Chapter Text
It had been long since you last looked into a mirror.
Gentle shimmers skipped around your reflection as light passed through the purification fountain. The surface wavered, softly distorting its image once another scoopful of water was taken – painting your lips into a deeper shade of red, now that your face had been rinsed and met the frigid, wintery air of the temple.
It was an indescribable feeling, to see your face in a new light. But you were raised to appreciate change and so you embraced them: the signs of maturity.
Another year had begun anew. If the feeling itself had not reminded you, then the rewarding sound of frolic and cracking fire certainly would. The tolling of the temple bells had begun at the stroke of midnight, echoing through the town in a cleansing resonance. So you took your mother in hand, bracing yourselves through the crowds – in your kimonos, like a pair of flowery red dots submerged in a riot of colors.
It was a time when worries and dark winter evenings paled against glowing lanterns. The first prayer of the year would be made and hopes would be shared – a time when pondering on the future was considered a good thing.
It was happiness in its own right.
Not the kind that surfaced from the greatest of fortunes or from reciprocated love, but a simple kind, one that many took for granted. One the most unfortunate could lose in the blink of an eye and never come to retrieve. Perhaps even an irrevocable right of life.
Two bows, two claps, one bow – wishing for that feeling to last a little longer.
But at times of happiness comes misfortune, and one cannot be certain of much in this world – as your father used to say during your childhood. It was a truth that poured over your thoughts as you bid your prayer, even if another new year would be celebrated in his absence.
His time spent at home waned, alike candlewax beneath a throbbing flame. He was occupied with his business in the livid city of Tokyo, in contrast to the sequestered nature of his profession; one of expensive fabrics and intricate tailoring. You were drifting apart and that was a fact. Junichirou Shimoe was the sort to shoulder the worries of his family – also the sort to be stubborn enough to keep it that way. You could not influence your father to stay. Not in this lifetime. He left you with no choice other than to accept.
And pray, to acknowledge his efforts.
Coming closer to the heart of the temple grounds, you turned to face your mother. And imposed upon her was a weak smile. Her eyes were trained onto your fingers, which were clinging to a stick sliding out of a wooden box. 14 - the number clung to your mind like a lullaby, persisting even as the night progressed and your number had been exchanged for an omikuji at the temple stands. You gently unfolded the fortune with anticipation, tucking your hair behind the shell of your ear before revealing the script.
A script you dared not name.
You scrutinized the piece of paper with reluctance. Your pulse rose as the ink reddened into a copperish hue. The color deepened in an instant, letters crawling over white and melting into pools of bloody irises. Its stare intensified – as if to drill holes into your skull and rummage through your soul, to expose some sort of truth better left unknown.
大凶 – great curse
As if shocked by a spark of electricity, you lost your grip on the piece of paper, leaving it to drift in the wind. A tiny gasp followed its trajectory and faded into the distance.
“[Name].” She snapped at you. “No matter the fortune, you must never drop it. You know it means bad luck.”
You knew that, and yet it startled you. It was heart-shaking. Of the many times you had offered to the shrine and received a fortune in return, had you not been prepared for a sight so cruel. Had exhaustion finally outpaced you? Could it have been a trick of the eyes, when the stare felt so very real? You spared your mother a nod despite the chill haunting your spine.
Then followed an inexplicable sense of foreboding.
“Greetings, [Name]-sama. You’re not ready to part with it yet, I take it?”
At last, you returned from your trance. Chisaka initiated with a gentle bow, taking your hand in hers before she planted the paper strip onto your palm, sealing your grip with a guiding gesture of her fingers. You made your gratitude clear, thanking the lady for sparing you the trouble of diving into the tides of people and being at odds with the stirring wind for a fortune.
“I’m glad to see a familiar face in the crowd.” Your mother smiled, narrowing her gentle eyes. “You came here alone, in this cold. Surely, there is something troubling you.”
A brief silence seized Chisaka. You caught her brief, expectant gaze.
