different information, but we know that there was at least one African who became a Samurai in the 16^th century, so it’s possible.

One of the things I’m trying to teach in my class is that historians are always working with limited information, and the Samurai armor is a great example of that. This assignment asks students to use the few facts we know about the armor and put them together with what they have learned about the historical context: Portuguese traders and missionaries bringing African slaves into a Japan riven by factional warfare. The lack of hard facts about the armor means that this has to be a creative writing project, but I hope it helps students better understand the work of historians and be more critical consumers of historical information.

DeForge: Being able to have my own writing included in The Chameleon has changed for me. So, I personally make that connection that writing changes you as a person. Has writing changed you? Does this Samurai Story writing project change your students?

Gray: You know, isn’t that what college is supposed to be about? I mean, you’re coming in as a STEM major or a Business major; you’re taking these Gen. Ed classes. You don’t know that you’re going to love your history or English class, right? And you find out about things you’re interested in and that you’re good at that maybe you didn’t know before.

And that’s a really cool aspect—to be able to leave a Gen Ed class having discovered that you are a great creative writer. I love that.

DeForge: Did you want to add anything more that I didn’t touch on?

Gray: I just want to say, “Thank you,” to you, the editors, and to Professor Prentiss for creating a space where this kind of writing can be celebrated, because I think it’s worth celebrating. And thank you to the Sullivan Museum. They have been so supportive of this project and our students in general.

When the museum closes at night, I wake up. The air feels different then, quiet, thick, almost alive. The footsteps stop. The voices fade. Keys rattle, the lights dim, and silence covers everything like a blanket. My glass case gets dark and still, and suddenly, I’m alone again. That’s when I remember who I am.

My name is Armor 146. At least, that’s the number they gave me here in the museum. A number scratched on a label, printed in a catalog. But I’ve had a lot of names before that. To some people, I was protection, to others I was a relic, to others I was a prize. I don’t talk out loud with a voice you can hear. My story is inside me, painted down into every dent, carved into every scratch, buried in the layers of dust, sweat, blood, and polish.

I remember how it all started. Long ago, in a small workshop, a blacksmith shaped me out of iron.

His arms were thick from years of hammering, and his face glowed from the heat of the fire. Sparks rained everywhere as he pounded the metal plates into smooth curves. The sound of the hammer on me was sharp and steady, like a heartbeat. He worked for days, adjusting every edge, making sure the plates overlapped just enough to protect without being too heavy. Finally, he coated me in thick, shiny black paint until I gleamed. When he was done, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, leaned close, and whispered, “You’ll protect good people.”

Outside the workshop, cherry trees swayed in the wind, pink petals swirling like soft snowflakes. Their smell drifted in through the door. I was proud that day, proud to be finished. I had a purpose. I was not just iron anymore; I was armor with a promise woven into me.

Soon after, a boy, barely a man, slipped me on. He was a samurai, though his hands trembled as he tied the cords and checked the knots. His face was pale with nerves, but when he looked in the mirror, a small smile broke out. He believed in me. He hoped I would keep him safe. I felt his heartbeat racing inside me when he took his first steps in full gear.

We marched together across muddy roads that stuck to soldiers’ feet and weighed them down. Wind whipped through valleys, bringing the smell of smoke from villages or rain from faraway clouds. Drums rumbled in the distance, guiding us forward. On battlefields, arrows clattered off my plates, and swords slid across my surface, leaving long marks and dents that are still here today. I never broke, not once, when he needed me. I held everything together, even when the boy inside me was shaking and freezing with fear.

At night, around campfires, soldiers huddled close together, whispering. The sky was wide and black, and the cold bit at their skin. My samurai would take me off carefully and rest his hands on me. Sometimes he leaned close to my helmet and whispered secrets or prayers. “Keep me alive,” he pleaded. “Help me see my home again.” I tried, oh, how I tried.

But life changes fast. After years of battles, after rain and blood and dust, I found myself with someone new. A man named Khalid. He was different, skin dark like polished wood, eyes sharp and watchful. He didn’t come from Japan, but fate carried him there. He was given me as a gift, payment for saving his master in battle. When he first picked me up, he tilted his head and said with a deep laugh, “You’re lighter than you look.” That laugh shook through me.

Khalid wore me with pride, but he wore me differently. He walked with a swagger that the boy never had, head high, shoulders back. When he fought, his sword spun like lightning, and his laughter came out even in the middle of danger, wild and confident. I could always hear his heart pounding against me when enemies closed in. I liked it. It reminded me I was alive too.

One day, there was a great fight at a temple. The stone steps were slick with rain, and the air smelled of smoke and wet cloth. Khalid was outnumbered, surrounded by foes who pressed in like wolves. He fought with fury, his shouts echoing into the night, his blade flashing bright in the storm. But even the strongest warrior can fall when there are too many. I felt the blow land, felt his body tumble inside me. His laughter went quiet forever.

After that, I was passed around. Someone lifted me, carried me away, tucked me into a trunk. I sat in the dark for years, with only the faint creak of wood and the mumbling of voices above me. Every now and then, someone opened the trunk, pulled me out, and polished my surface, pointing out the stains and scratches. They told stories about me, some true, many made up. They slipped me back into the trunk, closing me off from the world again.

When I grew old and coated in thick dust, I traveled. I was packed in a heavy wooden box and carried across water. The journey was long, full of rocking and crashing waves. I listened to the cries of gulls, the shuffle of boots overhead, the creak of ropes. Finally, the rocking stopped, and I ended up in China, in a palace surrounded by treasures from all over the world. Golden statues, jade carvings, silks bright as flames. I thought I would be forgotten among them.

But wars change everything again. During the rebellion, a soldier named Coolidge found me. His boots stomped through empty halls, his hands brushing away dust. When he uncovered me, he paused. “This is special,” he muttered. I could tell he didn’t know my real story, but he believed I was worth saving. He packed me up and carried me far, farther than I had ever traveled. Across oceans again, all the way to Norwich University.

From there, I was studied, passed around, displayed sometimes, hidden other times. Eventually, I landed here, in this museum. At first, I sat forgotten in boxes and storerooms with old paper tags tied to me. Then one day, a student came. He bent over me with a flashlight, tracing my scratches with his finger, shining light into the dents and stains. He saw my hidden marks, the ones left by arrows and swords, the faint fingerprints of those who polished me years ago. His voice shook with excitement when he whispered to his professor, “There’s a ghost in the armor.”

