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The sun was setting into the sea, making the sky painted a pretty marmalade orange. The cirrus clouds lifted high into the atmosphere looked like rapid brush strokes of white paint into the many shades of yellow and red dyed against the foreboding sky.
Gorou knew this scenery too well. He had been staring up above him every day as soon as the sky turned this particular shade of orange for as long as he could remember.
Today, as he stared up into the never-ending expanse above him, he could see bits of purple and pink sprinkled between the anemo sea of scattered clouds and acrylics. The way the colors melted together was soon to turn into that hateful hot pink sky.
No matter how fierce– until there was fire streaked across the ground– it always rained on the battlefield.
A wave of nostalgia hits him at the sight of it, and his heart begins to ache. It was a dull pain that began at the base of his spine all the way up to his neck; it rose and constricted his blood vessels until he felt his tail stiffen with the thoughts of his injured men on the battlefield, crawling to get themselves to safety, being stepped on and forgotten, meeting their end with their blood on his hands. On days like this, when the sun set red, the unpredictable veil of night meets him with nightmares worse than any warzone.
I failed to lead them to victory. I failed them. I failed myself.
Gorou was overcome with thoughts of disappointment so unimaginable in magnitude, he wouldn’t wish the aching in his heart on his worst enemy. He would spare Kujou Sara and her entire army rather than have them feel his pain, and it would not even be considered honorable.
He cared for all life; he joined the army many years ago as a teenager because he wanted to preserve life, not destroy it. Sangonomiya Kokomi did not have to tell him that life was precious for him to see the way she swam with the fishes and the tide to understand that it was inherently true. There was deep, inconsolable meaning to all life, and the preservation of it was his goal. That is why he rose through the ranks and became general of the resistance.
He wanted to fight one last time; to end all wars, while doing what was right.
Until all evil is eradicated, and human life is preserved…
He often forgot that he himself was not entirely human, but a separate species entirely. Whenever he was by himself, he thought so often of his human teammates that his brain would automatically categorize himself as one of them too. They all treated him like one of them; he would never have gotten to where he was if it weren’t for them. It took an itching in his ear or a tangling in his tail for him to remember who he was. He had grown used to it, being surprised by his own reflection; naturally small in comparison, with a stubborn inability to gain muscle, inhumanly keen senses, animalistic instincts, and a very bushy tail.
And hybrids, and all creatures of sky, land and sea…
He had no destination in mind, but wherever he went, he called home. Of course, he had places that were special in his memories, but a general could not afford to have hard preferences or delicacies of any kind. As a species more connected to nature and his surroundings, he was better at adapting to changes in his environment than humans. It was one of the only things about being different he liked.
This time he walked around his camp, checking in on everyone, more distracted than usual. A soldier with a broken arm greets him like a friend and he thinks for a moment “I bet no one’s army is as friendly with their general as mine.” The stiffness of his tail loosens for a moment and swishes behind him once, earning stares from several of the other men around.
It was not too rare to have Gorou be the center of attention for reasons other than him being the general of the resistance army; like the quirkiness of his canine appearance. He had a little girl call him a deity once and try to talk to him by barking. Gorou cannot figure out how she was surprisingly able to get something across to him then. Thankfully, none of his soldiers have tried it; he wouldn’t have known what to do in that sort of situation and tries to avoid awkward social encounters like the plague.
“It is the difference between the literal and the playful.” Kokomi had told him once. She really did know everything. Sometimes Gorou thinks there is a problem with the social cues part of his brain, and something tells him there is also a problem with his ears and tail when it comes to interacting with others.
When Gorou was a child, his mother would encourage him to play with his tail; to chase after it, to roll around with it, to know that it was his, and to remember the way his fur felt on his face and claw-grip hands; the way his scent concentrated deep into the pores of his fleece. In those sunny days, his being was more animal than human. It was like his mother knew he would eventually grow out of nature, and into the world of the artificial human. He never got to ask her.
“A loyal subject of the people is a preserver of all life.” His mother’s voice resonates in his mind as if it were yesterday.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I don’t want to lose anyone else.”
Gorou decides to cut his visiting with the soldiers short to focus on his own solitary self-pity, or rather, simply stare up at the sky for a time to watch the stars blink back into existence on an expanse of raven black, before disappearing as he closed his eyes and saw their remnants behind his eyelids. It always scared him whenever it happened, like illusions; things that were really there but weren’t at the same time; a retelling.
He hoped his dark, violent memories would not retell themselves tonight.
Gorou curls up within himself in a warm and cozy position. It’s a self-love potion he takes every night. It’s addictive, not that it’s necessarily a bad thing, but he would probably just never tell his army crewmembers that. Being much younger than most, it would be an immediate flick to his perpetually wet nose (from sweat; he was not dog enough to constantly lick his nose, or so he liked to think; if he did, he didn’t notice it, and it would embarrass him for all eternity if someone were to make him aware of it).
Despite his own unnatural human judgement, he loves to feel his own fur against his naked chest; to wrap his arms around that which is his and only his. He doesn’t have many material belongings that he can call his own, and so he is satisfied with only having himself to hold and comfort. He grew good at this sort of self-compassion over the years, and it did wonders to help keep the nightmares away.
He hoped no one ever saw him this way. He wouldn’t know what to tell them.