“That is correct.” Chisaka began. “Setsuna-sama, it is nothing too urgent. I’m expected to pay a visit. With how things are nowadays…”
“You think of the rumors,” your mother replied, simple courtesy transitioning to curiosity. “Do you suppose there is truth behind them?”
The crowded, merriment joy of celebration did little to suppress the whispers – tales of swordsmen hiding in the shadows, of people disappearing. Their existence itself was a conundrum; some say they were government officials operating behind the public eye while some claimed they were madmen, searching for unknowing targets to test their blade on. Such claims represented merely a fraction of the speculations circulating as of lately.
“Me? It is all nonsense, really. But I do want this year to start properly.” Chisaka responded, her tone betraying her smile. “Police patrols does not happen around here often, but when they do, people won’t stop talking.”
“Naturally. It is rather amusing, in a way. What would have brought them here, do you think?” Your mother said.
“Nothing concerning, I assure you.” Chisaka’s worries seemed to be long forgotten, for she was seeking your attention with a smile. “I must be on my way, Setsuna-sama. “
“I hope I wasn’t distracting you.”
“Not at all,” Chisaka said. “And do greet Sayoko for me.”
She took a step backwards, her lips in motion. The message was lost on hearing, but you had no trouble reading her lips.
I’m in your debt.
And just as quickly, the woman had sunk into the crowd. You would have ignored the gesture, had it not been for the letter she had left behind – entrusted along with the fortune in your hands.
“It’s because I’ve spoiled you too much. Maybe you should be keeping that fortune, after all. A little hardship might be good for you.”
Your eyes were fixed onto the shrine ahead, but you could feel your mother’s gaze boring into you. Your mother was woman known for the gentleness in her demeanor, yet possessing a sharpness in her eyes, a knowing insight that many had come to dread. You let out a sigh in defeat; it seemed the very sharpness in question had seen through your act.
“Maybe so. I’m sorry for inconveniencing you, Mother.”
Your fingers were trailing the hem of your sleeve, reaching for the letter within. The motion came to you naturally – one that came with the numerous times you had come to the town and accepted letters homewards. You knew very little of what Chisaka had written to Sayoko, the maid at the Shimoe estate – and neither were you in any position to find out. However, it seemed something else was bothering your mother.
“You shouldn’t apologize when I haven’t given you a reason to.” Your mother shook her head. “Straighten yourself, [Name]. Walk with your head high.”
She was reprimanding you, yet there was no disapproval in her voice. A smile tugged at her lips instead, brought into your attention now that your eyes were attuned to the dusk.
“I’m glad I raised such a caring daughter,” she began. “But [Name], kindness can also be a dangerous thing. You shouldn’t allow yourself to become so passionate about other’s predicaments.”
"Even for Chisaka?"
"Of course. If she thought this was the least appropriate, she would have asked me."
There was some truth in her statement: you knew it was not fitting for the only daughter and the next head of the Shimoe household to accept such requests on a whim. Yet you felt no regret.
It had very little to do with assertion and even less with self-respect. The line of status grew thinner with every time you challenged it. Chisaka entrusting the letters to you meant they held much importance – a weight she deemed you fit to bear. You would not trade that trust for anything.
But instead of voicing any of your thoughts, you simply listened to what she had to say. After all, your mother had finally returned to her former self, which was a far cry from the sadness emanating from her lately.
“It’s a quality people will stop at nothing to exploit. That is why you must be more selective on who to help.”
Once again, it hardly felt like a scolding. Not yet had you been burdened with expectations of marriage, nor forced to act for the benefits of your parents. It was a privilege granted by them, something very few merchant families could do. What reason did you have to take her words to heart?
Her hand was warm on your temple when it combed a stray snowflake free from your locks. The gesture felt like a replica of a loving memory, from a time when you had to tilt your head up to see your mother’s shoulders while trailing behind her. It was different this time – your gazes met at eye-level, and still she seemed so far away.
Always the doting mother.
And even further were your doubts – the fortune, the letter, your father’s burdens. You had almost forgotten about them.