Now I sit under glass, still and silent during the day. Visitors pass by in groups. Some point and whisper guesses. Some squint at the patterns, wondering why I look darker, stranger than most armors. Children press their faces to the glass, laughing, making up wild tales. Others walk past too quickly, never giving me more than a glance. But it doesn’t bother me anymore. I listen to everything because I remember everything.

I remember the cherry trees, pale petals flying like snow. I remember the boy’s quick prayers in the cold nights. I remember Khalid’s wild laughter, strong and free. I remember the silence inside trunks, the hum of trains, the groan of ships on black oceans. I have felt hands from many nations. I have been carried, buried, forgotten, and found.

And even now, when night falls, and the museum breathes quiet again, I am awake. I hear voices, not from the halls but from deep within me, the whispers of my samurai, the laughter of Khalid, the murmurs of people who touched me and never knew my true name.

I am more than steel and paint. I am more than an exhibit with a number. I am a memory box, filled to the brim with moments no one else can ever truly understand. Battles, prayers, laughter, silence, I keep them all inside.

When the world goes dark, I come alive. I am Armor 146. I am the ghost in the armor.

Before man conflicted in wars, the skies and rivers waged their own war. From the mountains of storm came the Ryū—Japan’s dragon—lord of thunder, rain, and cloud. His coils darkened the heavens, his roar split valleys, his will claimed the skies. But from the depths of the river surged a single koi—vast as a boulder, scales burning gold in the current. Where other fish fled, this one leapt.

Again and again it hurled itself against the waterfall, defying storms, defying thunder. The Ryū raged. He lashed lightning across the cliffs, churned the river to foam, hurled rain like arrows. Yet the koi endured. Each strike it bore, until at last it rose higher than the storm itself.

There, dragon and koi clashed—sky and river, fury and perseverance. Neither yielded. Neither triumphed. And so their struggle became eternal, a balance of storm and stream. Their battle etched into memory, dragon and koi circling one another for eternity. And from that memory rose a legend: that the warrior who bore their image carried both storm and stream within his soul. To wear such armor was to carry the weight of the samurai himself—honor, burden, and the endless silence of fate.

~~~         ~~~   ~~~

Hiroshi dreamed of chains.

Iron cut into raw wrists, the sea biting deeper with every wave. Darkness pressed close below deck, thick with sweat, fear, and death. Voices barked in a language he did not know, their commands striking harder than the whips.

Somewhere in the blackness, a mother wept until her voice was gone. Somewhere else, the ocean claimed another life, silence filling the dark space.

The dream shifted, and fire bled through the memory. Strange flags, strange guns, strange men with cold eyes. He was driven, traded… broken down. Steel was thrust into his hand–not as freedom, but as entertainment, a weapon to make his suffering profitable. Blow by blow, cut by cut, he learned. Pain carved knowledge deeper than any teacher. Storms came. Shores changed. The dream bent again. Now the chains were gone, and the weapon remained. A man’s gaze — sharp, unyielding — regarded him not as a belonging, but as a warrior. For the first time, there was no order to kneel, only a command to stand.

And thus the story began.

Moonlight threaded through the mesh windows of the chief’s palace, spilling across the waxed floors like a silver stream. At the heart of the great hall, beneath banners painted with dragons, koi, and cherry blossoms, rested the armor. It was breathtaking. Every second revealed a new hidden detail: the polished plates glimmering like still water, the ridges of gold leaves carved into sweeping vines, the twin etchings of Dragon and Koi locked forever in their legendary dance. The clasps at the hip bore the mark of the ancient struggle — the Dragon soaring upward, the Koi surging against the current, their spirits bound now in steel rather than in flesh. It was not merely armor. It was a vessel, a keeper of memory, and those who stood before it felt the hush of centuries. Iron plates, sheathed in deep brown leather, gleamed beneath bands of brass that traced the neckline. The shoulder straps bore clasps of bronze, each marked with the crest of the Miyoshi clan: a square within a circle. The air itself seemed to still, for to wear such a piece was no small matter — it was the armor of a flag bearer, the one who stood at the front of the storm, raising the banner high so all might rally to it.

Silence hung heavy in the chamber, broken only by the soft tread of the guards shifting in their stances. Whispers filled the air, as they always did in the armor’s presence: the story of the battle, the sacrifice, the endless current that had shaped their world. And tonight, a new murmur joined them — not of legend past, but of destiny yet to come. For at the far end of the hall, the doors creaked open. A tall figure entered, his steps deliberate, his presence undeniable. Skin dark as polished onyx caught the moonlight; the daishō at his sides whispered of battlefields long behind him. Hiroshi. The palace attendants straightened, some with pride, some with hesitation. It was still strange to see him here, a man born across the distant seas, brought first by trade, tempered by war, and sworn by oath into the heart of Miyoshi. Stranger still that he stood not as a servant, but as a samurai — a warrior chosen by the chief himself.

Hiroshi knelt before it, the weight of memory pressing down. To others, the armor was merely legend. To him, it was a mirror — of struggle, survival, and the unrelenting current that had carried him here. The stories of Dragon and Koi pressed upon him as if testing his resolve. In this chamber, this land that was not his by blood, but had become his by blade, he stood small against the legend. Yet as the silence deepened, something stirred in the air between man and steel. The spirits of Dragon and Koi waited, watching, as if deciding whether Hiroshi was worthy of their memory.

To bear this armor was no privilege — it was a vow. A vow to the Miyoshi clan, to the land that had given him a name and a place, and to the ancestors whose banners once bled into the soil. The breastplate’s weight would not simply guard his chest but carry the faith of many. He was no longer a slave bound by chain, nor a blade wielded for another’s profit. Here, before this relic of fire and iron, he was bound only by honor. Yet honor was not without blood. Whispers of war reached even the quiet palace walls, carried on the winds from the sea. The armies of Japan would soon turn their eyes across the waters, toward the mainland — toward China. For the one chosen to bear the flag in battle, there would be no hiding, no retreat. The banner must stand until the body beneath it falls still.

The village stretched along the forest’s river, its waters glinting beneath the rushing sin. Quaint minka — traditional wooden homes with thatched roofs — clustered close to the riverbank. At the center stood the raised palace of the village chief, a quiet reminder of order and tradition. Life here was unhurried, full; each villager devoted themselves to their craft, striving to become the truest version of themselves. The crisp air of dawn sliced through the land like a toothless bite, sharp and cold.

Above, the golden morning light unfolded, painting the heavens with strokes of orange, yellow, and crimson — colors that seemed to spill from the veins of fallen warriors. A lone man stood in the fields beyond the village he called home, bearing the nips of the relentless wind in silence. He lingered, waiting… anticipating. The chill stung his throat, but his breath came steady, filling his chest and feeling his heart’s steady rhythm. His stance was unyielding, carved from many years of intensity and dedicated training. Before him, a katana penetrated the earth, its steel pressed against the soil. His firm hands rested upon the beautifully woven hilt, a weapon of both companionship and burden. The garments he wore were rich with story and meaning: silver and red embroidered upon a white canvas. Their brilliance set in striking harmony with the deep brown of his skin.

One by one, attendants approached in silence. Each movement was reverent, like priests in a shrine. Leather plates were lifted, straps fastened, buckles drawn tight. The armor did not merely clothe him; it claimed him, piece by piece, until he was no longer just a man, but a vessel for clan and country, for Dragon and Koi.

When the last strap was secured, the attendants stepped back and bowed low. Silence deepened, thickened, until the sound of measured footsteps entered the hall. The village chief appeared, robed in layers of indigo and white, the crest of Miyoshi embroidered in gold upon his chest. In his hands, he carried the kabuto. The helmet was a marvel of both art and war. Forged of iron, its broad bowl gleamed black as night beneath the torchlight. From its crown rose the kuwagata — great golden horns arched like the pincers of a stag beetle, a mark of command and fearlessness. The shikoro — the layered neck guard — fanned wide in carefully placed plates of black and crimson, each rimmed in brass, like waves frozen. Across the forehead bore the crest of the Miyoshi: a square within a circle, burnished gold, catching the dawn’s glow as if lit from within.

The chief paused before Hiroshi, holding the kabuto high. His voice carried like a solemn chant.

“By this helm, you are no longer only a man, but a banner. No longer only a warrior, but a clan. You are Miyoshi, flesh and steel.” With deliberate care, he lowered the kabuto and placed it upon Hiroshi’s head.

The weight settled over him — not crushing, but binding. The world narrowed to the hiss of his breath beneath the helm, the press of iron against skin, the echo of Dragon and Koi alive within the steel.

