Chapter Text
The ghost of winter creeps in on the tailcoats of autumn as a specter of bare bones and chilled, stiff flesh. The encroaching cold is sufficient reason for mortal concern, and humanity hunkers down in tribute, shivering under the looming threat of starvation and sickness. This is the way of nature, and Kokushibo has witnessed it countless times before, centuries without the sun flitting by in the retrospective blink of an eye. Even with six of his own, he fails to prolong the perception of these innumerable seasons in passing, and he thinks briefly of the countless lives snuffed out with the turning of the seasons, trailing threads of woven fabric doomed to hang suspended for eternity.
Would the world stop with the erasure of winter? Muzan was a similar if not equivalent force of calamity. Yet, the inhabitants of this world plod along and afford no pause, conveying only blissful ignorance with his recent demise. Moons and ranks and grand designs aside, this senseless ignorance only bolsters the sour postulation that the proportion of humanity who recognise demons as more than folklore are in the minority. Bitter as it is to come to terms with, Kokushibo has known this, but in realizing his own powerlessness to shift disbelief had chosen to delude himself to it instead.
Irrelevancy is a painful and irritating truth, so poignant and acerbic that it decays him from the inside out. Kokushibo has lived centuries trying to perpetuate his legacy, trying to instill in the waking world some remnant of himself that might persist beyond his own wretchedly finite existence, all to no avail. His efforts have boiled down to the minute amount of success comparable to raking his fingernails raw across a pane of stubborn granite.
As a swordsman, his mark had been his death knell, a manifestation of morbid certainty which had driven him to unfathomable extremes. He now realizes that chasing Yoriichi’s shadow had fatigued him. How foolish of him to have dedicated himself to chasing an unrealistic paragon- Yoriichi with his kindness, his infallibility, his exemplary skill with a blade and his nigh deific sight . The mere, unreachable presence of his brother had been inflammatory, and he’d once presumed that it formed the smoldering core of his anger. Yet, he knows he cannot ascribe the entirety of his downfall to his mere existence alone, no- that much had been clear enough when his fury had failed to subside when he’d cleaved his flaccid corpse in two.
That is… a sobering thought. His deep-rooted discomfort had instead bloomed and blazed so terribly, draining the dark oceans covering the writhing, rotting seabed of his own coagulated regret and despair. To this day, his rage is his closest and only approximation of his brother’s brilliance, and Yoriichi had deigned to make him acknowledge it as a final mockery, his death itself serving as a poignant emphasis of the distance between them that neither Tsugikuni Michikatsu, nor Kokushibo will ever close.
“Is this… what you wanted?”
The alabaster snowscape does not respond; it makes for a poor effigy of his brother, though perhaps a fitting one with how bleached it is of life. Even now he does not know what is more pathetic, that the great Yoriichi Tsugikuni had died with such a lack of preamble, or that even he with his demonic transformation had failed to keep him from dying on his own terms.
Even with competition excluded, the moon with its lonely reign and deathly pale glow cannot match that foregone solar blaze. Because he has glimpsed the fastigium of possibility, now he will never know satisfaction. This worded is the very curse which will perpetuate as long as he is conscious and capable of reminiscence; and with Yoriichi now dead, so is that intangible boundary made ever out of reach.
Kokushibo knows himself as a farce of immortality, his name shamefully struck from all recorded history, his lingering presence the only thing to uphold his non-existent legacy as he wanders as a ghostly relic of his past. To this day he finds himself compromising endlessly on his values to chase the footprints of a phantom which he curses and yearns for in the same breath. When training alone had not served to hone his skills to satisfaction, he’d cast down his honor as a samurai in favor of ascension. Family had been a small price to pay for eternity when all he had wished for was to defy the will of the divine- that audacious mark which had crept in cowardly and insidious fashion to mark his face, a punishment for any who dared to surpass their limits and reach for the empyrean. Better- he reasons, to reign in the flames of hell than to spend the diminishing number of days bowing at Yoriichi’s feet and the divine will of the gods. He had put an end to the golden age of demon slayers alongside Muzan, and in this grim brutality Kokushibo had flung aside the final dregs of his humanity.
Freedom.
That had been the lure. But he had found himself irrefutably beholden to a master, this tyranny disguised as partnership like a blindfold laid across the eyes of a lamb to soothe it before slaughter. He sets his jaw around the thought of it and grinds his teeth- it’s an infuriating, patronizing concept; one which the events of that fateful night has opened his eyes to. As Upper Moon One, he’d enjoyed a degree of exceptional favoritism- what he now sees only as piecemeal rights and liberties. Muzan had often been willing enough to leave him to his own devices, and granted him the power to direct his own arrangements, indulging in him respect enough to pay every attention to ensuring his continued comfort and seeking in his counsel when the need arose. When it came to the topic of reaffirming his place, influence and value- that could be said to be a little gratifying at least.