A wave of paper ties extended before you in a frame of pine needles and rope. The traditional custom was to leave the fortune behind, in case it happened to bring misfortune. Complying with the unwritten rule you folded the omikuji, approaching the nearest green-clad branch with mirth in your eyes. The way you completed the knot was careful when the rest of your movements was anything but, and you blinked twice to rid your eyes of sleepiness, to be certain the fortune stayed in place.
You could sleep soundly tonight, you thought, as if the fortune would linger by the tree instead of you –
the one who drew the sacred lot.
But tonight, it would not slip so easily.
The both of you froze in disbelief upon entering the proud estate you call home. The darkness was thick and the only notion of brightness came from the moon – just enough for you to discover the dirty footsteps littering the floor. The sound of your breath rivaled your heartbeat, echoing through the interior, both disturbing the all too unsettling silence.
Your mother remained in control. She tried summoning the maids, unconcerned whether they had retired for the night or not. Her composure was comforting; ridding you of the doubt roaming in your mind. Under the slim, yet secure shadow of her back, your proceeded further within.
And you entered a world bathed in red.
You were standing before it all – blood and remains staining the once blank floor. One body after another met your eyes, crumpled against the walls, eyes mirroring the very essence of terror. Some were crushed beyond recognition but you knew their identities all the same.
Death everywhere.
Every single one of the maids had been condemned to death. Lives trampled upon, massacred before experiencing the joy of living, of growing old. They would no longer live to enjoy their next meal, to accompany you to the garden, nor witnessing the opulence of spring at full bloom – robbed of the chance to bid their loved ones farewell or finding solace and acceptance in the life they lived.
You clutched your chest, forcing the scream to still. The pungent smell of blood clogged your lungs, grating against the lining of your throat like shards of glass. Standing transfixed by the carnage, you entered a state of complete inaction – unlike your mother, who jerked your hand with shocking force. At that moment, your curse of stasis was gone. You followed her, thinking of nothing but running as fast as you could. As if sprinting through mud, your legs fought the resistance of your kimono.
By the time you entered the garden you finally felt the malice in the air. Like a starved wolf pursuing its prey, the intruder surged from the shadows. The pale shape caught your lower back, claws nearly pulling you to the ground. You lost momentum and the blow sent you tumbling.
A cry tore through the air. Out of your peripheral, you saw red taint the purity of the snow below you.
But the blood wasn’t yours.
Your mother trashed and kicked against the beast’s assault despite the fangs lodged deep into her neck. You realized you could not afford to waste a moment to hesitation. You assessed the situation with haste, eyes descending upon an axe situated at the edge of the garden.
Fetch it, quickly.
Desperation took control over your body. You sprang up, breaking eye-contact with the scene before you to grab the damned axe. Every nerve stood taut, fighting for the composure you were so desperately in need of, sense and mind absent until your blade tore into the beast’s flesh.
It all transpired so quickly. Several moments passed before realization came.
With focus so deep in the killing, in saving your loved one, you just barely managed to recognize the face of your father. At last it dawned on you, as the thick blade split his skull in two.
“No… no! What am I… what have I…”
With a slow, confused blink, you strained your eyes to take in what had transpired.
Father, cut down in a manner befitting a beast.
Mother, whose life flooded onto the ground.
None were there to hold you as your wails haunted the mountains, as light diminished behind the thick crimson veil clouding your vision.
No matter how desperately you begged, the bleeding immensity would not cease.
“I-I’m sorry, mother… I’m so sorry…” you sobbed, swallowing air at the last syllable. “I must be cursed… it’s all my fault…”
You kept applying layers of fabric. Alike sand in a tense fist, the blood of her wound spilled the more you tended to it.
That thing, you thought. It looked like-
Her fingertips would grace the back of your palm, unhurriedly drawing circles and simple patterns. The scarlet dew kept flowing as another part of your kimono was torn to contain the bleeding. In your mind, the voice of your mother echoed still.