~~~         ~~~   ~~~

The samurai are often compared to the notorious cherry blossom. Beautiful and eye-catching once in their armor, but all it may take is one strong storm to blow the blossoms off their branch.

The mist of war clung thick to the earth, curling around corpses and broken spears like a shroud. Screams rose and died within it, muffled by the clash of steel and the thunder of taiko drums beating with the rhythm of slaughter. Hiroshi stood at the heart of it all, the banner of Miyoshi rising above his back, the crest blazing against the pale fog. The armor shone dully, its polish now streaked with blood and mud. Each strike of his katana was deliberate, heavy, born from years of pain and training. Steel tore through flesh; blood sprayed warm across his faceplate. Still, he did not falter.

The banner must never fall.

Men surged toward him, some with eyes burning in rage, others wide with fear. They struck at him with spear and daishō, their weapons biting into flesh where they could find it. Pain flared bright, but Hiroshi endured, each wound another vow renewed. Around him, the ground grew slick, red pooling into streams that seeped between the trampled grass. A spear pierced his shoulder, yet his grip on his daishō did not waver. With a roar that carried above the storm, he cut the man down and pressed forward, the banner still high, its square-in-circle crest waving in the smoke-thickened dawn. Every breath was agony. Every heartbeat was thunder. Yet Hiroshi’s mind burned clear: the armor was his oath, the Dragon and Koi his unseen companions, their eternal struggle echoing within his chest. Dragon lent him its fire, Koi its unyielding climb. Together, they carried him where flesh alone would fail.

And still, through the red haze, he fought.

The field fell quiet at last, though the cries of the dying still clung faintly to the mist. Smoke drifted low, carrying with it the bitter tang of iron and ash. At the heart of the ruin, the banner of Miyoshi wavered, torn but still upright, its shadow stretching across the broken earth. Hiroshi knelt beneath it, the weight of his wounds pressing him to the ground. His armor was no longer shining and of polished brass, but drenched in crimson, every plate marked by the price of his defiance. His breath rattled, harsh, each exhale staining the cold air. Still, his grip on the katana never loosened.

The enemy approached. Words were spoken, a sentence passed, but Hiroshi did not hear them. His gaze lingered on the horizon, where the last light of dawn began to hide from the world. Then steel fell. The world shuddered into silence as his head struck the earth. The kabuto rolled free, golden horns catching a last glint of sun before vanishing into the chaos of battle. It was never seen again.

But the armor remained.

Its plates, once brilliant, bore his blood forever, the crimson etched deeper than any shine. To some, it was ruin. To others, a relic. Yet for those who remembered, it was more than steel. It was the vessel of Dragon and Koi, the mirror of a man who was not born of the land but claimed it by blade, and whose spirit stood unbroken even as his body fell.

And so the armor endures in story, whispered of in shadows, its legend carried on the wind like the cry of banners long lost to time. For Dragon still coils in the storm, and Koi still climbs the endless current. Their eternal struggle lives not in rivers or skies, but in blood-forged steel. Bound together in Hiroshi’s fall, their spirits circle still, waiting for the day another hand dares to lift the weight of their memory.

Taro

I have been in this place for too long. It is starting to get unbearably hot. Perhaps I will be able to leave soon. How nice it would be to slip outside and train. When my mother was brought here by the Portuguese, she was terrified of what would happen. There are not many places where being a person that looks like us is easy, not that it is easy here, truly, there is no place anywhere that is easy for anyone. My father is saying something, but I’m not focused on his words. We don’t meet with the daimyo often, but when we do, it is a lot of talking while sitting in a room that is not comfortable. The daimyo’s heirs are spread throughout the room with his eldest son sitting next to him, learning as his father works so that one day he could take over, as I will for my father’s position when he becomes too old to fight. I wonder if Daimyo’s son ever feels out of place in this stuffy room.

“Taro.”

“Taro.”

“Are you even listening?”

I hadn’t been; that wasn’t good. Father rarely calls on me for my opinion, so often I don’t need to pay attention to these talks. Today was not my day. What had father asked?

“The daimyo asked if you would be willing to watch over his eldest daughter as she travels to meet her future husband.”

