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When Tanjiro blearily blinks open his eyes and the room is dark and it’s snowing outside, he thinks the cold must have roused him. In his sleep filled mind he juggles the options of either rekindling the hearth or piling more blankets onto his mother and siblings. Holding back a yawn, (he wouldn’t want to wake anyone), Tanjiro opts for the second.
It’s only when he begins to slip from his blankets that the boy hears a knock on the door. Logically, he probably imagined it—after all, why would someone be knocking on their door this late at night? Unless….Nezuko? It wouldn’t be unreasonable for his little sister to have decided to push herself and travel up the mountain regardless of storm or dark. Perhaps, more than anything, it’s the thought that Nezuko might be cold and numb outside their door that motivates Tanjiro to quietly rush out of his family’s sleeping room and to their door.
Tanjiro isn’t exactly sure what time it is, but he knows it’s late. The storm seems to have somewhat died down by now—reduced to a harsh rumble outside their walls. In a way, it almost seems to quiet. The slight thumping of his feet on their floor is a pain to his ears.
He nearly trips on his way. The moonlight doesn’t penetrate the walls of their house, thus his only light in the barely-there glow of the fire that had long since dwindled to a pit of low burning flames and orange-black coals. Its light provides little in the way of guidance—dancing low and quiet on the walls, reflecting off metal and pottery.
Tanjiro fumbles to open the door. The first thing he feels is the cold. It bombards him and easily penetrates past the layers of his clothes. Involuntarily, Tanjiro shivers. The second thing he feels, however, is confusion. There is no Nezuko outside the door. Instead, all that greets him is a looming figure.
Blocking out the moon and casting Tanjiro in shadow is a stranger. He’s all wrapped in black and draped in the silver. His skin is white as the snow that surrounds him—somewhere, in the back of his mind, Tanjiro thinks; ‘Corpse.’ But the stranger isn’t a corpse. His eyes move, bloody and red and gleaming unnaturally bright in the faint flame light.
Skin prickling with a feeling Tanjiro can’t quite describe, he speaks. “Hello?” He asks, tentatively, carefully, “What may I do for you?” Why are you here?
There’s a moment and the wind whistles and the storm’s rumbling comes clearer and sharper. The stranger speaks, eventually, “I was passing through, unfortunately this storm blew over faster than I had thought it would…You wouldn’t mind me staying the night would you?” the stranger’s voice is silky smooth. It flows easily and fluidly like wind in a valley, it spins around Tanjiro like spider thread.
“Of course,” Tanjiro nods, feeling goose bumps cover his skin and a foreign cold run over him. But…this is all merely how Tanjiro feels. There’s no way he could ever abandon a person to this weather based on some vague feeling. “I wouldn’t mind at all…the journey farther to town is far, after all!” He pauses a second, thinks, smiles as invitingly as he can manage—(because Tanjiro isn’t stupid, just kind. He still feels put-off; there’s something in the stranger’s eyes.)
“Thank you,” the stranger says, and there’s nothing Tanjiro can point to, but something feels missing from the statement. As if you had taken the fragrance from a flower—it feels off. Hollow.
“Don’t mind it, it’s my pleasure! Please, come in,” The boy invites, smiling and trying to ignore the feeling underneath his skin. It feels shameful to be thinking such things of what was probably just an innocent traveler.
The stranger nods. Tanjiro needs to jostle himself aside as the man pushes past him—harsh as the winter wind. Blinking, the boy regains his bearings and closes the door. Without the dim moonlight, it’s darker than ever. The stranger is still wrapped in flickering shadows—his lines are blurred into the swamp of darkness. The only clear thing about him is the sharpness of his eyes—red and glittering like a bloody knife.
A waft of something foul enters Tanjiro’s nose. It’s something putrid and rotten—like the smell when you pull a bandage off a wound, or sour milk, or rotten eggs. In a moment, though, it’s gone and the boy is left to wonder if he imagined it.