You shouldn’t apologize when I haven’t given you a reason to.
The trail of blood grew thicker with every pacing of her heart. And you could feel it slow down with that same gentle momentum, taking her to a place that would never know the rays of the sun. Brought to the verge of tears, your senses dulled, and so did your surroundings.
That gentle warmth on your hands left with hers as she, in an agonizingly slow tempo, reached out to the distance. Her index finger stretched out, protruding in the darkness of the night ahead. You shook your head.
She had given up.
You did not dare entertain the thought of leaving her behind, in the cold, unable to cry, unable to move.
The tissue on her neck was torn apart, and yet she tried to shift her body enough to glance in her wished direction – but she physically could not. Her muscles would not yield to her commands. Her vocal cords were damaged beyond recovery. A searing pain pulsed in your heart when you heard the whistling sound of her breath, each intake of air quieter than the previous. It was only a matter of moments before her soul would depart for the land of Yomi.
You dared not to allow her final moments to be of you falling apart before her - and so you sat frozen, following the pulse of her hand, waiting for the light to fade from her hooded eyes.
At this point, the life and resolution you once knew began to crumble. Regret came, like a steady gestalt looming over you as you stood powerless to reverse it all. Why them? Why here? Why now?
Then came a sound so quiet you would have mistaken it for the whisper of the wind.
“Behind… you...”
“Huh?”
With tears gathering at the corners of your eyes you willed yourself to look away. There was nothing. Aside from what was once your mother and the howling wind, there were only snowflakes pounding relentlessly on your cheek.
That is, until a clawed hand swooped through the winter breeze –
Slash
- reopening the wound on your lower back.
Instincts took control. In response to the tearing against your skin you forced your weight forward. Throwing yourself into a well-timed roll, you barely dodged the following swipe. Your haori got caught in the assailant’s claws and slipped from your shoulders. A hiss followed. Luck and little else had kept you from being ripped to shreds and next time, there would not be anything to mitigate the blow.
You glanced down – eyes widening at the husk before you.
Flesh and blood restored. Face whole, as if you had never cut him down in the first place.
Truly, you must have gone insane.
Father, was what you meant to utter, voice failing to birth your words and only thoughts left to do so.
It’s not. Not here. Not now. It couldn’t be him.
That insatiable hunger, that malevolent intent to bare his fangs against his own flesh and blood - it only proved to the beast being anyone but him. Sub-human. A twisted imitation. Not the endearing father whose presence you yearned for; he lacked the history that defined him.
That certainty died quickly. His clothes. The scar on his neck. His shape, his form. His voice.
It was folly. Who were you fooling?
You had heard stories of them before – starving beasts consuming their own parents and siblings. If the stories had even a fraction of truth in them, then one thing would be for certain: you would be beyond undoing the condition inflicted upon him. It would be far past the point of return.
The demon did not initiate. Tears sprang to his empty eyes even as he bared his fangs. His body swayed, his legs quivered. For a fleeting second, you would have thought he wanted to speak – but perhaps that thought was nothing but a product of your attachment.
If he could run as fast as he had cut you earlier, then you could not possibly escape him. Was there any point in resisting? Could you really cut your precious father down and save yourself?
After a brief swipe of his tongue over bloody, clawed digits, he changed, as if a button had been pushed. Leaden with fear, you watched as his familiar face contorted in bliss.
“This aroma..!” his voice spilled out in fragments. He was so deep in his euphoria that you could hardly fail to grasp it. “Famished… More…”
Then a foreign, profound anger surged in your veins, striking you with the force of thunder.
That was the last straw.
You had finally gathered the courage to do what needed to be done. Yet the very notion of it scared you to your very core – that someone like you had the gall to engage with a demon.
The demon scowled, drool splashing about as the tension deepened. He closed the distance and a trail of snow fluttered in the air. Though close in proximity, the demon’s attacks were inaccurate. His claws caught air and fabric. He had yet to draw blood.
