(He wished he could forever consign his memories of Kyoujurou's pain to oblivion, he had never seen him bloody, never seen him so weakened and sick, so out of this world that he might as well have been moved to the afterlife, the thought of seeing his brother dangling from the sky as a shiny star forever drifts in Senjurou's head. And only after the horrid words were exchanged with a lone letter, did the medical staff eventually manage to stabilize his undefinable body, for months he laid alone on a bed, at the tip of death's door, unconscious, split apart, and battered, he was a shell that held a dying sun. He prays to the gods that it hasn't been vanquished.
Hearing about his brothers' condition from a symbol of misfortune, presented by sharp talons and a dark beak, Senjurou could only drown in his despair at the news, let the cool void take over in daybreak, while letting hot tears swell in the same eyes as his predecessors. Needle poked at his gut, imperceptible thorns wrapped around his knees, yet they needn't tug, for he already has fallen beyond comprehension with the weight of his heart, heavy and suffocating.
The soothing voice says as it always does whenever Senjurou shatters like the tokkuri under his father's heat. Weak to a force far greater than itself, though the unspoken tenderness feels bitter now, affectionate sentence nullified by the dam that broke in his eyes, eyes that held determination for something that even to himself was unknown, the determination that will forever be hidden underneath the waves of sorrow, lost and deemed to never find a purpose in a world far greater than he.
"-you have an older brother, a brother who believes in you." And for the first time, since he was a babe, Senjurou wailed loudly, for his brother, for himself, and the future, for he was now living in something far worse than any nightmare his mind could conjure.
In a way he was selfish, but understandably so. His heart bled guilt, knowing it could do no good in a situation as dire as this.
That night, the loud cries broke the quietness rigorously kept by its master. Prayers filled the air devoid of wind, fingers were to intervene with each other as a boy begged for his brother's life, for his forgiveness, he begged for anything to ground him from the desperation of grief.
The touch of comfort never came, it left a cold dent on his shoulders and robbed him of his voice.
The tears never stopped, the boy's voice only got quieter.
🌦
A letter arrived the next morning from the Butterfly Mansion, informing him and his father of what he thought to be his brother, his corpse.
However, the smooth paper fell on the tatami. He remembers shaking and exhaling what little air entered his burning lungs. Weakened knees fell like the petals of a wilted flower, and his torso followed. Thorns burned red, angry color disappeared as soon as it arose in the chasm of his ribs. The ash felt light to hold in his hands, the boy would never miss the feeling.
Senjurou was thankful, oh so thankful of the Kakushi that found his brother soon after the ordeal, that what the crow said was false. He shakingly thanked the gods that answered his prayer in a broken and hoarse voice, unbelonging to a young man such as himself. Tears were spilled and quivers were outweighed by harmless symphonies of the birds hidden in cherry blossoms. Its petals decorated their garden as the wind carried his weeping, cries that turned into screams of anguish and gratitude, toward his father once again.
He remembers how the older man stood over him in furious confusion, yet he dared not speak a word, Senjurou remembers looking up and meeting his father's features, the same unruly hair, and fair skin overshadowed by the sunlight, layers upon layers of secrets kept the true light hidden behind his crown of red ends that met the blue of his yukata. Senjurou must have been a pathetic sight to see for such a hardened man. Regardless, the younger no longer cared as he pointed at the letter, tossing what little sentences he could spill out of his trembling lips at the elder and then questioning if his father heard a single syllable he said with a distorted voice. The rest was blurry.
It went by in seconds, it lasted an eternity, his father's reaction he had not seen, nor had he remembered ever looking at anything beyond the shadows of his tears, his hysterical crying must have had brought out the adult from his hollow, annoyed. He must have been annoyed with seeing his son choking on his tears on the ground, clenching his abdomen in fright. or perhaps he was worried. He begged for the latter to be reality.
The firm grasp father had on his shoulder was not felt over the clearance, the grip constricted.
His father's response to the letter was unforeseen. Senjurou only remembered the yells, the anger, the sadness and cries but never despise in those eyes. (His brother said so.) pucker rests in between his eyebrows, the golden eyes widened in shock, grief, and relief, his mouth and fists stayed clenched. Until they didn't.
(It was then that Senjuro realized the sake gourd was nowhere in sight.)