Stepping forward, Tanjiro tries to piece together a picture of the figure. It’s to no avail—the stranger remains cloaked in darkness and inky black. The boy can only just-barely make out the form of the strangers lips. Uncertainly, Tanjiro says; “Would you like or…perhaps you’d like tea? I can make some.”
The stranger shifts, light shifting and flickering on his form. “Either one,” It’s said dreadfully monotone.
“You…must be cold. I’ll rekindle the hearth and make a pot of tea,” Tanjiro says, looking for any response.
The stranger hums-not-hums—there’s no mirth in the sound.
“Just…wait there,” Tanjiro says, awkwardly. “Please do try and be quiet, though. The children are sleeping in the other room. I don’t want to wake them.”
A ripple in the ink—the stranger nods. “Of course,” he says, crimson eyes gleaming in the dark—it sounds of everything but a promise.
Tanjiro shifts uncomfortably on his feet. All is silent bar the howling wind and racing snow hitting against the walls. Tanjiro shivers, and feels cold and numb and this isn’t the time to be feeling awkward. “I’ll be…tending to fire,” Tanjiro states, glancing towards the waning coals. “I never did catch your name.”
“And neither did I yours,” the stranger says, and it would be humorous if the man’s tone were not as sharp and icy as the blizzard outside.
“Oh!” the boy exclaims, “I’m sorry! My name is Tanjiro, Tanjiro Kamado.”
A moment, a whistle of the wind, a rumble in the horizon and—“Muzan,” the stranger says, eyes gleaming bloody and crimson, “My name is Muzan Kibutsuji.”
There’s that foul scent again—barely-there but strong in its pungency. Like putrid meat or rotting eggs.
“Oh…I see. It’s lovely to meet you! Why were you traveling?” he attempts small talk, tending the fire—layering kindling and carefully assembling the coals.
“I’m…on a trip,” the stranger—Muzan—tells him.
“Oh…where to?” the boy asks, blowing on the fire and finally sparking more of a flame. The fire flares—all orange and red and burning. Tendrils of light dance and flicker on the walls—reflecting on the jars and just barely illuminating the shelves of herbs and pickled vegetables—the smallest thing the boy can see is the smallest outline of his Hanafuda earrings—carefully tucked away on a shelf for the night.
But more importantly, Tanjiro can finally make out a little bit more of the stranger. He’s got black hair—deep and inky and crafted of obsidian—and skin so pale Tanjiro begins to wonder if he’s sick. Although Tanjiro still can’t make out many details, the stranger’s clothes look fine—almost too fine for a mere traveler.
“Here and there,” Muzan states, picking his nails—(‘claws’ Tanjiro involuntarily thinks,)—they’re white and gleaming and flickering orange in the low firelight.
“…” It’s an answer-not-answer. The boy reaches for a pot and a jar of tea leaves, thinking of how to continue the conversation. “Would you like anything to eat..? We have at least a bowl of mushroom soup left from dinner—I can heat it back up.”
“If you’d like,” the man says, looking distinctly disinterested.
Tanjiro is rather unsure of this answer, but opts to do it, “I’ll…I’ll give you a bowl. Please don’t hold back! It’s no trouble.” Because he’s always gone against assuming ill intent.
“Of course,” the stranger purrs-not-purrs—there’s no mirth in the sound.
After that, the silence is too thick. Tanjiro tries, he really does, but the traveler appears entirely disinterested. The boy figures Muzan must be tired and worn out from the journey and eventually stops trying. Instead, he tends the fire and broils the tea and heats a bowl of soup. Two cups one bowl—it only takes a bit of time.
When Tanjiro is finally ready with the meager meal he gestures the stranger to sit beside the fire with him. A moment, the wind blows, Muzan settles beside Tanjiro—all wrapped in black and obscured by shadow.