Suddenly, a vigorous throb surged through you. Your vision refocused during that single opening – every shift in his muscles to every beat of his heart – it all came clearly into view, as if his skin was made of a thin sheet of glass. His every movement slowed in succession. His growl dulled and melted into nothing.
It was unbelievable, as if you had been granted foresight, the power to alter fate itself. You counted his steps in anticipation. Recovering the axe resting on the ground, you side-stepped, parrying his strike with strength you could never imagine yourself to possess. After you flipped the handle of the axe you plunged the thick blade into his neck the very instant he had shown as much as a crevice in his composure.
You took him by surprise - the impact had sent him staggering. However, it was short-lived.
His wound regenerated quickly and the axe fused with his skin, melting into him. Before you could renew your grip on your weapon the demon’s arms extended swiftly, grasping your face. He forced your neck bare to his fangs and the crisp chill of the night air grazed your overheated skin as you fought against him. Your fingers tangled around his jaw. Your knees kicked in sheer desperation, hoping to disorient his balance. Every cell of your being pushed to maintain the distance between his fangs and your neck, to force yourself free from your father, who had once been the pillar of your life.
Even in your last moments is he dictating the course of that life – he was part of its beginning, and so its end. The irony.
Your surge of strength was dying. And like your mother in her last moments would your limbs abandon you. You shut your eyes in response to the deafening ringing in your ears, to the palpitations overtaking your body.
Death awaits.
Or so you thought, before flinching to the unmistakable sound of steel meeting flesh.
You watched in terror as your father’s head fell from his shoulders. You were not sure what startled you the most; the complete view of the carnage before you or whoever it was that possessed the raw power of inflicting it.
Unknown, steady hands removed what was once your father’s firm grip on you. The remains of him tumbled to the ground. Snowflakes ascended into the air from the impact, soaring, him situated in the center of it.
You observed the corpse, struck by a wave of solitude when you realized how his wounds had yet to regenerate.
And likely, they never would.
Your eyes met your fathers – in his, you saw a wild appeal for mercy. Shortly, the scent of smoke filled the air, dyeing crystal white snow into ashen grey.
You registered the sharp sound of a katana sliding back into its sheath, and that was when unspeakable sensations started to surface.
As a result of the declining adrenaline levels in your body, you trembled. You convulsed, collapsing to the ground in pain, head throbbing repeatedly. You would have noticed the calls of the young man above you if it were not for the unnatural, continuous ringing in your ears.
He uttered something incoherent. His calloused palms found purchase on your shoulders before giving you a firm, yet gentle shake. The simple gesture proved to be fruitless, and you were met with fingers tapping at your cheek. Feather-light. Fleeting. Once your panicked breathing had returned to normal he pulled you towards him. Anchored to his steady chest, the dizziness started to dissipate, the heat of his body lulling the disturbing sound to sleep.
Suddenly, an echo of your unease returned.
People disappearing. Swordsmen hunting in the shadows.
“Who… are you?” you managed to breathe out, eyes fluttering open to find your reflection within the cerulean deepness of his own.
Then your eyes widened in sudden fascination. A gasp escaped your lips upon noticing the mark on your upper left cheek, ink blooming down your neck.
It seemed he lacked the desire to answer your question, for he was raising his voice instead.
“Listen,” his voice was gentle, yet devoid of emotion. “You’re wounded. I need you to stay still.”
With that said, he freed you from the confines of his arms. You nodded at his instructions, situating yourself on the comforting softness of the snow beneath you. As if summoning it by magic, the young man picked out a petite box from the patterned half of his haori, shifting to inspect the wound planted on your back. With a fleeting touch upon the torn tissue, your skin seared. You arched your back in response, nostrils flaring at each exhalation of air that ensued. Tears dimmed your sight as the pain intensified, curses filling your thoughts now that your pain tolerance had returned to normal.
“…You’ll need to uncover it.”
“Uncover?” you mumbled, dumbfounded. Your body twitched as realization finally struck you. “Oh…”
Strip? In front of him?
