Chapter Text
Hourousha thought that the situation couldn't get worse. Being stranded in the past was a new low, even for him.
And yet, the world just had to get the last laugh.
As soon as he saw that damned face, he stood up, stiff as a board, from the rock he had been using as a seat while Niwa, Katsuragi and Miyazaki tried to cheer him up and think of other ways to fix their time-travel issue.
For a moment, he felt cold.
And then, he felt as if a wildfire had ignited in his chest, as if he was suddenly the Irminsul that had burned, as if–
He took a step forward, eyes locked on the man now conversing calmly with Nagamasa, looking up at Tatarasuna’s facilities with sharp and interested eyes that hid a coldness not easily noticed.
Oh, how easy it would be to rush to him and cave his skull in, tear him apart limb by limb, kick his ribs, snap his spine in two, three, four–
He, Hourousha, Wanderer, Scaramouche, Kunikuzushi, Kabukimono… walked away before he did something foolish.
Anemo stirred around him, restless and agitated like himself. He closed his fists so tightly he wondered what would have happened if he was made from flesh and bone. Would they have snapped (like they had done in the past under his hands)? Would he have bled (like he had done–)?
He tried to breathe, for once. The sea breeze hit his face, brushed his hair and made the bells tied to his kasa chime lightly, but none of that managed to quench the fire in his chest, right where a heart would be.
He had hoped, he had relaxed, he had forgotten that time didn’t stop for anyone, he had forgotten that his peaceful little home – his first – would veer off towards tragedy at some point.
He had never asked for the exact date.
He added that to his long list of regrets.
By the time Niwa appeared at the beach, the sun was already climbing down the sky and painting the clouds in pastel colors. Hourousha had lost track of time, too busy trying to get a hold of himself before he did something… stupid.
(Would going against fate be stupid? He had already done so before, would this time work? He had a chance, a hands-on chance, he could tear this Dottore apart and–
But it wouldn’t work, would it?
But what if?)
“Okay, what’s wrong?” asked Niwa, direct and very clearly worried. He kept watching Hourousha like how he had looked at him that first night, when he had worried about Hourousha up and leaving with no explanation.
Hourousha opened his mouth, but a laugh bubbled up instead – bitter, cold, humorless, maybe a bit unhinged.
Niwa’s frown deepened, then, before he looked back and waved at someone to leave.
Hourousha couldn’t bring himself to care. Instead, he sunk his face in his hands – which were trembling, what a nuisance – and wondered why he couldn’t suffocate himself. Maybe it would make his head shut up for once. He already felt like he was half-way there, anyway, with his chest tingling uncomfortably and a sharp pain at his back.
… He was breathing a bit too fast, actually.
A hand fell on his shoulder and he almost shrugged it off, snapped and twisted the arm it was attached to until he could hear the crack of bone, but then he wondered if it was Nahida’s hand– but no, it was far too big for it to be hers.
She was always accompanied by the smell of freshly-cut grass, incense, the smell of old books.
This person smelled like steel, ash and cheap tea. The hand clutched his shoulder, but the grip wasn’t painful. It was reassuring. It was–
When he finally came to, Niwa was sitting next to him, not close for their bodies to touch, but close enough for him to place a hand on Hourousha’s shoulder and just– be there. The sky was getting darker, the waves crashed against the shore, the birds chirped as they prepared to go back home.
It felt like any other day, but it wasn’t.
Niwa didn’t move his hand away.
Hourousha felt grateful.
“So, I’m guessing that man is bad news?” asked Niwa, voice carefully blank. When Hourousha finally straightened out from his hunch, Niwa moved his hand from his shoulder to his back – a light presence, not-quite-a-touch, but there.
“That’s an understatement,” he grumbled, and he wasn’t really surprised when his voice sounded rough.
And yet, he didn’t say any more.
What could he even do?
The crossroads in front of him wasn’t even real, anyway. The illusion of choice, the false pretense and hope that he could make a difference, finally, after his last attempt failed. Both roads led to the same outcome, both paths led to a burning Tatarasuna, both roads led to his family–
He bit his lip and glared at the sea, at the sand, at the cliffs, at the fake sky over their heads, at the gods who would definitely laugh and laugh at his expense.
He would have to abandon his family to their Fate. Again.
He stood up, legs a bit numb from staying in the same position for probably hours, and walked off, shoulders dropped and– defeated.
Niwa didn’t follow him.
