Work Text:
It was a mountain of spiders that weaved their fates together once more.
They were prey caught in a spider’s web, hopelessly entangled in poisoned silk and strings of fate, when a man in white cleaved through what Tanjirou had despaired would be their untimely destinies.
“You’ve done well surviving until I arrived.”
Blood—no, not blood, but scarlet strings scattered around them like sheets of snow, almost as if the world around them had blossomed with spider lilies. They whispered a promise of death, turned the demon’s promises against him, their petals a funeral hymn laying by his inevitable grave.
The man’s presence was no more than a shift in air, as his nichirin sword swept through the night like wind. His pure white haori swaying when he descended from the air, landing firmly but quietly between Tanjirou and Lower Moon Five.
“I will take it from here,” he spoke, a voice of ease and tranquility, unbefitting for the blood and wounds marring the siblings’ bodies.
The slayer in white raised his blade, its blue metal glinting under the moonlight. It was as if it was directly taken from Tanjirou’s memories, stolen from the white bed of snow where it once laid, and now firmly held in the man’s calloused fingers.
A gasp was ripped from his hoarse, rust-filled throat when he was suddenly eye-to-eye with the demon, a head of albino locks and bloodred eyes tilted on the floor. Both Tanjirou and the Lower Moon’s eyes widened from shock, driven by the same disbelief balanced on a spectrum.
He… cut the demon’s head off just like that…? That’s not humanly possible at all…!
He cut my head off!? Just like THAT?! That’s not humanly possible! At all!!
The edge of a white haori fluttered into view, pristine and spotless, an untainted lotus among a sea of blood.
There was no fanfare, no theatrical display of power. That blade had simply sliced through the demon’s neck as if it were no more than the threads in their clothes, severing the head in an effortless grace where it had demanded everything from Tanjirou and more.
“Begone,” said that baritone voice. “Return to whence you came.”
The man turned, looking over his shoulder, face framed by raven locks of silk.
“Are you alright?”
An oceanic stone stared down at him, thin lips pressed in a firm line.
Tanjirou’s lip quivered.
Then he screamed.
Tanjirou’s chest slammed into the floor when his arms gave out under him, his strained muscles unable to withstand his own weight.
“Giyuu!” His voice a choking wheeze, his lungs still crippled and seizing, shriveled from the efforts of Hinokami Kagura.
With a cheek smeared full of dirt, Tanjirou groaned as his fingers dug pits into the soil, arms trembling with strain to push himself upright, if only just to catch a glimpse of the man.
“Giyuu,” he all but wailed, his vision swimming with the mountain’s monochrome palette.
A darkened silhouette descended over him, the shadow looming like an omen.
Giyuu’s firm hand pressed onto his back, palm between his shoulder blades to keep him down. “You are injured,” he said, as a matter-of-factly. “Stay put.”
“Giyuu!” Tanjirou sobbed, forcing his chin to arc to stare up at the man. Despite his hand on his back, despite the white haori draped over him like a curtain, reality came slowly to him. “Giyuu—you’re alive!”
Giyuu tilted his head.
Shreds of fabric strewn in the snow,
Shards of blood crystallized by his feet,
Fractals of metal, half-buried in delicate ice, shattered and gleaming with the snow’s reflection.
“Yes,” he replied impassively. “I am.”
Tanjirou clung to Giyuu’s sleeve, staining that clean fabric with his own blood and dirt, but the older remained in place. “You’re alive,” he wept, tears and snot blotching his face. “How?”
“I…” A pause, like the man was struggling to form the syllables. “There was…”
Tanjirou wailed louder, and louder. So loud that the entire mountain might’ve heard him, the nasally sound of grief haunting the finally silent forests.
“That day, on the mountain,” he blabbered mindlessly, “I returned home, but my family was gone, and you—”
You died for us.