You would have burst into laughter if it wasn’t for the severity of the situation. You mother had been brutally murdered right in front of you. You were fighting for your life against your own father for nothing more than a fleeting moment ago - and now, you had to undress in front of a man you just had the pleasure of locking eyes with.
The situation felt like a scenario only the most wicked of dreams would conjure up, toying with your sanity.
But it wasn’t a dream.
And only by accepting the help offered could you survive.
Stiff with hesitation, you undid a piece of fabric after the other as the kimono slid half-way down your back. He did not utter as much as a sound, skilled fingers working together to sanitize the wound, binding it with such dexterity it left your thoughts wandering, speculating the amount of times he had done this before. A gentle pressure filled the lower expanse of your back as the constricts of the bandage tightened, sealing it with a knot equal in its firmness. The situation unsettled you, but his indifference to it was a small blessing in itself.
The wait had invited the cold into your limbs. A thought crossed your mind: he had not bothered taking you inside before the treatment. Perhaps that was deliberate, an act of mercy.
You heard him rise, pulling out something else from his sleeve. You pulled the garment back with haste. Turning to face him, your eyes widened to the sight of him writing on a piece of paper, yatate in hand.
The mere sight pushed on a forbidden button, the indifference in his expression ticking something unspeakable within you.
“You’re writing? At a time like this?”
Silence followed. He brought forth his hand, beckoning the presence of a nearby crow – an old, haggard one at that, before attaching the piece of paper on its leg. He did not bring himself to speak until the sound of fervent flapping filled the air.
“Tomioka Giyuu.”
“What?”
“My name.” He added: “I’m a member of the Demon Slayer Corps. Though I should be the one asking who you are.”
You stood frozen in place, mind searching. You realized he was not asking for your name, but for something you could not quite pinpoint on your own.
“The mark on your face…” He trailed off, motioning towards you. “It's something I simply can’t ignore. I need answers.”
He seemed more interested in the mark on your face rather than the chaos that unraveled minutes ago. The directness of his words was more than enough to dispel what little confidence you had left. Your limbs were twitching, shivering under the bruises and the bandage. You knew he did not need to sugarcoat his words - he was a stranger after all. Yet you could not help but let the unease take over.
The situation had not been gradually led up to. It was nothing but crude, and now you were left in the dark, searching for something that was far beyond your reach.
Since long had your parents dictated the course of your life. For you, they carried the sky and carved the very path you walked on. Now that your pillars had gone away, like stray petals in the wind, what could you do beside desperately reassembling things beyond repair? And perhaps, even you were on the list.
“Before I do anything…” you sobbed, “I’d like to give them a proper grave.”
It was perfect.
Guarded by a blanket of pure, pristine snow in the winter while to be accompanied by the rising cherry blossoms in the spring. It was a cycle of constant beauty, of birth and decay, to repeat itself throughout the seasons. This is where your mother will rest and welcome you when it’s your time to join your parents, to fill the empty space and embrace them under the skies of Yomi.
You were unable to bring the bodies of your maids back to their families yourself, which served to deepen the guilt. That responsibility fell under the so-called Kakushi, who would help bring their remains back to their families and deliver the message of their passing. You could only carry their memories with you, and in person help bring those afflicted consolation.
They deserved as much.
But what would you tell them?
That their beloved’s killer was in truth your own father, who had turned into a man-eating demon? Could you tell them you were saved by the so-called Demon Slayer Corps – a rumored organization of sword-wielding hunters?
Would they believe you?
Contemplatively, you reached to cup your cheek. Your skin, painted in brittle waves of ink, was hot against your fingertips.
Or would they shun you instead?
Your trail of thoughts ran deeper, to the lingering smell of smoke.
“Unlikely. Shape-shifting powers are rare,” Giyuu had told you. “And even if it was, the blood-demon art would’ve disappeared when I severed its neck.”
Without a speck of tactfulness, the swordsman had confirmed your greatest fear.