The eldest daughter, it was about time she was married. Her beauty was known throughout the land, and she was well sought after due to her family’s connections throughout the country. I wonder who they had promised her to.

“Taro, it is rude to keep the daimyo waiting.”

I had already been standing there quietly for too long, so I kept my voice low as I said, “It would be an honor to escort your daughter, sir. Where is our destination, and when would we need to arrive?”

“So, you can speak, I was beginning to wonder after all these times when you sit there so silently. You would need to arrive in two weeks’ time in Chosokame.”

That wasn’t a terribly far trip. Two weeks would be more than enough time to secure a safe passage for the daimyo’s daughter. I felt a boot gently kick my leg. That was father’s way of telling me that I had forgotten something, but what?

“Thank you for this opportunity.”

Of course, always thank the daimyo when you have been given an assignment, even if it is just to take his daughter across the border to meet her new husband.

“You are both dismissed. Oh, and Taro, she is already packed, so whenever you see fit to leave, she is ready. Oh, and perhaps you should take another with you, wouldn’t want to have any trouble on the passage.”

“Of course, sir. I shall come by to pick her up in two days’ time at dawn.” “Very well.”

I turn to walk out with my father when I see her, the eldest daughter. I should try to remember her name, that seems like the right thing to do. As I walk by, I catch her eyes, which are rimmed with red and look as though she has been crying. As long as she doesn’t cry during the trip to her new husband, that would be impossible to deal with.

Ichi

That was it. It took all of five minutes to secure someone to ship me away from the only home I’ve ever known to a new place where I will have to be a wife and mother. I suppose I should be grateful, my father waited longer than normal to marry me off. I know it was because he was waiting for a truly great opportunity to form an alliance, but I like to pretend it was because he wanted me to have my childhood for a little longer.

The samurai’s son that they have enlisted to take me looks me in the eye as he leaves. He seems kind, but quiet, like there are a lot of thoughts in his head, but he doesn’t know how to put them into words. He looks different from the other samurais’ sons; I will have to ask around. I know there was a time when his father was disgraced over something involving his wife, but I can’t quite remember what.

Hasu taps me on the shoulder to tell me that it is time to leave. Thank goodness she is here; I would never remember all of these details without her. It is a miracle that I convinced my father to let me take Hasu with me when I get married, and that Hasu agreed to come. I think she feels bad for me, that is ok, though, I feel bad for me too.

Taro

My father is a mix of emotions as we walk, not that anyone but me would be able to tell.

He keeps his face clear always; it is the rest of him that gives him away. The way he walks when he’s angry, or the way he fiddles with his armor, I can tell he’s really in a mood when he stops us and makes me adjust mine.

My armor is my everything, that’s what my father tells me. It is the one thing about me that is the same as all of the other sons that are being trained to be samurai, as their fathers and grandfathers before them. My grandfather cut ties with my father when my father said I was to be trained as a samurai; he thinks I am too odd and will never succeed as one. All this is because of my mother, who is dead. She died long ago when I was still quite small. She was from a far land and had been brought here when she was little more than a girl. My father, who was training to be a samurai at the time, saw her and instantly fell in love, or so he says. I’m not sure that’s even possible. Regardless, they courted and married despite my grandfather’s disapproval. My grandmother, on the other han,d adored my mother and left my grandfather to live with us when my mother became pregnant.

Most people are like my grandfather, not because they dislike me, but because they don’t know what to make of me since I am not like them. Once they get to know me, they usually come around and are more accepting, like my grandmother. For example, my best friend, Ando, used to throw rocks at me because he didn’t know if I could speak, and now we train together every day. I should ask my father if I can bring Ando on my journey.

“Father, do you think bringing Ando on the journey for the Daimyo would be beneficial?”

“If you two can behave yourselves, then yes, it is not wise to go alone.”

“Of course, father. Shall I go ask him now?”

Father turns to me and tightens the shoulder strap on my armor. Now I really don’t know what to make of his mood. He never adjusts my armor. He says that it is each person’s own responsibility to maintain their appearance.

“Run along then and ask him. Be home before dark, your grandmother is cooking dinner.”

“Of course, father.”

Like I would ever be late when grandmother is cooking. She’s the reason all the girls on our street make such good matches; her cooking lessons are guaranteed to get them a husband.

Ichi

I have dinner in my room tonight, just me and Hasu. I don’t feel like dealing with my brothers tonight, always grappling for my father’s attention, and my sisters trying to make me feel better about being forced out of my own life. Hasu is packing the last of my belongings up and sending them down to the stables to be loaded onto the carriage. Yes, there’s only one, that’s all father would let me bring. He claims my new husband will buy me all new clothes, but I don’t think he ever considered that I might want to keep the ones I have. Two nights left in my bed, that’s all I get.

Taro

I ride over to the daimyo’s house as the sun rises over the hill. As I approach, I can see the lone carriage that we will be taking with us on the trip. Ando rides beside me silently as he’s still half asleep. His horse carries the food for our journey, prepared by my grandmother over the last two days.

When we arrive at the parked carriage, I see the daimyo’s daughter and what I assume is her maid waiting next to the carriage on their horses. I wasn’t aware that another would be joining us on our journey, but food shouldn’t be an issue, though, as long as we don’t run into any other problems.

I adjust the straps on my armor as we pull our horses beside the girls. “Good morning, I am Taro, and this is Ando. We will be escorting you to your husband. Are you ready for the journey?”

The look she gives is cold, as if there is nothing left in the world she cares about. It makes my skin itch.

“I suppose I don’t have a choice.”

And with that, she starts down the trail. Her maid isn’t far behind her. I shoot Ando a look as I realize this journey could be more problematic than I anticipated. Ando, however, is looking at the girls as they ride down the path and doesn’t seem to have a care in the world.

“You ride down and take the lead, Ando; I’ll bring up the rear with the carriage.”

The stable hands had already been hitching the carriage to my horse, as it’s the strongest, so as Ando rides to the front, I prepare to take up the rear.

As one of the stable boys goes to leave, I stop him. What are the girls’ names?”

The boy looks confused for a second before responding, likely surprised that I spoke to him, given how I look now that he can see past the armor a bit.

“Ichi is the Daimyo’s daughter. Her maid is Hasu.”

I thank him, and with tha,t I am on my way.

