What Memory Remains

A still confused Zenapharr walked about the streets of Mooreville, stopping occasionally to peer into the many shops that lined the town. Many people seemed to eye him as they passed, and he was sure they did not see elves very often. There were bits of pieces that he picked up, but everything was just so….fuzzy.

“Zenapharr, Zenapharr Meridian?” The man had told him earlier when he explained that he didn’t know who he was. As they tried to explain what happened to him, he had a flash of memory involving a bright fire. The memory was so intense he fled, not stopping until he came upon this town. Everything was so strange, like a distant memory.

According to what he was told, he was some sort of gifted assassin who was captured by the government. There was little girl named Alice involved…and he seemed to see something in his mind of blonde hair and felt a sense of peace but…everything was just so hazy he couldn’t quite put the pieces together. He knew what they said about him being gifted was true. His speed was uncanny and he could feel an incredible strength and keen senses about him.

As he passed by a weapons store, something in the window stopped him in his tracks. There was one sword that caught his attention. It had a long hilt, and a curved blade that had such an elegance and beauty that he could scarce look away. As he looked through the glass at the beautifully crafted sword, he got a nice long look at himself for the first time.

There were remnants of ash and dirt on his face, which still did not take away the attention from his spiky blue hair. His eyes were bright and soulful, but he sensed a ferocity and duality beneath them. Without realizing he was doing so, his reflection showed his hands cradling the amber necklace that hung right at his chestbone. The brown swirling colors were very soothing and nostalgiac and it hurt his head to think about it.

Curious about the sword, he stepped inside where he was greeted by an older gentlemen.

“Hello there, stranger. Anything I can help you with?” His voice was hoarse but accepting and warm.

“Well…” Zenapharr lingered as he approached the curved sword. “I’m very intrigued by this sword. Anything you can tell me about this?” He signified the ornately designed weapon.

“Ahh, the katana. This is a weapon with Japanese roots. The blade is curved due to a complex mixture of specific metals and worked on tirelessly to achieve its superior quality. They were specifically designed to cut off heads.”

“Really? Fascinating….”

“Yes, indeed! There is a lot of history with katanas. Their blade is extremely sharp and effective. Many argue that is the best form of sword out there. It requires special training to use, as its unique shape requires a different technique than other swords.”

“May I hold it?”

There was a hunger growing the more he examined the blade.

“Yes, of course!”

The older gentlemen took the blade off its stand and gently handed it to Zenapharr. Upon gripping its hilt, he felt a surge of wholeness rip through him. Something about holding it felt very….right.

He turned it over and ran his fingers along the blade, and winced slightly as the blade sliced his finger.

“Ohh, be careful there, stranger!”

“It’s alright.” For some reason, he stared at his cut. There was something about the redness of his blood that fascinated him. The man’s uncomfortable look made him keep talking to distract from the oddness.

“You weren’t jibing about the sharpness…its immaculate.”

Suddenly, flashes of memory pelted his mind. The combination of holding the sword and the red dot of blood on his finger….it soon became too much. It was so sudden and intense he dropped the sword and fell to his knees while clutching his head.

“Whoa there, mister! You alright? You didn’t cut yourself that bad did ya?”

A flurry of moments raced through his head.

He stood before a grave with a sword poised above his head, ready to plunge it into himself.

A young Zenapharr wept at his mother’s bed.

Blood covered his hands as he looked down at a young boy.

“You need a doctor, sir?” The old man knelt beside him in concern.

“I just….need a second.”

A needle was inserted into his arm, the red liquid draining from the syringe into him.

He watched in horror as he saw his sword was plunged into a boy.

A young girl with blonde hair looked at him in fright, then he saw a man staring down at him with a cruel stare.

Flames surrounded his body as he waved for the girl to leave.

An explosion of fire surrounded and blinded him.

“Alice! Krane….”

“Who?”

“I’m…..I’m going to need this sword.” Zenapharr took the sword from the ground and plucked the sheath from the wall.

“Hey, you can’t just…”

“Do you remember the man that was captured by NOSRAD for being a serial killer?” He leaned in this comment in a whisper.

“Yes, of course. It was all over the…”

The look in the swordsman’s eyes filled in the rest of the blanks for the shop owner.

“Oh….are you here to…..?”

“No, I’m not going to kill you.”

