Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Higa village seemed peaceful.

The princess paid little attention to the people or soldiers around her. They parted for her the way they always did—quickly, some with downcast eyes, others with apprehension. She had no energy to manage their comfort. She had no energy for much of anything that wasn't forward motion these days. The eyepatch over her wound limited her vision, periphery cut to her left side. Three days in, and she still had to recalibrate constantly, reaching instinctively to the right before the absence caught her. 

The pain was manageable so far. She needed to think clearly, and the medicine from the palace doctor had only clouded her mind. Sara had argued, but the princess had not engaged in the conversation.

As she stood at the edge of the village and watched her soldiers finish their sweep, she sighed a deep, drawn-out breath. The village elder had given them what little he had: sightings and rumours dressed up as fact, stories made to bolster his own ego and foster hers in return. She'd listened, she filed it away, and then she dismissed him. The accounts were consistent enough to be useful; that was all she needed.

Sara appeared at her shoulder with perfectly timed precision, waiting for the right moment to approach. "There are no reports from the camp on Kannazuka, but my family’s personnel will alert the army as soon as he shows himself.” 

“Good." The princess didn't turn around.

She was thinking about the fight at Byakko Plain. She had never stopped thinking about the fight, replaying it so many times that the memory had worn smooth. His face, his hands, the absolute rage, and the snap decision he'd made to maim her. She understood it; that was the part she hadn't expected, the part that sat wrong like an obi tied too tight. 

It was the first time he’d appeared to her as a human. 

And he understood exactly why he'd done it, having spent thirteen years understanding the shape of his anger and his intentions from a distance. They both had a need to lash out at everything and anything when the world wouldn’t listen. 

Yes, she understood that well. But understanding didn't make her eye grow back. 

She tamped the thought down, there was no use in it. "How long to Watatsumi?" she asked instead. 

"Two hours crossing, perhaps less with this wind." Sara's voice was measured. "Lady Sangonomiya will know we're coming before we arrive. She monitors the waters."

"I know."

People might view operating in resistance territory without notice as a provocation." Sara paused. "The Commission's relationship with Watatsumi is already —"

"I know that, too." The princess turned from the village and began walking toward the shore. "We go anyway. We do what needs to be done, and we leave. If Sangonomiya wants to make something of it, she can bring it to me directly."

"Yes, Your Highness."

The path to the water was uneven, loose sediment shifting underfoot. The princess adjusted her footing without breaking stride, recalibrating again for the missing half of her vision. Her depth perception still betrayed her on unpaved ground. She'd learned to slow down slightly, to let her remaining eye do the work the other one no longer could. 

Sara had noticed and without an order, compensated by accompanying the princess on her blind side. It was one of the things the princess relied on most, their unspoken communication, and occasionally resented. The water came into view below them, grey-green and restless under an overcast sky. Conditions outside were worsening again. The princess watched it without expression.

Her mother had seen her as she left, though Yae Miko had attempted a conversation that she would not entertain. Until her brother was dealt with, she would follow her mother’s single order: to deal with him, even if that meant leaving the country to manage itself for a short time. The orders the princess operated under now were her own—distilled from years of watching and waiting and trying to understand what her mother wanted without being told. 

She had become very good at it, despite not wanting to. 

She thought about the demon in Watatsumi's waters. The pull of it, distant but present, the wrongness that had drawn her here. Three remaining. She had learned to feel them the way one felt a change in the air before a rainstorm: a pressure, some warmth, and a coalescing. It was a new sensation that—much like her single eye—would disappear soon. 

"Your Highness." Sara's voice was careful. "Are you certain about Watatsumi? We could approach through—"

"I'm certain."

Sara said nothing more. The princess appreciated that about her—she pushed exactly once and then let it go. It was a skill most people never learned.

The shore was close now. The princess could hear waves against the rocks below, could smell the salt on the wind. She adjusted her footing again on the last stretch of path, slower than she would have been a week ago.

There was a demon in Watatsumi's waters. A camp existed on Kannazuka. There was work to be done, and no one was going to do it for her.