Ichi

The boy who leads us is not the one my father enlisted; he must be someone brought along, because I simply need that much protection. Hasu keeps looking at him as if he were the sun that brightens the earth. I can’t have her falling in love and leaving me, but for now, it is fine to let her look.

The boy my father picked to bring me to my new prison is in the back, inching farther away as he follows us in the carriage. His armor glints in the sun. I ended up asking about his family and didn’t understand why everyone was in such a fuss over his parents’ marriage. Things like where you are from and how you look shouldn’t matter in a marriage; all that should matter is love. I wish my father believed that.

Taro

We stop to camp and eat a good meal. Ichi seems sad, almost like she doesn’t want to leave home and get married, which, as I think about it, makes sense. She’s nearly the same size as me, quite strong-looking for a girl. While her maid kept eyeing Ando, Ichi kept looking at my armor.

“Your armor was custom-made for you, correct?”

“Umm, yes, it was.”

“Has anyone else ever worn it?”

Why was she asking these questions? As the daughter of a daimyo, you would think she would learn these things as a child, but maybe her education is different, or she just forgot.

“No one wears our armor but us,” chimes Ando.

I suppose I was silent for too long while I was thinking. I really need to work on that. I hear a noise from across the field where we are camping and look over, but see nothing.

Tomorrow we should make good time with the stretch we are traveling.

Ichi

We’ve been riding all morning and making good time, but clouds on the horizon look less than promising. Also, I think we are being followed. Taro doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he isn’t letting on.

Ando and Hasu seem to be getting close, too close; I really can’t lose her to marriage. At least Ando seems like a nice person. If he wasn’t, then Hasu and I would have been riding away as fast as we could in the night yesterday.

I decided to ride towards the back with Taro and the carriage today. Not because I wanted to ride next to him, but because I felt bad that he was riding so far back by himself. He hasn’t said a word all morning, which is odd considering most men in my presence can’t seem to stop talking.

The mon on his armor glints in the sun as we continue on our journey. My father’s symbol forever at his shoulders. I wonder if it is uncomfortable for him to wear something that marks him as a worker to someone else. Maybe he doesn’t mind, or maybe he does, how should I know when he never says a word?

Taro

Ichi is once again staring at my armor. At this point, I think she might want to steal it. I feel bad for being silent the whole morning. She’s riding next to me, which I can only assume means she wants to talk, but I have to focus on the person who is trailing us.

They are clever, whoever they are. They stay just far enough back that I can’t make out the sounds of the horses, but close enough that they won’t lose our trail. Tonight, we will have to be vigilant when we camp.

We make camp next to a stream, the rushing of the water is just loud enough that I can voice my concerns about our tail to Ando without the girls hearing. I don’t want to worry them unnecessarily.

“Ando, have you noticed the people following us all day? The ones that we heard last night?”

“Yes, they have kept close all day, but I can’t get a read on how many there are.”

“In that case, we need to make sure that one of us is on watch the whole night. We can’t afford to let the daimyos’ daughter get murdered on her way to her own wedding.”

“Also, you wouldn’t survive if something happened to Hasu.”

“Ahhh, so you noticed that?”

“It’s kind of hard not to.”

“Taro, she’s just so perfect. I honestly think that she is the one for me.”

“That’s great, Ando.”

I want to be happy for Ando, and I am. There’s just something about the news that’s making it a little sour. My father would say to get rid of that feeling and focus on the mission at hand, which I really do need to do, as I can hear the people who have been tailing us. I think they are camping behind the trees next to us. I tell Ando I will take the first watch and settle down to start my shift at the front of camp.

Ichi

Taro did notice the people following us today. He and Ando are taking turns watching that camp. They both seem nervous. Hasu fell asleep as soon as Ando took his shift of the watch; she must truly feel safe with him. That’s good, I suppose. Taro is on shift right now. I get up and sit next to him, which seems to surprise him.

“Why are you not sleeping?”

He says it in a way that makes it seem like he actually cares and wants to know what he can do to make it better.

“It is difficult to sleep knowing someone is behind those trees watching us.”

If he is surprised, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t show a lot of emotions, at least not on his face.

“You notice more than the average person.”

I like that he says ‘person’ and not ‘girl’ or ‘daughter’. It makes it sound less condescending. He probably understands what it is like to have little words like that change how a message can be received; those little things make all the difference.

“I try to always be aware of my surroundings; it makes me feel safer.”

The look in his eyes is almost like pity, like he can’t understand why I would ever feel unsafe, and he doesn’t want me to ever feel unsafe, or maybe I’m imagining things.

“I understand that. One must always be aware of their surroundings in order to have any chance in a fight.”

“Well, I’m not doing much fighting.”

“Everyone fights in their own way, whether it be on the battlefield or in life, but all battles have the same principles, and knowing your surroundings will be helpful in any sort of battle.”

I think that is the longest I have ever heard him talk. He definitely has a lot of thoughts in his head, and given enough time, they can really come out in beautiful ways.

“Are you excited for your wedding?”

He asks in a way unlike anyone else who asks that question; he doesn’t say it like I should be excited and just wants confirmation; he genuinely wants to know.

“No, but it will be good for my father’s empire.”

“Marriage should be more than that.”

Taro

When I say those words, she looks at me like I cast a spell on her. I guess I never really thought a marriage like my parents’ was so rare, but I suppose all the daimyo’s daughters will be married off for political alliances. That’s just the way it is.

Ichi looks exhausted, but she doesn’t seem like she is ready to sleep at all. She keeps looking at the stars, then back at me. All I can focus on is her. She has a beautiful face when it isn’t marred by sadness

I can hear rustling in the trees and get up to check, leaving Ichi sitting by the camp. As I walk to the bushes, it occurs to me that I should have woken Ando up to have some backup in case there are more people in these woods that I can deal with alone. I turn my head slightly to check the camp and see that Ichi is shaking Ando awake. She seems to read my mind, or maybe she just thinks that this could be more than I can deal with.

The pressure of my armor on my shoulders is a comfort whenever I am about to face a fight, but it is even more comforting now as I head into the unknown. The bushes shake again, and suddenly a man jumps out with his sword swinging, he barely misses my stomach, and is already getting set to stab again. I recover from my shock and swing at him. We are locked in a battle that can only end one of two ways: with him dead, or with me dead.

Ichi

Thank god I woke Ando up. Taro was nearly sliced in half when the man jumped from the bushes. For some reason, when that happened, I felt a rush of sadness, which makes no sense as I have no connection to him other than that he is escorting me to my new life.

