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At one point, Kenjaku had united his two hands in prayer to Master Tengen. Not that he believed in his power as a god, but he was the one who led the Time Vessel Association’s prayer all this time. To them, he was telling fables. The sorcerer with eyes like immortal fires was going to bestow blessings upon those who were pious enough to receive. At one point, most of what Kenjaku preached about Master Tengen had been true.
Still, Master Tengen was only a human. Humans, no matter how much power they deluded themselves into thinking they had, were prone to cowardice.
Looking at him now, Kenjaku finds himself hard-pressed to believe Tengen was ever a sorcerer worth his salt. His figure had become a slight thing, withering away from neglect. The low light added warmth to his skin that didn’t exist, like it was trying to preserve the corpse’s pride. His clothes swallowed him whole, and his white hair was a thin, wiry rat’s nest. He couldn’t even make himself stand. Doors simply opened themselves to Kenjaku without input.
Tengen was already dead, somebody’s broken doll lying on its back in a forgotten chest. But two half-lidded crimson eyes reminded Kenjaku that he was somehow, fortunately for the both of them, still alive. This was what became of their Star.
“You look like shit,” Kenjaku sneered, but he was half-lying. An illogical part of him thought Tengen was beautiful like this, appearing delicate but not breakable. He was there, and would be there forever. That was his curse. “Starving is a very roundabout way to commit suicide, you know.”
“It isn’t about that,” Tengen replied evenly, unruffled, because of course he thought it wasn’t about him. Of course he thought he could just hole himself up in his tomb forever after making a mistake, as if it would make the child inside him disappear. He was just going to ignore it all and tilt his chin up at Kenjaku like he wasn’t the one on his ass right now.
He loved to pretend he was above it all. He could be, if he made the effort. But now he was just some hermit.
Kenjaku stood, and Tengen just looked at him. There was something in his eyes—softer than defiance, yet not fragile enough to be fear—but Kenjaku’s gaze was drawn to the second pair of lids underneath them. His time was almost up.
“What are you here to do?” Tengen asked, and Kenjaku only grinned.
“Don’t you think it was irresponsible to let me in without knowing that?”
“I’ve already ruled out you killing me, so I won’t fight you.”
And the grin was short-lived. Kenjaku reached into his sleeve and curled his fingers around smooth wood. He wasn’t discreet. He wanted Tengen to see him draw his weapon, wanted to see those cloudy eyes sharpen with terror.
“And what if you were wrong?”
They didn’t.
“I don’t think I am.”
Kenjaku brandished the knife, stalking closer. Tengen didn’t even crane his neck to hold his gaze. He just lay there, still as the tree he lived in, even as his friend got to his knees in front of him and brought the weapon to his eye. As tempted as Kenjaku was to plunge the blade into the socket, he restrained himself. He held it there for a long moment, hoping to see Tengen pale a little more. It was a pipe dream, like a lot of things he hoped for.
“You called my bluff,” the sorcerer admitted. “I’m not going to kill you.”
He dragged the point of the blade down Tengen’s cheek, his fury waning a little at the sight of blood sprouting in its path. Just a little something to remind himself that Tengen hadn’t crystallized before his eyes.
“I guess you already knew that, though. This knife isn’t anything special. Just random cookware.”
He stopped it under his chin, tilting Tengen’s head up and watching his throat bob against the metal.
“Because I thought it would be wrong to kill you while you already lay sick and dying.”
Tengen drew a breath, his lips forming around a word—a denial, “No, I am not dying”—but he said nothing. As if he couldn’t find the strength. He blinked, two pools of nothingness offering nothing. Nothing, nothing, always nothing.
Kenjaku wasn’t going to give him anything, either. He’d given him enough to last all of their lifetimes. “You don’t have a single thing to say?” he said, carefully injecting contempt into his words.
Tengen’s expression turned thoughtful, a little melancholy. He never was good at controlling his face. He always let every weak thing show—he stayed away from his believers for that exact reason (luckily, they were fine with praying to the foliage surrounding his tomb). Again, Kenjaku’s mind was divided. Every emotion flashing in Tengen’s eyes was like turning a ruby to see its different faces. He was too fragile. Not half as fragile as he wanted to be.
His bony hand lifted (so he could move) and came to rest on his stomach. Not caressing, just there, faint as a ghost (still undeniably there, because Tengen was a permanent thing, no matter how much he wished he wasn’t).
“I’d like the child to survive,” he murmured.
And the feeling that seized Kenjaku’s body was vengeful.
It was a quick, natural motion that buried the knife in Tengen’s stomach, splitting his skeletal hand around the blade (it was driven right through a mole on his knuckle). He tensed, his mouth falling open around a scream that never sounded, and his eyes were finally in focus again. Kenjaku ripped the knife through his womb just to see them widen that much more, until Tengen’s face was splattered with familiar crimson.
What drove him on was odd. The illogical thing in his mind screamed at him to stop, wailed that he was killing something precious, but he tore on. Frankly, he didn’t know what was so precious about it.
Then, he released the knife. His business here was finished. He should have gotten up and left. But he stayed, not paralyzed, but waiting. Tengen’s hair clumped up in pink bundles where the ends soaked in his blood. He writhed in pain, his breathing labored and shaky, and Kenjaku only wanted to mock him. He was finally as broken as he pretended to be.
Eventually, Tengen became still. He was used to pain, after all. Sorcerers had to be. His eyes closed peacefully, but Kenjaku was satisfied. He’d have plenty of opportunity to disrupt that peace in the next few centuries. This “life” Tengen had chosen would be Hell if he could help it.
More flesh tore after the knife had already stilled. Poor thing, someone better than him would have said, but the ugly curse crawling out of the cavity of Tengen’s womb was a living opportunity to Kenjaku. Those familiar blood red eyes endeared him.
”It survived. Isn’t that lucky?”