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A carved stone butterfly, still warm from his hand. Dried blood, Onikiri noticed later, threaded through its seams, preserved like lacquer. Garnet scooped from the riverbed where they’d first fought together, where Onikiri had first saved his Master’s life. A pressed yellow flower, one meaning of words unspoken, learned in those quiet afternoons of poetry, letters, deportment.
His mind drew the connections between objects as proof and his Master’s regard. It was all so clear, so straightforward. He guarded them jealously, stored each one carefully. Returned to them, often, with mute reverence.
Last, a kingfisher’s feather. It was the lightest of all Onikiri’s treasures, so light it would not stay in place and slipped from his fingers like a puff of air. In between its fronds he could see the sky.
No reason, Yorimitsu had said, it was quite beautiful.
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It all burns the same, in the end.
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Now.
He carries Yorimitsu’s marks on his soul, his heart a swollen thing. There is no other evidence he needs to hold.
They stand shoulder to shoulder against the impending night. Yorimitsu whispers something into Onikiri’s hair, unheard. He feels his lips move. The silence wraps around them, serene, speaks for itself.