"Let's move," she said, and walked on.

—————

Early dawn light filtered through the broken windows and collapsed roof. Lumine didn’t remember dozing off, but when she opened her eyes, her eyelashes clung together, sticky from sleep and the remnants of tears. Memories of the night before flooded her head one by one: Aether saving her from the centipede, the half-hearted defence of his actions… and his abandonment.

It had drained what little fight was left in her. Her guiding star had been snatched from the sky, leaving her aimless and more alone than she’d ever felt in her life. Yet, the body she leaned against, more solid than it should be, reminded her she wasn’t completely alone. They’d moved in the night, not much, but she leaned against his back instead of his side.

He breathed in tandem with her, definitely awake. 

“You’re up.” Lumine said, because she couldn't stand to sit in silence. 

Kunikuzushi hummed in response. 

As more of the previous night filtered through her mind, the one truth she’d been too afraid to confront in the moment stood front and center, and suddenly the presence at her back wasn’t so comforting; it only brought her guilt. 

She recalled the words Aether had spoken. Warning after warning flickered through her thoughts. The ronin, months ago, who spoke of a man in white, the doctor himself, who should have had no way of knowing her name, even Kunikuzushi, who’d mentioned the doctor received foreign-sounding visitors. 

There was a realization that she should’ve known better, that she’d had the pieces and could not put them together until the answer himself was staring her in the face. 

“How can you stand me?” It slipped out, begging to be answered, because if she were in his shoes, she would’ve been furious. “The doctor mutilated you…my brother helped, and I—” She couldn’t force the rest out. 

She couldn’t risk a glance at him, didn’t want to see his expression or his anger directed at her. But she heard his thumb press under the guard of his katana. Anticipating a sharp retort or an emotional outburst, she waited, but the noise stopped. The blade never left its sheath; a single breath left him instead.

“I didn’t know he was your brother.” Kunikuzushi’s voice lowered to a whisper. “I recognized his voice. He was the last visitor the doctor had before I left.”

There was no malice or contempt in him, and it broke something inside her. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, if I’d known I never would have—” she never would have asked him to come with her to find Aether. 

Lumine felt the blood drain from her face. It felt like some sick joke. Kunikuzushi—blind, mute Kunikuzushi—had stood in the same space as her brother, heard his voice and been within reach of him.

All this time.

Even if he hadn’t known who Aether was.

And she had dragged him across the islands searching for someone who had already affected his life in the worst way. Kunikuzushi, who had spent months helping her, travelling with her and enduring her desperation, was the one person who knew where her brother was—the only other person in all of Inazuma who would have recognized Aether, outside of Ayaka. And he had been incapable of recognizing him. 

The irony was suffocating.

She laughed once under her breath, brittle and hollow. “You were closer to him than I ever was. And I defended him; I argued with you. I thought you were just—” 

Every time she had spoken highly of her brother ran through her head like a looping song. Her praise of Aether’s character and insistence that he would never willingly leave were a version only she knew now, one who lived in the past. And Kunikuzushi had been there for every word. 

How could he not think her naive—she shook her head, unable to finish the self-deprecating thought. “I don’t understand how you don’t hate me?” 

“You love him,” Kunikuzushi replied.

“That doesn’t make me any less responsible.” She murmured. If she hadn’t been blinded by love, by devotion, maybe she could’ve seen the cracks in their relationship. Maybe he wouldn’t have left as quickly, maybe, maybe— 

“Yes,” he whispered. “It does.”

She stilled at the interruption. Rarely did he ever contradict her so directly, preferring to let her fumble in silence until she realized her mistake. 

Kunikuzushi’s voice came out hushed, almost gentle, as if not to startle her. “You are not responsible for another person’s actions.” 

"But—" she started.

"But nothing." His voice was quiet but unmovable. "You're trying to make yourself responsible for his choices."

"He's my brother—"

"And the Shogun is my mother." The comparison landed like a stone. "Does that make me responsible for the contract? For every village her soldiers destroyed?"

