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Faster.
He had to run faster.
His lungs threatened to collapse—his legs burned with each pump. He drew in quicker breaths, shallow, loud as he gripped onto the Vision so hard it cut into his palm, fresh blood dripping from his hand. But he was numb to it, numb to the stinging pain against the disbelief.
Faster. It was all he had to do, all he could do in this very moment. Run faster. Outpace death.
Was that possible?
If he ran faster, would the image of lightning striking down on his very soul be erased? Could he go back in time?
If he had moved faster, could he have pulled Tomo away, out of reach of the Raiden Shogun’s killing blow?
He could still see the man’s sunshine-like grins, hear his hearty laughs, feel the warmth and strength of his embraces.
The parting, quick kiss on Kazuha’s cheek that left him reeling in surprise, only to be met with a cheeky smile and a hasty goodbye.
Tomo is alive.
If Kazuha ran with his Vision, Tomo would never die.
Even then, said object turned cold in his hand, and he clutched it harder, ignoring the burn, the pain, his feelings—Tomo had to stay alive.
He had to keep Tomo alive.
Maybe if he’d said something selfish the day they’d parted, anything, would things have been different?
Would Tomo have stayed?
The soldiers were on him now, and in desperation to keep the empty Vision to himself, he summoned wind currents, stronger and more violent than he’d ever allowed himself to create, sending those who were here to take him from him far away from himself, and the Vision. Winds cut through clothes, sending stirrings of leaves into the air, stinging anyone within its range, including Kazuha himself.
Kazuha ran.
His vision faded black and white, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see through the tears staining his eyes but he pushed on. He had to, had to do it- do it for Tomo.
Tomo could not die like this.
He won’t allow it.
He had to- had to-
His mind was blurring.
Run.
So he ran. He ran for days, barely stopping for breaks in between, unsheathing his sword over any who came near, crying his grief into the rain, screaming his anger into the silence.
Finally, when the Resistance found him blacked out outside their camp, they took him in and cared for him, until his fever abated.
They watched as he sat in mute silence, hands clenching around the empty Vision he’d scrambled to find the moment he’d awoke, tears heavy on his snowy lashes, and someone had presented Tomo’s dead Vision to him, cleaned of mud and blood.
They spoke to him, but in his ears was a ringing silence. A silence that spoke of Tomo’s death at the hands of the Raiden Shogun. The noises they made—none of it was Tomo’s voice. All he could see was Tomo’s back as lightning flashed and the Archon of Inazuma served Her divine punishment.
They asked who the owner of the Vision was, who had been, though they were met with nothing but silence from the young man.
Half a month went by, and Kazuha didn’t speak a word. The Resistance Army was curious about him, that much he knew. But he barely had the energy to do much other than breathe.
He vomited after intense nightmares that all ended with how he’d failed to reach Tomo, how the winds didn’t guide him fast enough. He didn’t train enough, he didn’t say enough. He’d trusted fate too much, he should have told Tomo to stay.
“Tomo,” he croaked out finally, one day, after a healer had given him another cup of water.
The healer froze, startled, turning back to him. “I beg your pardon?”
Kazuha stared at the Vision in his hands. “His name is.. was Tomo.”
“Tomo,” the healer echoed carefully. They sat down next to his mat, tilting their head a little. “And what’s your name?”
Kazuha fought the urge to hide the Vision under the blanket, where no one could see it. If no one could see it, no one could take it away from him.
But the healer merely waited patiently.
And Kazuha knew the Resistance was better than that.
He unclenched his hands, and finally met the healer’s warm gaze for the first time.
“I am Kaedehara Kazuha.”