Indeed, it would have been foolish to refuse any entreaty which his king might have devised to offer; for at the end of the day, he too was servile. To be anything less than agreeable- or in Kokushibo’s unique case, mildly disapproving, would only conceivably put him in a towering and inconsolable rage all at once. His concern towards avoiding this manner of provocation was not- he thinks, entirely unmerited.
Muzan had defined his reign with cruelty. He had wielded indiscriminate violence so avid and conspicuous that even the most reticent of his lackeys might learn to tolerate without resentment his leadership and work faithfully towards the conception of his goals, all of which were entirely and unapologetically supported by self-interest. There was nothing of partnership in that man’s mind and only the stark dichotomy of subservience and domination served to fill that vacancy. Each instance where Muzan’s voice had rung out in his head had been a cruel reminder that Kokushibo had effectively enslaved himself, and this knowledge of his own folly remains keenly embittering. These are the ruminations which have plagued his mind for hundreds of years, and he finds it remarkably difficult to shake free of age-old habit.
Snow begins to drift downwards, it piles on his shoulders and speckles his hair
Months have passed since the fall of the Infinity Castle. He has thus far satiated himself with this manner of aimless wandering. Yet, satisfaction in this context seems misused- he derives nothing from this sumptuous monotony but an unwelcome accentuation of the feeling that he has been cast aside like some pathetic dog without its master, alone and friendless without support.
It seems unfair really. Kokushibo had been the one to stumble across a field of blue lycoris three months prior to the end. Stopped at the edge of the clearing in stunned awe, he had considered how miraculous it was that the bundle of flowers he had held that night had somehow managed to convey such a myriad of emotion within him. Muzan had been exceptionally pleased, and the use of its effects had been extended to Kokushibo and the rest of the surviving Upper Moons. Alas, despite all its miraculous properties which their lord had seen fit to proclaim over the preceding centuries, Kokushibo had nonetheless maintained a degree of private skepticism towards its truth. He is after all, nothing if not consistent and conservative by default, and has yet to find himself swayed from thinking it only prudent to refrain from dependance to any degree until the very anticipated event comes to pass. This is precisely why it had taken two months more for him to muster the resolve to force himself into the light, making his astonishment when he had emerged unscathed all the more pertinent.
So when the Infinity Fortress ruptured its subterranean bubble to spill across the waking world, his struggle against four slayers had been brought to a stalemate as Nakime’s domain had crumbled. The poison administered by the traitor Tamayo had weakened all the bonds between them, and Kokushibo had for the first time in his demonic existence cast aside Muzan’s wishes in favor of his own - to flee. This unanticipated and exceedingly impetuous shift of autonomy had been startling to even himself, and it still stands that he has never otherwise been known to embody such hasty recklessness.
The misery in this cognitive dissonance had been short-lived. Muzan had been slain, the severance of their bond acute and clean as metal cleaving through a neck laid prone, a blow as clear as moonlight. In the sparse moments which had followed, that searing apprehension which his decision to disobey had imbued within him had turned quickly to amazement.
That in itself had flung wide the barred gates of possibility. How many years had he lived entrenched and mindlessly accepting of the belief that he would never again walk beneath the sun’s rays? When had he reconciled himself to becoming a creature which scurried in the dark like a rat? He had flaunted those false accolades and titled ranks in a futile means of self-consolation; those which Muzan had made such an eager effort in cementing as non-negotiable truth and purpose, all the more to incentivise their devotion to his search.
The implication disturbs him to no end. He has sought furtherance all his life and achieved only staticism; become an immovable, putrefying stone which the tides of time have swirled about for a meaningless eternity. Now he realizes that this immortal life has only served to prolong that stagnation which he’d once so feared to die within. It sickens him. More than Yoriichi, more than the inherent weakness of humanity and more than his wilful servitude.
Perhaps it is this lingering sensation of disgust which drives him here now. The dawn is newly broken, and the air is hazy and still with the bated breath of the impending morning. Caught in a thrall of childlike wonder, he turns a pale forearm this way and that beneath the sunlight. It’s warm both in sensation and color, breathing new life into the unearthly pallor of his complexion. The moonlight is lackluster in comparison; it is the lines sketched lightly before inks are applied, the paper to be discarded once the main body of the bonbori lantern has been excised. How quaint. He thinks now that the desperation in Muzan’s dogged pursuit of the flower had been attributable to more than just mere survival.