“Did you really ….kill all those people?”

“Unfortunately….I did.”

“Why are you here? Hiding out?”

“No. The facility was destroyed. I’m…I’m attempting to redeem myself. NOSRAD has taken everything from me. And now they might try to kill the last two remaining people who actually matter to me. I want to make things right.”

The elderly man looked deep into his eyes, seeming to search his soul. Realization seeped into the man’s face.

“You mean it, don’t you? You really want to take them down, huh?”

“With every fiber of my being.”

“I’ll tell you what. I can do you one better. Wait here just a second.”

Zenapharr felt wary for a moment, as if the man might warn someone. But soon, he came back with a sheath that put his current one to shame.

“Now this….is something I’ve had for a very long time. It was passed down to me from my father.”

He unsheathed the katana, and the beauty of it was uncanny. Ancient runes were carved into the hilt, and there were subtle markings on the blade as well. With his memory now restored, Zenapharr could easily say this was the most wondrous katana he had ever seen. Something bright within him lit up and he couldn’t wait to hold the sword.

“And this was given to him by his father, and so on. It’s impeccable in every way to any katana I’ve experienced. And I’ve seen a lot of swords in my day. Are you familiar with the legend of the Masamune and the Murasame?”

“Of course.”

“Not surprising. It can’t be confirmed, but I think this sword could very well be the Masamune. At least the people in my family believe its very possible that it is.”

“So, why would you give me this to me, then? This is your most precious heirloom. I can’t accept this.”

“You must. It’s one of the reasons we’ve kept it. We believe at the time of great crisis that the right wielder may use the Masamune for justice. The legend specifically states the Masamune’s great attribute is to differentiate that which must be killed. I believe this may help guide you on your quest.”

“Even then…why me and why now?”

“Well, let’s just say that I have my reasons for hating NOSRAD.” A great sadness loomed in the man’s earnest eyes.

“You’ve lost someone haven’t you?”

“I…I used to have a granddaughter. I loved her very much , as grandparents should. Then they said they wanted to do a test on her. Would help cure her eyesight. You see, my granddaughter was blind. She never made it back alive.” He began to choke on his words. “But there was always something fishy about the whole thing. That director…Krane was his name. I’ll never forget that charlatan grin of his. His words were so convincing about what happened, but I saw through his ploy.”

“I’m sorry….”

“I won’t be anymore. I’ve shed enough tears.”

The owner handed the sword to Zenapharr, who graciously took it and sheathed it on his belt.

“Make this….Krane man sorry. I have a feeling he’s hurt many others.”

“He has. I’m going to see to it that he pays dearly. I will make sure to plunge it through is cold heart.”

“You do that. And when the life begins to leave his eyes tell him Hanzou Anzari sends his regards for what he’s done I need to be alone now. Make haste, and be sure that bastard pays for what he did.”

“It will be my honor to fulfill your request.”

“Thank you.”

Armed and newly fulfilled with a sense of purpose, Zenapharr exited the store and began his trek to Prague. Along the way, he didn’t fully understand why, but he felt an overwhelming sense of dread and worry that Alice was going to soon need him.

* * *

In the forest of Lanier, Alice slept soundly within the confines of the cable car. Sade however, did not. Alice’s question of his scar brought many things back, things of which he tried his hardest to forget. As much as he tried to block it out, the sound of his mother’s screams filled his ears of his mind. This was vastly contrasted to the soft patter of his boots as he paced back and forth inside the train car. The moonlight danced to and fro with his movements. It seemed to take forever for him to finally relax enough to fall prey to slumber himself.

Yet, not long after his snoozing was he awoken by a loud rumble and he found that it was raining outside. He saw that it had only been an hour since he’d fallen asleep.

“Odd,” he thought to himself. “There were no clouds at all not long ago.”

“Did ya hear that thunder?” The driver whispered to him.

“Sure did.”

“Everything alright with you guys?”

“Yes. I think we’ll be fine. Just a bit restless.”

Sade waited, listening for any further sounds of thunder, but found none. Tired, he shrugged it off and allowed the lullaby of the rain to aid him back to his sleep.

Unbeknownst to him, large wet footsteps approached the train car. Within moments, a large figure blocked the moonlight, casting a long dark shadow upon the sleeping Sade and Alice….