With the stranger beside him, Tanjiro can smell he odor in full. Underneath the smell of flax and earth and nightshade, there’s a smell of rot. It’s black and moldy and putrid—Tanjiro remembers a time they had lost a jar of milk and after about a month they found it buried in the leaves outside. He had volunteered to open and wash the jar. The smell that had greeted him upon opening was like nothing he’s ever smelt before. It was rancid and strung his nose and it was so unbearably foul. That is that scent that Tanjiro is now reminded of.
“Here,” the boy offers, holding out bowl, pushing over a mug of tea—trying not to breathe through his nose. He attempts to ignore the smell. “I apologize for the wait…”
“It’s nothing,” the other responds, taking the bowl—his fingers lightly brush against Tanjiro’s and they’re so—cold. Muzan’s fingers are freezing, like the blizzard had refused to leave them. They’re icy and pale as a corpse.
The boy’s burgundy eyes fly wide, he snaps back his hand, holding it as if burned. “You’re hands…” he trails off, “are they okay? Have you got frostbite…?”
“Oh, no,” the stranger chuckles-not-chuckles—there’s no mirth in the sound. It sounds empty, hollow, like a courtesy or an imitation. “My hands have always been a little cold.”
“I…see…” And the flames dance a puppet show of shadows on the walls. An axe glares silver and sharp against the wall and his Hanafuda earrings are just-barely visible up on their shelf and Tanjiro reminds himself that he’s the eldest brother and the man of the family—he can fend off anything should it come.
Muzan hardly touches the food, only takes a single sip of the tea.
Tanjiro tilts his head, “Does it taste bad…?”
“It’s not that,” the stranger says, voice smooth. It’s a non-answer. “Do I smell terrible? You’ve been covering your nose ever since I sat down.” It reads like a threat—
The boy shakes his head, nods, shakes his head again, notices a look of irritation flash across the stranger’s face so briefly that Tanjiro is sure he imagined it. “N-Not exactly—” he doesn’t know why he stuttered, there’s nothing to be afraid of—but there’s something in the stranger’s bloody eyes—“I just…Did you perhaps get caught in some terrible accident? There’s a smell of blood and flesh…are you hurt?”
There’s an element of fabrication to the smile Muzan gives him—something fake and something rotten. The stranger’s smile is thin as sheet ice, “I’m perfectly fine. Don’t worry your little self.”
The flames play puppeteer with the shadows on the wall and the axe gleams sharp and silver and only a step away. Tanjiro feels something crawl underneath his skin. Muzan’s answer was far from clear. “You are hurt, then?”
The traveler quirks his head, “If you’d like to think so.” And Muzan’s teeth gleam white and sharp in the firelight.
Tanjiro is only thirteen but he thinks maybe he could survive in a fight—if it were to ever break out. He’s good with an axe. It’ll all be okay, he thinks. The rest of his family is deep in sleep in the other room and they’re hours from town and there’s a blizzard outside the house but it’ll be fine. He’s the man of the family—the eldest brother. He can handle anything.
…He’s probably just overthinking things.
Still, he must get clarity on what the stranger means, and so, he begins; “Um…What do you really mea—”
And the stranger’s eyes flare bright and red and bloody crimson—dancing with flames in the firelight. Suddenly, those aren’t human eyes. They’re slit eyes, they’re the eyes of a snow leopard or a snake. They’re the eyes of a demon. “Where did you get those?” Muzan asks, deadly cold and, for the first time, devoid of all pretenses.
Tanjiro’s first thought is; ‘predator.’ His limbs are frozen, he has the dull instinct to grab the axe but he doesn’t know if he could if he even tried. His mind is scrambled—a blend of terror and fear and realization and trying to figure out what to do because he’s the eldest brother he should know what to do. No, no, the stranger asked him something. What was the question? He needs to grab the axe he needs to grab the axe—
“What?” He manages, voice sounding croaky.
The stranger sighs, it sounds irritated and impatient. He points a finger—claw. “The Hanafuda earrings on the shelf,” Muzan states, eyes bloody red and flaring. “Where did you get them? Don’t make me repeat myself again.”