Somehow, that only cut into his chest even deeper because, would you look at that? That was how it all would end.
—
He didn’t approach Tatarasuna anymore. Not the next day, nor the next.
He didn’t visit Niwa and Haruka’s home, not when the weight of it would fall on top of him and bury him under the weight of its demise.
He didn’t speak with anyone, not when looking at them would only make him see ghosts.
Instead, he orbited around the island, sometimes even wandered off to Yashiori, and came close to Watatsumi.
Maybe it was time to throw caution to the wind, explain the future to the people of Tatarasuna, kill “Escher” in cold blood and fuck off to Sumeru so he could get Nahida’s opinion on the situation and–
And what? Change the future?
It was impossible.
Maybe a nail would drop down from the sky on top of him before he could finish explaining. Maybe he would die out at sea before he could get anywhere. Maybe – and this was the most terrifying possibility – his warnings and explanations would end in nothing, would bring about the same outcome, would mean the same tragedy… maybe even worse.
Kabukimono found him sitting on top of a cliff, paralysed with the knowledge that, no matter what he did, the future would still come to pass and his futile rebellion and hope would be reduced to cold ashes and blood.
His younger self sat down next to him, quiet and listless. Hourousha didn’t even look at him – he didn’t think he could.
“Talk to me,” mumbled Kabukimono, voice a mere whisper that could have been carried by the wind.
Hourousha could ignore it. Hourousha could explain everything.
He could make an extensive concept map with all the key moments. He could throw himself off the cliff.
He could…
“That man, Escher, will destroy our home,” he said, and it sounded emotionless, but only at a first glance, because he could feel blood and tears fall down his lips, he could feel his chest tearing wide open, he could feel the grass between his fingers and the air that couldn’t escape his lungs. “There’s nothing we can do.”
There’s nothing I can do.
Kabukimono hugged his legs and dropped his chin on his knees.
“Nothing?” he asked, voice tight with something Hourousha couldn’t name.
“Nothing,” and that simple word tore his nonexistent heart apart.
“So… our home…” mumbled Kabukimono, and his voice was carried off with the wind, just like how he would drift away after everything was over.
Hourousha didn’t answer.
“But you’re not… alone, now, right?” asked Kabukimono, and there was a fickle spark of hope in his words, maybe an innocent belief that everything would be okay in the end – Hourousha was literally living proof of that.
Was he? Living proof? He was merely a ghost of what he once was, and it was clear as day when he stood next to his younger self. He was just–
Oh, Nahida would hate that train of thought.
She would hit his arm – lightly, because she was far too soft for her own good – and she would frown at him, just like how a teacher would look at their students when they were disappointed. She would then cross her arms and tell him that he was still alive, wasn’t he? They were having a conversation, after all. And then, maybe, they would get into a philosophical debate about the borders and limits of life and death, especially when souls and memories existed in the Ley Lines even after the end. And…
He took a deep breath and he tasted the sea.
“No,” he whispered, and his gaze got lost in the horizon, in the direction where he knew… “No, I’m not.”
And that – maybe – lifted a weight off his shoulders.
—
He had to try, though.
The very next day, so early that the sun hadn’t even peeked out from the horizon, Hourousha returned to Niwa’s house and knocked on the door. He realized too late that it was, technically, still the middle of the night and that he might have disturbed the very few hours of sleep they had managed to get, but before he could turn around and beat himself up over it, the door opened and Niwa blinked wearily at him.
Hourousha had to gulp before meeting his eyes.
“We need to talk,” he said, and the slight shakiness to his voice probably snapped Niwa out of his half-asleep state.
Niwa blinked, rubbed his eyes and stepped out of his home, hair and clothes a mess, with drool sticking to his shoulder from little Touji.
“Lead the way,” he said, closing the door silently behind him.
Hourousha led them to the beach, to the Thunder Sakura that now stood motionless and silent, to the beach where everything began. Maybe it was nostalgia, maybe it was a homage to a past that should have stayed in the past, maybe it was simply that the waves calmed Hourousha down.
He had to try.
He would always try.
“Don’t trust Escher,” he said, rushed and a bit desperate, maybe. There was a knot in his throat, but he didn’t know if it was fear or anger. Maybe there was no difference, in the end.
“The Fontainian researcher?” asked Niwa, but he definitely knew who Hourousha meant. His gaze was cautious and thoughtful – he was giving Hourousha’s words the weight they deserved, but would it be enough?