"That's different—"

"How?"

She opened her mouth. Then closed it, unsure where he was going with this.

"If you can still look at me," Kunikuzushi continued, relentlessly now, "and claim that I don't carry the sins of this country on my back, then the same is true for you." He paused, then delivered the final blow: "Do not turn yourself into a hypocrite because it is easier than being angry at him."

She couldn’t utter a single counter, not when her own logic was thrown back at her like that. The guilt and the fury burned away, leaving a single ember of anger that she didn’t want to tend anymore. Lumine let herself lean back against him, stealing a small piece of support from the only stable pillar in her life within reach. 

“I'm still mad at him.” The admission escaped like hot air. 

His voice was low. "You should be."

"Is it wrong that I wanted him to choose me?" Her head rolled back, too heavy for her own shoulders, resting it on Kunikuzushi’s. "I wanted him to come back."

"I know."

"But he didn't."

"He didn't."

The finality of it settled over her, but it was lighter than the guilt had been. Because this wasn't her fault. She'd spent over a year chasing him. And he'd spent that same year running. She couldn't fix that. Couldn't change it. Couldn't make him love her enough to stay; no, that wasn’t true. She was sure he still loved her in his own way, but it was not the type of love she needed from him, or wanted. 

All she could do now was set him free, but…“I don't know how to let him go,” she whispered.

Kunikuzushi's hand found hers in the dim light. "Neither do I."

His mother, her brother. Both of them were carrying families who'd chosen something over them. 

—————

It would take time for the reality that Aether’s choices weren’t her fault to settle, but the small amount of absolution Kunikuzushi offered had done wonders for her turbulent mind. There was a strange sense of relief that came from being freed from the purpose that had dictated her life for over nineteen months. 

There were other things she had to worry about: the yokai, the agreement she’d made with Ayato, the princess, but for once, none of those threats stood in front of her. 

And so she could breathe.

"We should have breakfast," Kunikuzushi said, breaking the silence. "Actual food. Not dried rations."

Lumine blinked, pulled from her thoughts. "Now?" 

Yesterday had passed in a blur, between Aether and fighting the centipede. The moon still hung in the sky despite the ever-encroaching sunlight. She couldn’t have slept more than a few hours. 

"When else?" He was already moving, gathering their meagre supplies. "We have time. And you need to eat."

"I'm not hungry—" 

"You haven't eaten since yesterday morning." He said matter-of-factly, "And you cried for three hours."

Did he really have to point that out? She wanted to argue or chastise him for his continued lack of tact, but he was right.

"Fine," she conceded. “What do you want me to—”

Lumine was so used to doing all the cooking that she was stunned when Kunikuzushi, of his own volition, lit a small fire in the brazier in the corner of the room. He fumbled as he set a grate over the ceramic pot, then a small pot filled with water and their remaining rice. He looked as if he’d been cooking all his life, a far cry from the man she’d had to stop from eating raw fish five months ago. 

She stood from her spot near the window and wandered over to observe. “You’re pretty familiar with that.” 

“I know the general location of everything in this house, or what’s left of it. I could do this much growing up.” He sighed, exasperated. “Don’t expect anything fancy.” 

She didn’t. Instead, she found purpose, gathered more kindling for the fire, skewering a few wild mushrooms—ones she’d picked far from the mass grave—onto thin wooden sticks to grill. Kunikuzushi prepared the rice, his hands moving with practiced ease despite his lack of sight. As the fire caught and the water boiled, the tight knot in Lumine's chest began to loosen. She watched, entranced, as he stirred the pot, wondering if he’d done this a lot as a child. 

Lumine realized that despite travelling together for months, she knew so little about his life. "How did you spend your time growing up?"

Kunikuzushi was quiet for a moment.

"Being pushed and pulled around by others," he said finally. "Some put food in my mouth when I needed to eat and laid my head down when I needed to sleep. I got by on my own, eventually."

"That sounds..." She didn't know how to finish.