The remnants of his family home have long since found itself in a shocking state of disrepair. The roof has almost completely fallen through, and the snow-carpeted interiors are beset by draughts. Though he has visited it on multiple occasions over the years, there is little point in his repeated attendance. The skeleton of the estate is a physical manifestation of all which he has lost, and holds in its emptiness neither answers nor ghosts. He is the only nameless specter to haunt these grounds with any consistency for the past few hundred years, and this knowledge of his painstakingly thorough erasure pains him.
He had never been enough. Not to live, not to die, not even to be remembered. It hurts and his fist clenches in place of the cold wad of flesh which has replaced his heart. For once, there is no hilted blade around which to close his grasp, nor any definitive target to slay or vanquish. Under any other circumstance, he would have brought about a remorseless end to the one who’d seen fit to propose such a deduction; but as it stands, his fingers dig into his empty palm instead and leave weeping crescents. There is nobody to blame but himself.
He had bereaved himself of family upon his transformation, content to allow all memory of his spouse and offspring be washed from his conscious memory. How had he- why had he?
The past few centuries feel like a haze, countless years and seasons blending into an indistinguishable, one-note monotony. This period of time is mild, yet overwhelming in aroma; dust upon the tatami, mold creeping in mottled tracks across the ceiling and walls, moth eaten haori and sandals worn through. His life as Kokushibo has amounted to nothing, and the human existence which he’d once luxuriated in is gone- lost from memory and struck from the annals of history. He has nothing left.
The discomfiture from self-acknowledgement spurs him away from the grounds in a hasty withdrawal- not a retreat. Rather than resigning himself to another extended period of brooding, he turns in the direction of the only semi-concrete anchor he holds in this forsaken world and begins to walk.
When he arrives, the sun is just setting and the last of its rays weld strips of the land in solid gold.
His disguise is refined enough to easily fool the majority of those fortunate enough to have lived unaccustomed to the presence of the demonic. Yet humans still find ways to vex and subvert his expectations whenever the opportunity arises. The maid who sees him utters a most effeminate shriek as he crosses the distant threshold which separates the estate grounds from the surrounding forest, and she disappears with the hunted speed of any creature with death at its back.
Kokushibo blinks slowly and reaches up to brush his fingers along his cheek in confirmation that the state of the number of his eyes remains as he’d intended- more than one, no less than two. His appearance is watertight- excluding that, perhaps it is his mannerisms which leave a little to be desired. He remains there out of politeness, stood just beyond the main doors and silhouetted by the sun.
It isn’t long before the master of the house comes to meet him, no doubt alerted by the horrified cries of his guileless servant. The boy resembles neither himself nor Yoriichi to any great extent in the realm of physical appearance, but the leisurely grace of his stride feels faintly reminiscent.
“You.” Muichiro all but growls, blade held aloft in his one remaining hand. If he is surprised, he does not show it. Kokushibo can see that he still droops to the right, no doubt the lasting impressions of being impaled through the shoulder trouble him still. “What are you doing here?”
“You survived.” He says finally, without resentment or judgment. “Well done.”
Anger simmers on the boy’s tightening expression. “I don’t need your approval.”
His resolve is deserving of admiration. From experience, most grown slayers are rather willing to throw themselves into dogeza the moment they realize his rank or find themselves otherwise outmatched. The boy shows none of this haplessness despite being one of the handful of the living to have witnessed anything close to the full extent of Kokushibo’s abilities.
“It is… given regardless.”
“Why are you here?” He repeats, his voice hot, his hand trembling where it is clenched and pale around his blade.
“Become a demon, Muichiro.” He says, seeking normalcy- or at the very least, what has become normalcy over the past few hundred years. “You could-”
Muichiro lunges and his blade swings in a flashing arc. The speed and power of the movement would have been impressive had he been pitted against anyone- conceivably anyone else. As it stands he is considerably outmatched. Kokushibo catches the delicate wrist holding the blade and squeezes until the boy gasps in pain and drops the weapon. He staggers, and it is only this grip which keeps him from toppling into the sand. When he is released, he lands on his knees and scrabbles back with his teeth bared in a snarl, his eyes wild in stark contrast to Kokushibo’s impassivity.
“I would not… turn you without your consent… permit me to comfort you on that score.”
“What good is a promise like that? Demons have no honor.” This remark is bitten out from between gritted teeth, the inflection clenched tight as a hand trying to squeeze a heart dry of blood. “Are all demons so irresolute? If you’re going to kill me, do it .”
Kokushibo stands there in silence. He waits for a surge of impulse, for the voice of his master, yearns for a flicker of ire which might combust into action and spur him into granting the boy’s wish. The dark closes in around them, soft and silent in its padded footsteps, waiting out of sight like a predator stalking its prey. There is nobody there. The pure emptiness of it tracks rivulets through him like sleet into hardened mud.
He turns and leaves without another word, disappearing into the silence of the formidable night.
As ever, he is to blame.