“Yes. He doesn’t have Tatarasuna’s best interests in mind,” he said, and bit back all that he had to leave unsaid. What would happen and how, its consequences, the blood that would be spilt.
For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to say it outloud. Would it help? Would a step-by-step guide on how to fix things actually help, or would it make the world careen into a worse tragedy, more chaos and pain?
Last time, he had tried to change the past and the World Tree had laughed in his face while its avatar looked on with empathy and quiet understanding.
This time, his hands shook as Niwa frowned, eyes moving back to the Forge where Nagamasa would surely be talking with said Fontainian researcher. What would he – they – do now? Niwa had been suspicious of the researcher last time too, but had it been too late? What–?
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” said Niwa, in the end, and Hourousha bit his lip with a grimace. He turned around, looking away, to the sea and what laid beyond. He clenched his fists, felt his joints crack.
“I don’t know if that’s enough,” he said, a bit strangled.
“Will sending him away work, then?”
“... I don’t know. Maybe.” He thought back to the reason why Dottore had insisted on coming in the first place, his interested gaze that never failed to make Hourousha feel uncomfortable in his own skin. “... Probably not.”
“Then that’s as much as we can do for now,” said Niwa with a hopeless smile.
That sent a twist of pain through Hourousha’s chest. Because it was true, wasn’t it? No matter what they did, other than killing the researcher outright – maybe over and over again, if that was what it took – he would return. He would always return, because he was curious and interested and far too ambitious for his own good and he would see the promise of a grand experiment and something to gain and he would take and take and take and leave nothing but ashes behind.
Hourousha hated it.
Niwa’s hand appeared on his shoulder and it was only then that Hourousha noticed just how tightly he had been clenching his jaw. His teeth ached.
“We’ll be fine,” tried Niwa, but it felt empty and dooming.
They wouldn’t, Hourousha knew. They had a few months until Tatarasuna was turned into a smoke-filled island, until the Mikage Furnace turned into a catastrophe, until blades were turned against each other and responsibility had to be taken and–
Niwa hugged him and Hourousha wound his arms around him, clutching at his clothes. It reminded him of a time long past, a time he had been living for the better part of almost a month.
And what a month it had been, right? He had lived with ghosts, a broken mirror and an island that had been torn apart countless times.
This story was a discarded pile of torn pages, and yet, there he was, a hopeless fool still trying to save them, no matter how many times he failed.
“You’re okay now, aren’t you?” mumbled Niwa, a bit choked up with what could only be tears. “In your future. You’re okay. You’re safe and you’re mighty strong and…”
“You know that’s not–” he choked up, anger and frustration and sadness all mixing into one big swirl of emotion that clogged his throat and pressed at his chest.
“You’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.” Niwa placed both hands on Hourousha’s shoulders and pulled away, eyes red-rimmed, tears streaking down his face, and his stupid, stupid smile and shining eyes. “And that’s enough.”
“It’s not,” growled Hourousha, why couldn’t Niwa understand that? Self-sacrificing and accepting asshole–
“It is,” insisted Niwa, and Hourousha saw it coming, the aggravating talk about inherited will and passed down knowledge and… “You’ll continue living and you’ll carry with you all that we taught you, all that we were. That’s enough, Kabukimono. You’ll be eternal.”
And oh, Niwa probably knew enough to piece his true origins together by now and he definitely said that last part for a reason, but Hourousha flinched slightly, the knife that had remained stabbed into his nonexisting heart for centuries – ever since she deemed him not eternal enough – twisting painfully once again.
“You will just… accept it?” he asked, looking at Niwa as if he was crazy, because he was. He would give up his life, a chance, as small as it probably was, because–
“The future you represent doesn’t seem so bad, does it?” said Niwa, eyes terribly knowing and… oh.
“You absolute fool,” he snapped, but his eyes were teary for the first time in centuries and he grabbed Niwa’s collar with a hand and glared at his eyes, his freckled face, his messy hair, his stupid, stupid smile. “You idiot, you’d give up just because I’ll get out of this alive?”
“I will not risk it, Kabukimono,” said Niwa, terribly serious but kind, still kind, and soft-hearted. “You’ll survive whatever happens. I will not risk that just for a slight chance that might not even come to pass.”
And somehow, that simple answer tore open Hourousha’s – Kabukimono, Kunikuzuchi, Scaramouche’s – chest.