That floor full of shattered steel haunted Tanjirou just as much as the echoes of his family’s warmth. He had only witnessed the aftermath of what was once a grueling battleground, foolishly resting in a warm futon when his family was slain in cold blood. The mountain had always been quiet, but that day, it was as if all sound had vanished from his home.
Giyuu had barely known them, and yet he’d bled for them, died for them. If the carnage to the surrounding area was evident enough, he had not gone down without a fight.
“Kanzaburo—” he choked out. “He asks Sensei where you’ve gone, every single day.”
The hand on his back drifted on his head, the fingers threading through the hair.
Not to offer comfort, no—instead, he was weaving through the locks and inspecting the scalp, searching for an injury only to find none.
His hand left his head and he distanced itself from Tanjirou. Tanjirou’s head shot up in spite of his screaming body, lips quivering when Giyuu was stepping away, his silhouette framed under the moonlight.
“The Kakushi are almost here,” Giyuu said in lieu of a response, his tone hesitant. “Save your strength to recuperate.”
“Giyuu…?”
But he was already gone.
As if he was nothing more than a trick of the light, a mirage masquerading under the moon.
Once the Kakushi determined Tanjirou was not in life-threatening danger, they tied a cloth around his eyes, held him atop their backs, and carried him away.
The Kakushi, whose name Tanjirou learned to be Goto, was not much for idle chatter. He did not smell unkind, but he wasn’t exactly jumping for joy when the demon slayer seemed more interested in anything else other than his own wounds and lack of sight.
Normally, losing a sixth sense, even temporarily, was enough to unsettle most men. Yet somehow, it only fueled Tanjirou’s thirst for knowledge.
“Say, Goto,” Tanjirou called for the nth time. “Do you know anyone with the name Tomioka Giyuu?”
“The Water Pillar?” The Kakushi’s breath carried over the winds, muffled by his mask and pulsing lungs. “I know of him.”
Tanjirou’s breath caught in his throat. “Giyuu’s a pillar?”
Even then, Goto’s uncertain if the specification was needed—despite the Hashiras’ overwhelming presences among the Corps, to average members like them, they may as well be a folklore of wizen wizards and cloud-tailed foxes.
The Pillars were the pinnacles of strength, the epitome of will personified. But powerful as they were, they were just as elusive. Some said that if you so much as caught a speck of their haoris, you were no better than a walking corpse, for they only descended upon the field only if the moon bled red.
Tanjirou hadn’t been able to witness Giyuu’s prowess in battle, but he had caught a glimpse of his bladework by the kiln. They had been the most beautiful of charcoal pieces, and the villagers were more than willing to pay an extra coin.
“What, you’re friends with him or something?”
Were they? Tanjirou’s made a lot of friends, and while he mourned the lost opportunity to know Giyuu better prior to his death, Giyuu did not seem to reciprocate his friendliness in their time together. He was incredibly kind, but so, so sad.
But that was Giyuu, right? The man in white who’d slain the demon, who held Tanjirou down before he could exacerbate his injuries, whose presence felt more ghost than human.
Was that Giyuu, or had he simply dreamt of him?
“... Is he alive?”
Goto sighed.
“I don’t know, kid,” he said, resigned. “We’re going to headquarters anyways. You’ll be able to see for yourself.”
To—
Where?!
Boiling wistseria was the first scent that filled Tanjirou’s nose.
“Oh my!” chirped a woman’s voice, every syllable painfully curated to the exact tone. “You must’ve been in quite a fight!”
The strip of fabric fell across Tanjirou’s lap, flooding his vision with sunlight.
The shape of narrowed amethyst eyes and upturned lips greeted him, leaving barely inches between their cheeks. Too close, too fast.
“But please cooperate with us even if it hurts, alright?” she continued. “Your testimony would be beneficial for the Corps!”
Tanjirou’s mouth fell open, crusted blood caked on the edges of his lips.
Testimony? The Corps?
Dazed, his gaze drifted to the further end of the garden.
“Be respectful. Or don’t; it’s not my head on the chopping block,” Goto whispered into his ear. “You’re in the presence of the Hashira.”