Taro keeps swinging, but so does the enemy. I can’t tell who is winning. I should have paid more attention in all those classes about war and samurai fighting. Ando doesn’t seem to be making any moves to get into the fight, but then again, how does one help in a fight like this without completely risking their own life?

I’m vaguely aware of someone grabbing my arm, and I move to throw them off until I realize it is just Hasu, who looks terrified. She is probably more worried about Ando standing off to the side than Taro, whose armor’s ability to protect him is too close to being tested. There must be something that I can do to help, but I feel like I might just get in the way.

Ando is trying to tell Hasu and me something, but I can’t hear him over the clash of swords and the grunts as Taro and the man from the bushes continue facing off. Hasu seems to have heard him, though, because she grabs my arm, and we start to move farther away from the fight. When the clashing of swords becomes much quieter, Hasu starts to do the nervous rambling that is so characteristic of her, not that she gets nervous often.

“Ichi”

“Ichi”

“Hmm, were you talking to me?”

“Who else would I have been talking to? Should we do something to help Ando?”

“Help Ando? He’s not even fighting! We need to do something to help Taro!”

Just then, I hear a noise that doesn’t sound quite natural. I turn to look just as Ando runs up and keeps me and Hasu facing the other way, but not before I see that Taro has beheaded the man from the bushes.

Ando keeps us looking the other way long enough for Taro to do whatever it is he does with the body, then he comes to join us. He’s got a sizable cut on his arm, but other than that, he looks okay, which makes me oddly happy, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank god for his armor and fighting skills.

Taro

As soon as I look at Ichi, I know that Ando didn’t turn her away soon enough. She saw the body; she knows I am a killer, which should be a point of pride for a samurai, but I don’t want her to think of me that way. When I look back at her eyes, she is eyeing the cut on my arm, which is starting to sting. I need to clean it.

“I should go clean…”

“I will clean your arm.”

Ichi grabs me by the other arm and leads me to the river. No point in arguing, I suppose. I take off my helmet at the water’s edge and start to remove the chest piece to check for other injuries, not that I think I have any, but just in case.

Ichi takes a cloth from somewhere in her dress and dips it into the water. She then presses it against my arm and cleans the cut. She’s quite gentle, and I find myself relaxing as she finishes wrapping the slice in a clean bandage.

“Who was that? Why were they following us? What did you do with the body?”

Again with the questions, not that I mind. I need to sort through them anyway, and this way I can do that out loud.

“He didn’t wear a mon, so I don’t know much about him, but he seemed very intent on killing me.” I shouldn’t have said that. Ichi looks terrified. “But I’ll be fine. I took care of it.”

Saying that doesn’t seem to help. Ichi starts to fiddle with one of the straps on my armor. I need to do something to distract her before she freaks out.

“Do you want me to show you how to put on the armor?”

She looks up at me with eyes that are famed for their beauty, with a look that says yes. I take the chest plate and gently settle it on her.

“These strap together at your side, and then the shoulders get tightened here on either side.”

“I thought no one else was supposed to wear your armor.”

“I figured this might distract you from what just happened.”

She just silently nods, and I continue placing the armor on her. Finally, I place the helmet on her head. She looks beautiful and fierce, and I think she feels stronger, less afraid, at least that’s how I always feel in my armor.

Ichi

Taro’s armor is surprisingly comfortable but a bit heavy. It does make me feel safer, though. The layers of metal over leather covering my back and stomach feel secure. The only things not covered are my neck and some of my arms and legs. I take the helmet off and pass it back to Taro. Then he starts to take the rest of the armor off and place it back on his own body. It feels strangely intimate, to wear his armor and then watch him immediately put it back on.

Just as Taro tightens the last strap on his shoulder, there is another sound from the bushes. This time, two men come running out. One stabs Ando so quickly I barely notice till he drops down, and there is blood pooling all around him. Hasu screams and starts running, but not away from the death, but to Ando. I can’t figure out what she is doing until she pulls out Ando’s short sword and cuts her belly. Better to die than to take your chances with what a random enemy man might do.

Taro grabs me and drags me to my feet. He’s yelling at me to run, but I can’t get my feet to move, so he pushes me into the water as he twirls around to meet the other man’s sword with his own. As they are locked in a battle, I tell my feet to run, so I go splashing down the river until I realize how much noise I am making and run up the bank to solid ground. I start to climb a tree, thinking I can hide out at the top until this is over and Taro can come get me.

Once I’m perched higher in the tree than I really feel comfortable with, I look back to where the fighting is. I can see the bodies of Ando and Hasu, their hands almost reaching to each other as they lie there with their blood pooling around them. Just a few feet away is Taro, now fighting both men. He is losing, oh god why is he slowing down, letting them get closer and closer to hitting the armor that I wore only moments ago.

Then it happens, Taro trips over a rock that he doesn’t see just behind him. His head hits the ground with a sickening thud, and he makes no move to get up. I want to scream, but I know that would lead the men right to me. With any hopes, they’ve forgotten me by now. Taro still makes no move to get up. Is he even breathing? I hope the men will just leave him, and then I can go see if he’s alright, maybe fix his head like I fixed his arm.

That doesn’t happen.

Taro

I’m not dead just yet, but my head hurts too much to move. I hope Ichi got away, was smart and ran, that she doesn’t see me now, lying here, completely vulnerable to the attackers above me. Their faces loom over me to check if I am dead. I should act like I am, then maybe after they leave, I can get away.

The two men exchange some looks that are too fast and quiet for my hurting head to understand, then I see the one on the left pull out his sword. I understand now what is going to happen. They came here to kill us all, two are already dead, the other is hopefully far beyond their reach by now. All they have left to do is finish me off.

I hope my father thinks I died bravely, not that he will ever really know how I died since there are no witnesses. I will die alone, like I always feared. At least I will be with my mother soon. I can almost hear her voice, see her face, so different from everyone else’s mother’s, but one I always loved more than anything.

I see the glint of the sword as it comes racing towards my neck and smile to myself. I did my job; I kept Ichi safe. At least, I hope. That was the goal of this trip. If she is smart, which she is, she will walk to the border and marry her new husband, forget about me and this whole trip, and live her life.

The sword doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would as it slices my neck. I hear a scream in the distance and pray that Ichi doesn’t have to witness this. For some reason, I am still conscious. I can feel the blood running from my neck down my back. I realize that they didn’t cut all the way through.