Kyoujurou's emergency treatment went well in the Butterfly Mansion, his father was told the loss of blood and the severity of his wounds meant Kyoujurou would remain bedridden for days, possibly weeks, months. Senjurou wanted to see him, to support him, similar to how his big brother always did when Senjurou was injured, he craved to see. However, his father held him back, even when Senjurou begged with tears and snot running down his swollen face, a voice hoarse and no longer belonging to a human, his father did not change his mind.
(Shinjurou knew. He knew that Kyoujurou barely made it, that he died multiple times on the cold table while the doctors tried to desperately find a problem that wasn't there, the skin was healed, the blood regenerated, muscles and organs miraculously tended all thanks to a demon. Yet Kyoujurou died four times, he was informed that his body was in confusion, that it tried to find a way to deal with the aftermath of his body being gutted, it fought against the she-demons healing, art that his immune system recognized as an unfamiliar intrusion and tore itself apart, leaving him with internal wounds. He was alive, barely breathing on his own. Kyojuro's pale face could only belong to a dead man. A dead but intact man.
There were reports of his eye having been regenerated as well.
It was a sight only veterans could see. Hardened with battles and bloodshed.
Shinjurou knew something Senjurou would never know, he wouldn't let him.)
🌦
Two months went by with Shinjurou occasionally visiting the Mansion for a word about his eldest's health, having to quarrel with his youngest every time to obey him once in his pitiable life and not follow him, because it all seemed hopeless, a lost cause of a situation that is only Kyoujurou's fault, the warnings his eldest son couldn't listen to and that unwelcomed determination for throwing away his life to save one person while two others fall somewhere else by the hands of their enemy, he had no words left to let out because the warnings were useless, the warned situation already took place, and his son choose this outcome.
Shinjurou won't let himself soil his son's choice.
He only gets a glimpse of the Flame Hashira's rested face, his pale complexion, as he sits and awaits any movement, any indication of him recovering, responding to his calls. Shinjurou is not patient, often giving up and departing the room as it was, undisturbed.
(Because he is so small, helpless, and sick to look at. He is drowning in blankets and cool cloths to balance his temperature. The coma drains him of life. It does not remind him of the past, especially not Kyoujurou's smile that the world had not conquered.
It still rests on his face, burning the darkness and bringing light to his undeserving father.)
Shinjurou lost count of how many times he found himself coming back, only to be met with disappointment and a heart in his hands. The organ beats loudly in his ears, there is an empty feel in his chest cavity.
(He doesn't know if it's his of Kyoujurou's.
It bleeds.
It beats.
It lives.
Shinjurou can't help but feel as if a part of him dies with every visit.)
🌦
The Rengoku estate is subtle, the unforeseen comfort hangs above the heads of those who dwell. Silence is an observation that only the inhabitants are cursed with. A proof of rumors that spread like wildfire, going from branch to branch and onto the green forest floor. Smoke chokes the birds that soar the skies with no obstacles, they collapse on the bedding, sinking. No news makes it out alive. The inhabitants are trembled.
🌦
The day his eyes opened was a grim one, the white sky revealed itself from the curtain, and it cried thin tears upon the land, quenching the thirst across the soil. The steady sound of droplets meeting the solid filled the atmosphere while a man lay in the quiet space. Exhausted eyes slowly took in the sight of the room. A cracked and empty vase next to his bed, the white covers and the darkness opposite his bed brought the chilliness that the covers couldn't shield him from. His unruly hair framing the edges of his vision has long lost the shine it once held.
A door opened, and in came a blurry figure. Muffled voice spoke before darting out of the room.
He was thirsty. Cold.
Dancing across his vision were the dark spots.
Kyoujurou softly closed his eyes, slowed by the heaviness of his eyelids, no longer hearing those who entered his enclosure.
He was so hot.
🌦
The flame Hashira was deemed fit enough to be finally discharged from the estate, after what felt like an eternity of fearing for his brother's health, Senjurou finally got to see him awake, the same disheveled hair overflowing from the bandages that covered the left side of his face. Senjurou remembers his father, somewhat presentable with only a few wrinkles shown on his kimono, pushing Kyoujurou out of the room. Kyoujurou with a soft smile adorning his sheltered face, rested calmly on the wooden wheelchair in the Butterfly Estates uniform. He still remembered the relief he felt as he got closer to his older brother, his mind acknowledging little of the elephant in the room, the feeling of how he wanted to hug Kyoujurou and cry into his brother's arms clawed at him, and the tears that surfaced were pushed down. He had to be strong, for his brothers' sake. For his own sake.