His breath stuttered and he let go of Niwa to curl slightly around himself, hands shaking.
He couldn’t understand– no, the terrible thing was that he could. And he hated it. He hated it so much it hurt, it made him want to reach out to the powers-that-be and tear apart the veil they liked so much, crush the stars they had carefully placed in the sky and that would foretell the doomfall of the people he loved.
But he wasn't powerful enough, so all he could do was really– grieve. Again. And again. And he would grieve as many times as necessary, because the alternative was living a lie or becoming unable to feel and he couldn’t have that. Not again.
Something sparked behind him, an elemental signature so familiar and soft it soothed something in his soul – as always. He turned around, but he already knew what he would see.
The Thunder Sakura was alight, but not with the striking color of Electro. Soft Dendro light lit up their faces, like a soft embrace, a guiding light.
Nahida always knew the perfect moment to make herself known.
“Wanderer, are you there?” came her voice, and even though she seemed perfectly composed, Hourousha could still hear the very real worry hiding in her tone.
He hesitated for a moment, but Niwa’s presence was a balm as much as it was a raging fire by his side. He straightened out, felt Niwa’s soft gaze on him and took a step forward.
“I am, Nahida,” he called back, and would you look at that, he almost sounded like he hadn’t had various breakdowns one after the other for days. “How did you find me?”
“We’ll talk about that later,” she said, and oh, there was fear and worry, but also strain. “I don’t have much time. You’ll have to hurry, I can’t–”
Hourousha… found himself frozen, stuck to the ground. His feet wouldn’t move. Even now, it seemed like his stubbornness was stronger than his haste to return to his time.
But could he really return like this? Now? When his home was about to–?
Niwa pushed him forward and Hourousha stumbled. He turned his head back to glare at him, but the snappy insult died on his tongue as soon as he saw Niwa’s face. He was smiling, the idiot. His eyes were overflowing with tears, but he looked hopeful and satisfied and proud and–
Hourousha bit his lip so hard it bled.
“Go back to your home, Kabukimono,” said Niwa.
Yet another knife to the chest. Did he actually have a heart to stab, he wondered. The pain he felt was real enough.
“I…” he tried, but words failed him again and was he a coward? He couldn’t–
(“I love you. I missed you. I will always miss you. I’m sorry.”)
“I know,” said Niwa, and he probably did, right? He and Katsuragi had always been perfectly capable of reading him like a book.
A shadow moved behind Niwa and Hourousha’s resolve wavered once more when he saw Katsuragi smile at him, soft and just as proud as Niwa, before he crouched into a Rei pose – a show of respect between samurai.
Words wouldn’t come to him, but Hourousha couldn’t just ignore something like that. So, hands clenched tight and nonexistent heart bleeding all over, he bowed deep – saikeirei, the most heartfelt show of respect and gratitude he could show them, other than taking his core out of his own chest and handing it to them.
After that, he turned around. He didn’t look at Niwa or Katsuragi or the other people that were stumbling to the beach.
He couldn’t.
He heard sniffles, he heard muffled sobs, he heard the sound of a fate sealed and doomed.
And he walked forward into gentle Dendro that embraced him like something precious, careful and soft like flowers in a dream.
And he didn’t look back.
—
The next time he opened his eyes, he was back in front of the newly operational Aaru.
Nahida looked tired and worried, small hands hovering over him, not sure if he would be open to touch, obviously fretting. He could see the golden and white blurs that could only be the Traveler and their annoying companion. He could…
He closed his eyes and breathed in deep.
Grief was something he was terribly familiar with. He was used to it. Even now, with his chest open and bleeding – only metaphorically, Nahida would be much more panicked otherwise – he knew that it would pass. It always did. It would fade like writing on an ancient book, like a sun-kissed painting, until it turned into a distant ache.
“Are you okay?” asked Nahida, wringing her hands in worry.
She was probably asking about his condition in a physical and psychological sense. She probably knew where and when he had been.
He took a deep breath again, felt the ground under him. He smelled the dry and closed air, the rock and the sand.
“Surprisingly… I think I am,” he said, soft and a bit too raw, but it was okay. It was Nahida, after all.
Nahida looked him right in the eye, searching, sharp.
And then she smiled, soft and relieved and offered him a hand to help him up.
“Welcome home,” she said, grin wide and eyes shining with a lightness she didn’t usually show.
Wanderer took her hand.