Stranger and stranger, I now hear the pounding of horses’ hooves and see a stallion jump over me and trample the men who just slit my throat. I can feel the life leaving my body and mind. It hurts, too much, but I can’t make any movement to try and ease the pain. Suddenly, I see my father’s face above me. It swims in and out of focus as he puts my head in his lap and whispers soothing words that I can’t quite make out.

Then I see Ichi’s face red with tears looking down at me too. This can’t be possible; I must be going crazy as I die. Ichi takes my hand; I feel the warmth of her fingers against mine and close my eyes. I’ll just rest, then I can make sure Ichi is safe and happy, make sure nothing causes those horrible tears to roll down her face again.

Ichi

His blood is everywhere, his head hanging limply from his neck, held on by only a little bit of skin. It must have hurt, to die like that. I nearly fell out of the tree as I climbed down when they brought the sword to his neck. I didn’t care that it wasn’t safe. I couldn’t let him die alone. No one should have to be alone in their final moments.

“How did you get here?” I ask Taro’s father, because it truly doesn’t make any sense to me.

“I saw you off the first day, then a while later, I saw those men start off after you. I thought Taro and Ando would be able to handle it, but that I could intervene if necessary. Obviously, I was too late, too late to save my only son, my world.”

I take his hand in my right, as I am still holding Taro’s in my left. I’m not sure what to say, how to talk to a grieving father whose son’s head is still sitting in his lap, soaking everything nearby in blood.

“I’m sorry. I should have done more. Taro told me to run, pushed me away, so I did, I ran, but I should have stayed, maybe I could have helped. Maybe I could have done something to prevent this. Or I could have made him run with me, instead of staying to fight.”

I am crying again, the tears rolling down my face and into the dirt, mixing with Taro’s blood.

“There is nothing you could have done. I should have done more, been there when my son needed me.”

So, we sit there. Both blame ourselves for the death that lies next to us. Holding hands as the sun comes up on the first day in which Taro will never wake up.

Epilogue Ichi

I pack the last of my things onto my horse. It has been ten years since I last traveled farther than a few miles outside of Taro’s old home. His father insisted that I cut my hair, change my name, and start a new life. It was the best decision ever made for me, and the last ever made for me. I got to live my life how I wanted after that, and now I am making another choice.

I am leaving Japan. There are too many memories here, and it is time to start fresh. Taro’s father emerges from the house holding a rather large box, which he secures to the very back of my cart.

“May I ask what you’re adding to my load?”

“It’s his armor. I thought you should have it to remember that he loved you. All of it is there except the helmet of course.”

Neither of us could bear to remove the helmet from his body that night, so we left it on him as we buried him in those woods.

“Thank you, you have been so kind to me these past years. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“My life is here, but yours is still young; go see the world.”

So, I did. I left Japan behind and traveled for the rest of my days. I ended up settling in China, where I made sure Taro’s armor was passed on to a good family who would keep it safe for generations to come.

Sources

I used the source below to gather some additional information about samurai life. I also used Google AI overviews for small facts and things such as name ideas: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daimyo

It sits behind glass now,
polished, catalogued,
numbered in a museum corner at Norwich University,
students walking past,
textbooks in their hands,
never hearing the screaming inside the silk collar.

The curators call it clamshell-style,
Yokohagi Okegawa ni-mai dō,
mid-1500s, Sengoku period,
Japan’s age of chaos,
when musket smoke and ambition
choked the sky.
They call it artifact,
they call it Japanese,
they call it anonymous
but it was never anonymous,
because it was mine.

I was the general of the Miyoshi clan,
a house climbing like ivy through cracks of a broken nation.
Alliances shifting like rice in the wind.
Hosokawa above us,
Oda beside us,
betrayal one breath away.
In the Sengoku you didn’t live by loyalty,
you lived by sacrifice,
and I learned to make sacrifices for men.

The soldier I chose
do you want me to tell you about him?
Then listen,
because history never wrote his name.
His skin was dark,
like earth turned under the plow,
like the ships that brought the Portuguese traders to our shores.
Maybe he walked with Yasuke,
the African who fought for Nobunaga,
maybe he didn’t,
but whispers followed him like dogs,
and still he carried our crest,
square within circle,
stitched to his shoulders
like proof he belonged.

And oh, how he wanted to belong.
He thought the armor was honor,
silk collar brushing his neck,
iron ribs laced tight around his chest,
bronze clasps shining as the morning sun rose over Settsu.
But I knew better.
That armor was no gift.
it was a sentence,
a coffin hammered into the shape of a warrior.
I put it on him with my own hands.
I told him he was chosen,
and I sent him forward,
banner in his grip.

Do you know what it means to carry a banner?
It means every musket finds you.
It means every spear lunges for you.
It means you are the first face the enemy kills.
And he walked into it with pride,
not knowing
or maybe knowing and refusing to show it.

The fog hung heavy that morning,
the ground wet,
the smell of saltpeter sharp in the nose.
He raised the flag high,
and for a moment,
I almost believed courage could stop lead.
But courage is nothing against a bullet,
nothing against the iron teeth of war.

The sound came sharp,
a musket’s crack echoing like a bone splitting.
His head jerked,
the collar drank red.
Blood poured hot,
spilling down the silk,
seeping into the lacquered plates,
iron warming under the rush of it.
He did not fall at once.
No,
he staggered,
knees sinking into mud,
teeth clenched,
fingers locked around the flagpole
so tight the wood splintered under his grip.
His eyes rolled white,
spit and blood bubbling from his mouth,
and still he held the banner upright,
Still, he gave me the victory I craved.

And I watched him die.

The army surged forward,
screaming his sacrifice into triumph,
their boots pounding over his body,
their swords raised as though he had opened the gates to heaven.
We won.
We crushed them.
And I,
I secured my place.
I gave him nothing in return,
only an order:
strip the armor from his corpse,
leave the body in the muck,
bring me the plates,
the silk,
The blood is still soaking.

Do you understand?
The armor was supposed to rot with him,
to bury itself in Settsu soil,
to return to the earth like a loyal retainer,
but I refused.
I kept it.
I told myself it was to study.
I told myself it was memory.
But the truth is,
the armor would not let me bury it.
It wanted to remain.