Senjurou had been told by the girls that Kyojuro would be asleep for most of his stay in the Rengoku estate; he had been told of his disabilities and was given medicine to soothe and lower the temperature of his brother's fevers. His brother has trained far longer than him to be the strongest in his generation, never knowing of the heat boiling within, yet the spoiled part of him thought about the times when he would see his brother in a state of vulnerability Kyoujurou would never let himself be, not because he is ashamed, but the position of an elder brother he did not ask for, still needed to be filled.
Senjurou does not wish to think about what his existence means in this household.
Senjurou has to be cautious with the way his hands would touch the muscles he has to massage if he doesn't want to be the cause of another minor injury on his weakened brother's body. It was not tiring as much as it was painful for him to see his brother in that condition. Drifting through the endless rooms filled with pointless ornaments that collected dust as the days moved by. Surrounded by family yet alone all the same, next to strangers who shared one blood and a distance that is hidden six feet under the headstone.
Helpless and forever mutilated. But Senjurou knows that behind all the pain and suffering his brother has withstood and still is withstanding, there were so many things worthy of relief.
(It was hard to see Kyoujurou's moments of soundlessness when the oil lamp was on the brink of snuffing out or when he sat on the engawa staring through the floor, lost in empty thought.
Senjurou could only watch from afar as his brother became someone he could no longer fathom. A shell of a person who tried to come back alive through the injuries hindering him.
The songs of crickets hid a horrible sense of shame inside Senjurou, guilt slowly but surely spilled out of him, carefully tangling itself in the atmosphere whenever he pulled at the bandages that were so out of place on his Kyoujurou's myscled arms. The words that were so familiar yet unsolved danced on the tip of his tongue, however as much as he tried to sway them outwards, they suddenly vanished and left a concerned expression on his complexion. It was always Kyoujurou who questioned him about the wide eyes and agape mouth, though Senjurou always ended up turning away from him. )
Within a few weeks, he discovered that as much as he attempted to blow the smoke away from his family, a family blessed by the eternal flame, it is easier for them to burn with their feelings than to share.
And to the kids' horror, he concluded that young Senjurou was no better.
🌦
There were days when everything seemed otherworldly, ghostly even, similar to the veil of thin clouds that kept the flame estate in its shadows, the sky is often rid of any color and the moist grass below still emitts a smell like no other.
The rooms hold an orange glow as the light sources come alive. Enlightening the residents.
Some days are promising for Senjurou, some handful with bandages and specially made ointments. However, not even death could compare to the brutal torment that seeing Kyojuro with no strength brought, the light of the eldest son that burned out forever left its mark on the Rengoku tree, dark and powdery, ashes full of hope now still beside the healthy wood.
Kyoujurou wonders when he'll be strong enough to withstand it. He has to get powerful and healthier. It's a wonder how he doesn't get burnt from the fevers that don't drop. How his blood doesn't boil under his father's heated gaze, his father who trades no words of anger to his son who built himself a bridge to cross a cliff only for it to crumble after the first step, tossing him over the horizon.
Kyoujurou built himself for others. Now, he lies in his own making, turning into ash slowly but surely.
It doesn't help that he no longer wants to look at Senjurou and see the pity directed at him. His sibling does well to conceal it. Sometimes, after getting his treatment with the help of his younger brother, Kyoujurou does not wish to see at all. Yet he stares and thinks as his own eyes gaze back at him, skittish and horribly put together. He smiles as another version of him, his father looks on and takes care.
There's a hole inside of him, a hole that made itself known after his last fight (the last ever fight he'll participate in). Unlike the physical injury, Kyoujurou thinks that this one only got bigger. Kyoujurou feels himself become a vessel as his legs become naught but dead weight, tied down to the earth with sharp treads he can't even see. Let alone feel.
Senjurou wipes his body down, and Kyoujurou feels nothing but the void and the cold, cold air the morning brings.