"Lonely?" he supplied. "I knew there were people around me, but I couldn't interact with them, or speak, hear or see." He paused. "When I got upset, I'd throw things to show emotion. When I was sad, I'd refuse to eat."

Lumine's chest tightened, imagining a child's version of him—frustrated, isolated, unable to communicate. "What about when you were happy?" she asked softly.

He smiled faintly. "I can't say much about the first eight years of my life. But when I got my hearing, it was like the entire world opened up. Suddenly, I could learn a trade and play with the other children my age. I had a purpose."

She recalled the early days of their partnership, when he’d written complex characters into her skin. Learning communication through touch couldn’t have been easy, but as she watched him work now, as relaxed as ever, cooking a simple meal, his hands held a new meaning for her. Those same hands had held her through the night as she cried, fixed her sword, and had forged his own weapon. 

"Your katana," Lumine realized.

"My katana," he agreed, voice fond. "Katsuragi taught me the trade. Said I had a knack for it. That my other senses made me better at listening for qualities in metal that others wouldn’t notice." He added more water to the pot. "It was the first time I felt like I was good at something."

She wasn’t sure if that last sentence was meant for her ears. Nevertheless, Lumine felt the need to share something of her own, not wanting the conversation to end. 

"I had a good childhood," she offered after a moment. "I went to school in the fall and winter. I played with friends. Aether and I—" her voice caught slightly on his name, but she pushed through "—we raced paper boats in the stream in spring and snuck off to steal grapes from the vineyard in summer. Then we'd go to Starsnatch Cliff to watch the stars until someone dragged us back home."

She smiled despite herself. “But I always knew there was something different about me," Lumine intoned. “The night I was born probably didn't help." 

The moon was pale and ghostly against the foggy blue sky by the time the food was done. Lumine served herself a small bowl and left the rest in the pot for Kunikuzushi. 

"Our mother laboured for hours," she continued, unsure why she felt the need to tell him this story. Perhaps it was the full moon, or the quiet company, but the urge to unburden herself made her tongue loose. "Aether was born with the rise of the sun, and I was born with the rise of the moon."

Kunikuzushi collected the pot, listening as he ate. 

“People in Mondstadt aren’t as superstitious as they are here. They don’t have old fables or ghost stories to talk about, so they gossip about their neighbours.” A faint, too-tight smile crossed her face as she quoted a line she'd heard. “‘From the moment of her birth, she feared the light.’”

One of her hands fiddled with a lock of her golden hair. Even she could see the irony in the statement. 

“The old women at the cathedral had a name for children born while the clock’s midnight bells rang. A chime child, they called it. Said we walked between worlds, that strange doors opened for us that stayed closed for everyone else, that we were touched by the spirits.” She paused. “I think it was a roundabout way of saying I was strange. That I didn't fit in the way Aether did.” 

"Even when I tried to avoid it, it always came back to that stupid story—our parents used to say Aether and I were the sun and moon. Day and night. He was meant for the light—for being seen, for being the heir, for carrying the family name. And I was meant for..."

"Shadows," Kunikuzushi said quietly.

"To be second. Wasted potential." She corrected, looking up at the moon, still faintly visible. "Everything I have, I borrowed from him. His summer birthday, his golden hair, his bright eyes. Even his destiny, in a way. But being born at night? That was the only thing that was well and truly mine.” 

“I think I resented it, being the moon to his sun.” She glanced down at her sword, the crescent hilt, and the empty sheath that had once belonged to Aether. “I see it every time I look at my sword. His is cross-shaped, to remind him of his bright future. Mine is a crescent moon, to remind me of mine." 

She loved her sword, more for what it allowed her to do than where it came from, but when she thought of all the things it had done for her, protected her, broken for her, and been repaired with a piece of Inazuma, maybe she and her sword didn’t have to be reminders of anything. 

“But maybe I was wrong about the moon," she said, “And about being tied to Aether and Mondstadt too." 