The meeting took no longer than two sticks of wisteria incense, its smoke wafting delicately under the canopy.
From his position and the Hashiras’ towering forms, he was unable to catch even a glimpse at the rest of the pillars. No matter how far he craned his neck, or how many false, exaggerated coughs left his lying throat, the pillars had devoted and laid all their attention by the Master’s feet as offerings, kneeling for blessings, guidance and wisdom.
The Hashiras smelled of power, of emotion. Every demon slayer had their own story, paths of grief and loss. But the Hashira had honed them into fine tuned weapons of war, wielding their tales sharper than their own swords.
It took every ounce of training and restraint in Tanjirou for him to hold his tongue, to bite down on the soft flesh until it bled only crimson and not accusations.
Only after the meeting, when his mouth tasted of rust and debris and the Hashiras’ airtight discipline loosened did he dare to speak, “P-please, wait!”
With trained precision, several heads turned to him in unison, snapping to attention like soldiers in war. In a way, they all were, only there was no end to this war against demons.
Now that the pillars were fanned out, their features revealed itself to him. Some wore expressions of irritation, some of curiosity, and some simply turned on their heels and left.
But no Giyuu.
If there was anyone that might know Giyuu, it was his colleagues, surely?
“Yes, boy?” boomed the Flame Pillar, with untamed manes of fire and eyes of molten gold. “Speak now before we depart! Deliciousness awaits us beyond these gates!”
“I… I—”
A white haori, a dead man walking.
“Please tell me!” he blurted. “Is Tomioka Giyuu alive?”
A field full of snow, blood and metal.
The smile on the Flame Pillar’s face shifted. Not uncomfortably, but clearly taken by surprise. “Why, what business do you have with Tomioka?” His boisterous voice carried over the space between them.
The Insect Pillar chuckled, the sound crawling like spiders in Tanjirou’s ears. “Has Tomioka finally made a friend?” she mused. “Or perhaps another enemy seeking vengeance?”
Tanjirou sucked in a breath. “He… saved me and my sister,” he rasped. No straight answers, no outright confirmations. “Please, I need to know if he’s alive. He’s a Pillar, right? S-surely, you must know him?”
“I am afraid Tomioka and I are merely colleagues!” spoke the Flame Pillar. “Well, we were colleagues!”
Tanjirou’s heart dropped.
“Is he—”
“Now, now, let’s not jump to any unsavory conclusions, shall we?” The Insect Pillar smiled. “Rather than us, why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Tanjirou followed her outstretched finger, a sharpened nail guiding his eyes towards what appeared to be the very edge of the garden: an obscure corner blossoming with wisteria, a pocket of tranquility in a ground full of purpose.
White silks and flowers rustled in the winds. The blooms parted like a bride’s veil, giving way to pale skin and sapphire eyes.
Tanjirou’s body moved long before his mind registered the sight.
Giyuu.
His gradual steps broke out into a sprint, the soles of his feet digging into the blunt edges of the stone. His knees trembled from exertion, forcing him into a stumble, but his will drove him forward, forward, because the man might disappear if he so much as looked away.
“Giyuu!”
The man within the wisteria turned.
But the hand that pried the flowers aside was someone else’s.
A man with pink hair and lavender eyes stood before Tanjirou, his body blocking Giyuu’s—no, he can’t, he’ll disappear again—and seemingly slotting comfortably into place, being between them to act as a barrier, an obstacle, a smokescreen or buffer. None of it mattered; not when he’s so close—
“Giyuu?” the man demanded, turning in bewilderment. “You know this guy?”
Tanjirou held his breath as Giyuu stepped forward, looking over the man’s shoulder and directly at him, expression unreadable.
For a beat, Giyuu did not answer and Tanjirou daren’t to breathe. Then:
“No,” said Giyuu, unknowing the gentle word was a guillotine aimed at the boy’s neck. “Not personally, no.”