”it”, huh…
For the first time in your life were you aghast with how weak you were, with how little you knew. Desolation gripped you tightly now that you stood before her grave, framed by the confines of the garden in which you had spent a major part of your childhood. Silently, you mourned beneath the naked tree crowns, beneath the vast moonlight, beneath the lost spirit’s judgements.
You clutched your hands. Your father’s ashes had been swept by the wind, leaving nothing behind – nothing to anchor his wishes and regrets. The weight of his passing had not fully become real to you.
And you were not sure if it ever would.
So far, you had managed to keep your feelings in check, not a tear nor a scream. You were grateful for the mask you had conjured up. But once your focus relapsed onto Giyuu’s eyes, the efforts did little to keep the tears from adorning the corners of your own.
“Don’t cry.” He voiced, destroying the silence that ruled over the last two hours. “It will do you no good.”
“I know.” You let out a strangled breath.
His composure was jarring, indifferent. It was like looking into another world - one with rules and principles you could never come to understand.
You wanted to swallow your voice out of fear of it sounding out of place, to force the feelings down before they grew too powerful to halt.
But your lips betrayed you.
“…But who are you to tell me not to?”
“You misunderstand me. I know you’re grieving.”
“Judging by what comes out of your mouth I feel like you don’t.”
“Look again at the situation you’re in.” He let it sink in, his breath dissolving from mist into thin air. “Your family aren’t the only victims. Had I come sooner, they might just have survived.”
There it finally surfaced: a subtle hint of fury in his voice. "You have to face it. There is no turning back time.”
That was when you realized he was a victim, just like you. You could tell his emotions were not directed at you, but the fact alone did little to stop the guilt from prodding on your conscience. You shifted your face downwards.
Perfect, another mistake to be ashamed of.
“Tomioka-san…”
“The world is full of suffering, but you can overcome it. If you need to cry out, then do so. But you should know already – crying will not bring them back. And it will not punish the one responsible.”
Pain spilled through the swordsman’s lips and stained his voice. Although tears clouded your vision the suffering in his eyes was too evident for you to not perceive. Your eyes roamed over his clothing, taking notice upon the stark contrast between the fabrics of his haori. It was so obvious, yet you had been so blind to the purpose behind his words, to the sullen look to his hands. He had lost someone too, you could tell.
He donned fabrics of the dead, after all.
“Then please tell me. Because clearly, I’m completely clueless...” You coiled the sleeve of your kimono around your palm and swiped the tears from your eyes, wetting the torn, scarlet silk. “I have nothing. I don’t want anyone to feel what I feel. The mark, the pain, the sounds in my head… What is happening to me?”
Nothing made sense. Your body has been engulfed in ice since your mother’s last breath. You felt numb, filled with uncertainty. The thin mountain air had never bothered you, but breathing alone had suddenly become so challenging.
“I’m not going to dictate your future.” He looked down on you. The gentleness in his gaze carried a sense of clarity. “It’s called a demon slayer mark. What you experienced must be one of its side effects. What you decide to do with it is up to you.”
His words, alike that of a calming spell, had a certain effect on you. They lulled the howling storm in your chest to sleep.
You did not have the pleasure of mourning the fallen. It was a luxury not meant for you.
So perhaps this was all you needed for now – a goal, that is. If the mark was as special as Giyuu made it out to be, then the pain of using it would be all worth it.
As long as the demons will pay.
"...Do you have one as well?" you asked.
A numb silence followed. That answer was enough.
Your thoughts paused upon the crow’s return. Its wings fluttered; your eyes trailed over the demon slayer's fringe as the air rearranged it, then to roam over the piece of paper. The messages... you knew they concerned you.
Just who was he writing to?
Tomioka was strange – mysterious even. Your differences were like oil and water: one medium never truly blending with the other. Despite that your mind was set. Never had you felt so certain.
“Thank you, Tomioka-san," you spoke once the quiet had gone on long enough. "I have no right to ask, but… will you help me one more time?”
Even for a short span of time, he could be your pillar.
And the fact alone brought you solace the amidst the chaos.