Mondstadt felt like a far off memory most days. Inazuma hadn’t been the kindest to her, the country had almost killed her multiple times, but it was still beautiful, and the people—

She glanced down at her sword, turning it slightly so the crescent hilt caught the dim light. "My sword has a little piece of Inazuma in it now, thanks to you. Who's to say I can't carry a little too?" It was a nice idea to think she could belong somewhere, even in the smallest way. 

Kunikuzushi stilled.

"There’s nothing wrong with darkness." Then, almost absently, he raised two fingers toward his own eyes. "Or the moon." A beat. "You should be glad you weren't born like everyone else."

He said it the way he said everything: flatly and without flourish. Like being marked and strange and born at the wrong hour was obviously something to be grateful for rather than ashamed of. 

It strangely reminded her of Ayaka. 

Lumine smiled. "I told Ayaka all this once too, and you know what she did? She said we should offer thanks to the moon on my behalf. She called it Tsukimi. A moon-viewing festival. I liked her stories of the moon and night a lot better than the ones the old ladies told.”

“You say you want a piece of Inazuma, but you already know more of our culture than most.” He said nonchalantly. 

She laughed. “I’ve just had practice with a few specific customs. When Ayaka and I did Tsukimi as children, we had to arrange all these dango perfectly, light lanterns just right, and recite poems in this specific order. It was all very proper, but it was nice to be included.” 

His lips quirked imperceptibly, as if he found something funny. 

She batted his shoulder. “What’s that look for?”

“I take it back. You know nothing.” 

Lumine frowned. “Are you saying I did it wrong?”

"That's how nobles do it. There is a simpler version."

"How did it go then?"

"Families sat outside, roasted chestnuts, sang songs to the moon, and didn't worry about making everything perfect," he said. "The point was enjoying it, not showing off."

Lumine closed her eyes, trying to imagine it, picturing it happening in this very village. Of a small Kunikuzushi who was present for every festival, even if he couldn’t take part. “I’d like to see your version.”

Kunikuzushi shrugged. "It was much easier to maintain; I’ve never liked fanfare." He tilted his head slightly, as if remembering a moment long gone. "And I always imagined chestnuts would taste better than dango." 

Lumine smiled weakly. “Of course you’d say that.” 

Despite the thoughts of dango or fancy foods, Lumine sat cross-legged with a warm, half-eaten bowl of rice porridge and grilled mushrooms in her lap. The meal hadn’t been seasoned with anything, but she thought it might’ve been the best thing she’d eaten in a long, long time. Meals tasted better when they were shared after all. 

—————

Kunikuzushi felt the weight of her head grow heavier against his shoulder. Lumine's breathing had evened out during their conversation about Tsukimi, her body going slack in that boneless way that meant she'd finally fallen asleep, relieved of all her burdens. He didn't want to risk waking her when she’d hardly slept the night before, so he sat very still and tried not to think about where they were.

It was easy to imagine he was somewhere else, to posture that he was discovering one of Inazuma’s many islands for the first time. The smells, the tastes, the sensations were all new. He was experiencing the place he’d grown up as if it were brand new. 

But he failed. 

Kannazuka sounded the same, even without its residents. The ravine still swallowed the wind, and the distant rush of water carried through the cliffs. Even his own footsteps came back to him differently here—hollow, metallic, as if the island itself still remembered the forges. Twenty years. He'd lived here for twenty years, then avoided it in favour of travelling, inwardly hoping he’d never have to come back—like it would be easy to forget.

Carefully, he shifted Lumine's weight so she was lying down, head pillowed on her pack. She mumbled something incoherent but didn't wake up. He pulled out his veil and laid it over her, lingering to listen to her inhalations a moment longer than necessary, then stood.

He should have stayed to keep watch, but his feet were already moving.

—————

He hadn't decided where he was going. His body just—went. Following paths worn into muscle memory, past the residential area and the mines. The air changed as he walked—cooler, damper. His footsteps changed from packed earth to loose dirt, and the sun's warmth disappeared from his skin as trees that had grown taller in ten years eclipsed the sky. 

Out of all the places his feet could’ve carried him, this area was perhaps the last he would’ve expected. 