He goes after his own flesh. Drifting in the middle of the room, his palms come in contact with his clothes and there should be something there. There is something on his palms. His thighs rest right under his hand—
But there is no hand to feel, the caress bringing pure emptiness on the table where nothing but the Nichirin Sword lies. His bones are complete. The flesh, half-rotten. Veins cut, and it makes his heart tear at its own ties against his ribcage, the dead weight he is forever doomed to carry forever, staring him in the eyes.
When the bones ache in his elbows, or when he feels nothing but the cold past his chest, eyes stuck shut, he thinks and thinks of nothing yet everything all at once. The exhaustion visits and never leaves. Despite his mind wondering in the past, his decision during the fight with the Upper-moon is never visited.
He could close his eyes, open them, and still feel it all drag him down, his very own self now became an obstacle he wants to be helpless against, the massive wall is built in front of him, he compares himself to that of an ant staring at a tree from down below, unlike the creature, Kyoujurou is not given the ability to cling onto the surface and cross over to the other side, no, he has taken it all for granted.
The morning walks, the delicious food made from the bruised hands of the elderly, the ability and the way of the sword. If he helped a single person with the abilities he was given since birth, he will say that his life was not wasted.
Thus he is thankful to be alive. Even when his flesh does nothing but rot on the futon his brother has prepared, the useless meat clings onto his bones, and Kyoujurou can feel none of it. Even when weeks go by and Senjurou starts massaging— or should he say, exercising his dead half.
Kyoujurou only smiles when he sees his knees bend and feet roll in the ankle.
His brother's eyes speak of determination, while Kyojuro's invisible injury answers with cruel honesty. Senjurou moves his leg in a circle.
Kyojuro feels none of the movement.
("You'll get better soon!" The little flame says with such determination that Kyoujurou can only try to keep up.
"I know you will." Those words are laced with the Will of Flame, and Kyoujurou feels his throat clog up. The harsh sentence gnaws at his tongue: You should put that determination elsewhere. Kyoujurou dares not address it, because asking for a sibling to give up on one of their own, is not something anyone has to hear.
Senjurou has always been his pillar.
Kyoujurou can't find better words, so he doesn't answer. )
He shouldn't have taken it all for granted.
🌦
Doctors speak of confusion, uncertainty, and procedures that put his oldest's life at risk. They inform and give him the ointments to rub over the wounds. The container is heavy in his palm. There's a burn that comes with staying silent in these situations, a burn that slowly spreads from the heart and into whatever else the human body may be hiding. It shows no mercy as it eradicates the nerves.
He should say something suitable for him.
He should slam the medicine on the floor, speak of how Kyoujurou doesn't need it.
They'll blame the alcohol.
(He doesn't remember the last time he drank himself into amnesia. The liquor needs a certain mood, negative or positive reasoning, yet the storm that has plagued his mind does not meet the criteria. It is not going anywhere. It doesn't even let him enjoy.
He can't find it in himself.)
They always do.
("We can't lay a hand on his body. The internal wounds should be healing by now, all thanks to the girls' Demon Art."
It healed him again like it wasn't the very thing that tore Kyoujurou's insides.
"The immune system no longer seems to be attacking any vital points, so his body has gotten used to the unknown presence that was her power, that's especially nice considering that it's slowly being drained out of his system.")
Shinjurou pays a visit to the lonely patches of grass that surrounds the land. The smell left by the rain is nostalgic.
("However, even if it seems that his condition is stable enough, the nerves can't seem to function, along with a couple of his organs. As I mentioned, the boost of regeneration the Art caused is slowly leaving the body. It sustained and got the organs working independently from each other. However, now that the body is going back to the way it was before... The incident... They don't... How should I say this?"
"Cooperate Ma'am." A girl aids the woman.
"Ah yes, thank you, Kiyo-chan.")
He puts his palms together and brings it to his face.
("There's a higher probability that the nerves will never connect."
His dry lips stick to each other. Shinjuro feels the Oni of this conversation coming before the woman can spew out the words that will confirm his thoughts.
"Shinjurou-San."
He does not look away from her eyes. He doesn't even brace himself.
"Your son will never walk again.")
Shinjuro does not know what he is praying for anymore.
He wishes for the hand of a woman long gone.