Right, the earrings—his right of passage. His family’s precious keepsake. “I got them from my father…and he from his own father.” Tanjiro answers voice shaky with fear.
“Hnn,” Muzan hums-not-hums—there’s no mirth in the sound. The man—the demon—moves his eyes from Tanjiro in complete disinterest, instead focusing on the earrings.
This is his chance, move, move! He needs to move! Stiff and shaky from fear, Tanjiro goes against his every instinct and dashes. He leaps for the axe. It’s been sharpened recently it should be able to deal with anything—the boy knows how to use an axe. It’ll be okay, he’s the eldest brother. He can do this—he has to do this.
The axe slides into his grip fluidly. Tanjiro snaps around, lunges—hesitates. Pushes on. Swings, and—
—and there’s a hand around his neck.
Muzan’s hand is icy and cold, like the grip of winter or the hand of death. The demon’s eyes slide onto him, red and bloody and Tanjiro thinks this was a terrible idea. The look in the demon’s eyes has sharply shifted from disinterest and apathy to wrath. Tanjiro can’t breathe, he’s suffocating’ the grip around his neck it too tight, he can’t breathe.
“Did you think you could wound me?” The demon demands, mocking, eyes flaring, “You’re nothing. You’re below me; an ant to be crushed underfoot. I could snuff out your life in an instant.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tanjiro can see his littlest brother peeking out from the doorway. A silent scream—a sob.
Tanjiro tries to comprehend the words being spoken to him. He need to protect his family, oh god his family. Muzan drops him, the boy hits the floor hard—the wind knocked out of him. He gasps for breath, chokes over his words, “Please don’t kill them please don’t kill them—kill me but don’t kill them!”
“Oh,” Muzan says, eyes sliding over to the doorway. “You had a family, I had forgotten.” And the demon smiles-not-smiles—there’s no mirth in the movement. His teeth gleam white and sharp and ominous in the firelight and Tanjiro registers a scream. All his siblings are waking; they’re clustering around his mother’s legs.
“Run!” He screams, tears clustering his vision, voice hoarse.
He’s can’t—the axe—he needs to try again. It doesn’t matter if he dies, he needs to save them. He’s the eldest brother, they’re his family. He’s too slow, far too slow. The demon moves too fast—all cloaked in back and wrapped in shadows. There’s bloody crimson on the floor and by the time Tanjiro has the axe in his hands an eyeball has rolled by his feet and oh god.
“Please,” he begs, and he isn’t sure who he’s begging to.
When Tanjiro blinks the tears from his eyes, it’s all over. They’re all dead, entails littering the floor, there’s blood in the fire—the scent of burning flesh. The boy doesn’t have anything left to protect.
Maybe it’s revenge or maybe its instinct or maybe it’s rage but Tanjiro tries again. Again, there’s a grip around his throat. The boy is lost to his misery. It’s such a shock to see his whole life ripped away in one fell swoop right in front of him like this.
“Poor thing,” the demon croons, mocking in his painted pity, “Do you wish to kill me? Do you truly think you can even scratch me? Even if you were a demon you would never be able to do that.”
Muzan grins-not-grins—there’s no mirth in the movement. It reads as a cheap, sadistic, bloody imitation.
“Would turning you be the greatest insult to your bloodline?” The demon muses, rhetorical—Tanjiro is running out of oxygen. He wonders if he’ll die here. He…no, he has something to live for. Nezuko hadn’t made it back—that is a blessing. He still has his blessings. Tanjiro really, really hopes Nezuko will find a way to survive on her own, even without him. It feels like there’s blood in his limbs.
Muzan cocks his head, eyeing the boy is his hold like an object. Abruptly, Tanjiro drops limply to the floor. A choke—he isn’t dead yet. The demon sighs—almost casually. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter much anyhow…”
And Tanjiro tastes blood—foul and rotten, like sour milk and iron.