The clearing was small and enclosed, hard to escape and impossible to get lost in. His hand found the tree trunk, the one he'd hidden behind when he was eight years old, the defining moment of his life and the one that had simultaneously ruined it. 

Don't think about it. The bark was rougher now. The tree had grown. Don't.

Kunikuzushi pressed his forehead against the tree and tried very hard not to remember.

Eight years old. Deaf, mute, blind. 

Useless.

The other children had been playing. That’s what happened when Katsuragi had to work; the oldest children who didn’t have jobs yet took the younger ones. He had a vague awareness of his location changing, but that was it. 

And then the vibrations changed. Became frantic. Panicked.

The yokai. That distant pull that had taken him years to understand was suddenly closer than ever. The pull drew him in, and he tripped over something solid. Someone had dropped a blade, a real one, not a practice katana. He'd felt the metal, grabbed it.

And then—

Nothing. Just movement. Instinct. Stabbing until the thing stopped thrashing. Until the pull that connected him to the other living creature finally vanished. 

And then—

Sound.

Screaming. So much screaming, high and overlapping. He didn't know what screaming was. Didn't know what any of it was. Just loud and wrong and everywhere. His hands had flown to his ears, but it hadn’t helped. The sound made its way inside him. 

Kunikuzushi shoved the memory away violently.

He moved away from the tree toward the center of the clearing. There was nothing different about the spot, but this was where the yokai had died. Where everything had gone so right and so wrong. No one had come for hours; no one had noticed he was gone in dealing with the aftermath of a yokai attack. 

He’d been so scared, had not understood what was wrong with him. The people around him had been scared too, scared of him, a boy able to grow body parts when he killed. 

Kunikuzushi knelt in the grass because his legs couldn't hold him anymore.

Don't think about the hearing. Don't think about how you tried to hide it. Don't think about—

Her.

The royal family had gotten confirmation when he killed his first yokai, and they had found him six years later. His sister. Finding out that she’d had a way of knowing when he got parts back. That he wasn't as dead as their mother had thought. He’d never dwelt on the night his sister had first arrived, and he’d been so focused on Lumine there had been no room for self-pity or guilt to settle in. But now, alone, in the place where it had all started, he was assaulted by everything he’d been numb to for years. 

Fire, the villagers trying to pull him out, his blade finding flesh in the dark. Katsuragi's voice. "What have you done—?" Too late. Always too late.

Kunikuzushi struggled to breathe. He wasn't doing this. He'd gotten very good at not thinking about it for twenty years, and he would not start now—

But the memories kept coming anyway.

Bodies. So many bodies. The smell of smoke and burning and—Katsuragi's hand on his shoulder. "We need to go now." Niwa's quiet voice. "The fire's spreading. If we don't—"

Hands pushing him away, then running. Hiding. Following the Doctor, knowing he’d left no survivors behind—

And then—

Kunikuzushi pressed his hands against the grass, fingers digging into the earth. He tried to stop thinking, to stop remembering, but he couldn't. Because he was here. And all the walls he'd built to keep the memories out were crumbling.

It was your fault. Katsuragi died because of you. Niwa died because of you. She will too—

"STOP." The word came out as a shout, ragged and broken.

Silence. Just his own breathing, too fast, too loud.

He was shaking, when had he started shaking? Some distant part of his mind knew he wasn't okay, that he needed to breathe, needed to calm down. This is exactly why he hadn't wanted to return to Kannazuka. Yet he couldn't do anything except kneel there in the grass while twenty years of carefully suppressed memories tried to drown him.

"Kuni?" The voice cut through the spiral.

Lumine. 

She couldn't—she shouldn't see him like this—

"Kuni?" Closer now. Concerned. "Are you—"

"Don't." The word came out strangled. "Don't come closer. I'm fine. I need a minute—"

"You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

"You're clearly not fine." He felt her kneel beside him. 

He opened his mouth. "It's nothing. We should go back—"

"Kuni." Her hand found his shoulder. "Your breathing is too fast. You're shaking, and you look like you've seen a ghost."

