Chapter Text
Four centuries ago it was easier. The choice was clear at least: die by one's own blade, or like a dog at the hand of another. One clean cut to end it all.
With the passing years rot has set in.
By now it has invaded every fiber. Man is capable of unimaginable acts when driven to extremity: by hunger and thirst, by physical pain, by a threat to a loved one, by loss, by need, by fear. When I placed the sword against my throat I thought I understood what these things were. I was wrong. I didn't know one could be driven beyond death, to a place emptier and unsightlier still. I didn't know to what lengths I would go. I never truly saw myself before he saw me.
I never asked him to. I never asked for it. I didn't.
Without him I—
The white light swallows everything, and falls away like sand.
Gradually sight returns: patterns of paleness and shadow resolve themselves into broken paving, the dark masses of uprooted trees. Here and there the silhouettes of collapsed torii emerge as ruined sharp angles against the night sky. The temple grounds are utterly silent, as after the passing of a storm.
Somewhere in the distance, a siren begins to wail.
Takaya stands, head bowed, in the midst of prone forms that were occupied once by lords and warriors. His shoulders lift and fall with every shuddering breath. He holds himself as if it hurts him to stand, as if the cost doesn't matter.
Eventually he straightens. His face is very pale; his eyes burn. Wordlessly he moves toward the gate.
Naoe catches him as his knees buckle. It throws him off balance, and he sinks to one knee in Takaya's stead, the other a dead weight against his shoulder and chest. The waist around which his arm wraps is painfully slender.
For a split second he feels Takaya relax against him, fingers clutching at the fabric of his suit lapel. Then his grip tightens, and he pushes away.
"Don't touch me," he says.