And so it did.
The Miyoshi fell apart,
names shattered like glass,
alliances crumbled,
and yet the armor traveled,
taken, traded,
crossing borders as if it had a will of its own.
By the 1600s it was gone from our land.
By 1900 it was sitting in the palace of a Chinese prince,
resting in Beijing like a relic.

Then the world cracked again.
The Boxer Rebellion,
foreign armies marching through the city,
looting what they could not understand.
And there came an American officer
Colonel Coolidge,
later General Coolidge,
Norwich University, Class of 1863
He walked into that palace and he took it.
He thought he had stolen a trophy.
He thought he had taken a prize.
He carried it across the sea,
back to Vermont,
back to safety,
back to the hands of curators who now speak of it
like it was only iron and silk.

But look closely.
The collar is still dark with blood.
Tests say it might not even be Japanese blood at all.
They whisper it could be African.
An error, they call it.
But tell me,
how could it be an error
when I still remember the dark-skinned soldier,
kneeling in the mud,
bleeding out under the banner of Miyoshi,
his life spent because I demanded victory?

You call it an artifact.
I call it grave.
And graves never stay quiet.

You polish the glass,
you label the placard,
you teach students about the Sengoku Jidai,
about Portuguese muskets,
about shifting alliances,
about chaos that birthed a nation.
But what you do not teach,
what you do not see,
is that this armor remembers.
It creaks when no one touches it.
It whispers when the hall is empty.
The blood grows darker when you turn away.

And me?
I am the voice that will not leave it.
I am the general who clothed a man in death,
who sent him to die so I could rise,
who watched his blood become my throne.
You think this is history?
It is a confession.
It is politics written in gore.
It is the cost of power carved into silk and steel.

So next time you walk past the glass,
stop.
Look.
Listen.
Hear the musket crack.
Smell the blood on iron.
See the soldier who was not meant to live,
see the general who made it so,
see the empire that built itself on sacrifice.

And know this:
you cannot silence a grave with glass,
and you cannot bury guilt with time.

The curators call it an artifact.

I call it mine.
And it will outlive us all.

It was dawn when the young samurai awoke. In the low light, he forced himself out of his bed. The air was damp and heavy. As he walked across the room, he could hear the groaning of the palace walls, gunshots, along with the shouting of men. Smoke made its way through his windows as the palace seemed to shake. He knew it was time. The room was dim, except for the half-burned lantern flickering in the corner, casting long shadows across the armor waiting for him.

His armor lay before him, waiting in silence. Through the noise and ruckus outside, the armor seemed to bring the young samurai to a place of peace. He paused for a moment, just staring at it, knowing that once he put it on, there was no going back. Though it was quiet and still, the armor was alive with memory. Each iron plate, wrapped in leather with its beautiful stitching, was slightly dulled by memories of previous fights. Each scar on the surface told a story. Scratches and dents where his heart should’ve been pierced, and the brown stains that no amount of washing could recover. This armor has made him strong and untouchable. It made him believe that he could not be broken, that he was more than just flesh. But this morning, as the musket fire grew closer, the thunder of the enemy making their way, and the trembling of the walls, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Still, he reached for the armor, drawing the cuirass around his chest and closing the clamshell with care. The iron was cold to his touch, and he remembered the day he first wore it in battle. The weight of it had nearly crushed him, but now, after years, it felt like a second body. Both a shield and a burden. The hinge gave a hollow thud. Leather straps were fastened and tightened. He adjusted the beautiful silk collar around his neck. Next, he lifted his kabuto, the helmet, and set it gently on his head. It smelled faintly of sweat and felt heavy on his head. Next were the shoulder guards and armored sleeves, followed by his kurazuri, his skirt made up of iron, leather, and wool. As he stood, the full weight of armor settled. Although heavy, it was familiar. Almost comforting. For just a moment, he looked at himself. He bore the crest of his clan on his shoulder straps. It was chipped and a tad faded, but it was still clear. He wondered if it would be the last time it was carried into battle.

He took a deep breath and stepped through the door. Outside was pure chaos. The courtyard was no longer a familiar place for practice drills. It was now a battlefield. Samurai ran past him. The air was thick and damp with the smell of gunfire and burning, making his eyes sting and his throat dry. Smoke curled up towards the clouds. His armor plates swung with each step, clanging ever so slightly. For a moment, he froze. Fear began to spread through him until the weight of his armor reminded him to step forward. It gave him strength and courage to step into the scene before him.

As he walked farther into the field of battle, the musket fire seemed closer now, sharper and louder. He realized for a slight moment that the enemy was too many. He suddenly felt the weight of the armor like never before, but with confidence he held tighter to his weapon. The armor would carry him through it like it always had, wouldn’t it?

The noise was deafening around him. Musket cracks, swords clashing, and the screams of men and horses were all he heard. He swung his weapon with each strike, but the enemy was too many. A musket ball suddenly slammed into his side. Pain started to spread, and he felt his strength weakening, but the armor kept him upright. He dodged the swing of a blade, having it just scrape the side of his shoulder. He watched the sparks as they bounced off the iron plate. The force shook him, but the armor still held. For a moment, he remembered a battle not long ago where the armor had saved him from a swing that should have ended his life. The memory gave him a spark of courage, but it vanished as quickly as it had come. A blade came suddenly from behind, striking the back of his head. He stumbled as he felt the warmth run off his neck and into his silk collar, soaking it red. The armor, familiar yet heavy, held him for a bit longer. But he knew it wouldn’t be for long. He raised his weapon one last time, swinging it almost aimlessly at whoever came near, until the world tilted. He suddenly fell to his knees, unable to hold himself and the armor up. He knew it was all coming to an end. He silently thanked the armor for carrying him through every battle.

The battlefield fell silent around him. Smoked curled overhead as the armor lay on his still body. Dented and scarred, blood soaking his beautiful silk collar. It had done its job, carrying him through until the end. Even in death, it would remain a witness to the young samurai who had worn it. The armor would last for centuries, long after the clash of swords and the thunder of muskets. Time would dull its colors, but the scars would remain. Generations later, someone might lift the cuirass and wonder about the man who wore it. Never knowing his name but feeling the weight of the life it had had.  To the young samurai, it had been more than just protection. It had been his strength, courage, and companion. As the smoke continued to drift above the field, the armor remained silent and waiting, just as it had that morning for the one who would never rise again.

References

Bedrosov, B. (n.d.). The evolution of Japanese armour. myArmoury.com. http://myarmoury.com/feature_jpn_armour.html