So many ghosts. All the names he’d scrawled on the Obon lantern. He tried to pull away from her touch, but she held on.

"Talk to me," she mumbled. "Please? Did something happen?"

He couldn't tell her. If he started talking about it, if he let even one memory out, they'd all come flooding back and he'd—

His voice cracked. "I can't talk about it."

Her other hand found his, threading their fingers together. "That’s okay, you don't have to. Just take a deep breath."

He couldn't do anything else. Could barely process her words through the noise in his head. But he tried. In. Out. In. Out. He wasn't okay. But he was breathing again. That was something.

"This is where something bad happened," Lumine said. "Isn't it?"

He nodded.

"Do you want to leave?" 

He nodded wordlessly. 

"Okay." She stood, pulling him up with her. "Come on. Let's go back."

He let her lead him away from the clearing, away from the place he'd never wanted to remember. As they walked, she didn't let go of his hand.

————— 

When they were far enough away—back near where they'd left their supplies—Lumine finally spoke.

"You don't have to tell me what happened," she whispered. "But are you okay?"

"No," the word came out before he could stop it. 

She went quiet for a moment. Then answered, "That's fair."

Despite everything, he almost laughed. "That's it? Just 'that's fair'?"

"What else do you want me to say?" Her voice was gentle. “I’m on the tail end of an emotional breakdown… you’re starting yours. You don’t have to talk about it until you're ready.”

"What if I'm never ready?"

"Then you're never ready." She squeezed his hand. "That’s okay.”

He let her lead him back without protest, which said everything about the state he was in.

The clearing receded behind them, but the memories didn't. He never wanted to think about it again, had never let the cord he kept tied around his feelings loosen so—not for the doctor, not for anyone. Years of careful maintenance, undone by a patch of grass and the smell of old wood. He focused on her hand instead, the warm weight of it, like something perpetually in motion even when she was still.

Born at midnight, a chime child, she'd called herself. It sounded like a fable from a poem. He turned the idea over slowly. Maybe that was why they got along, as people who didn't quite fit the shape the world had made for them. 

He didn't let go of her hand.

—————

As they ventured back through the village, she noticed the only other lived-in house was now empty. The one she suspected her brother had been using was now as ghostly as the rest of the street.

She wasn't sure if that fact made her feel better or worse.

What a pair they made. Thoughts of her brother sent her spiraling into a crying mess, and being surrounded by his past had broken Kunikuzushi worse than any of their yokai encounters.

Despite how turbulent the adventure had been, she couldn't deny there had been positive moments; yet she'd never been more eager to leave an island than she was now.

"We should find the centipede as soon as we can." Lumine prodded softly. "Do you think there are other yokai on Kannazuka?"

Kunikuzushi went still, as if reading the surrounding land, then shook his head. "No. Just the one." A beat. "The other two are much farther, Narukami, maybe further. We'll have ground to cover after this."

She filed that away; two more located somewhere distant. But one problem at a time. Backtracking across Inazuma to find whatever yokai they'd missed wouldn't be a fun job, but there were some areas and people she looked forward to revisiting.

"We should go back to the house and regroup. Do you want to rest, or should we search for the centipede?"

"Let's get it over with."

He wouldn't say it, but she realized he was grateful she wasn't asking about his family anymore. She was glad for the distraction too; hunting down a giant centipede wasn't exactly how she'd imagined dealing with her brother's rejection. But she welcomed the opportunity to focus on something else, something that would do some good.

—————

The silence was companionable as they left the house. Kunikuzushi explained that the centipede was likely still roaming the mines underneath the forge, and that the quickest way there was to go through Tatarasuna and cut through the smithy. It was located a short way off from the village, a workshop perched above the lake that had held them captive just yesterday. 

The air tasted like metal and old smoke, mixing with the pungent scent of venom that lingered in the back of her throat. Lumine stepped carefully over a collapsed furnace, its metal shell corroded and split like a rotted apple. Fragments of an interrupted life littered the ground—broken tongs, shattered crucibles, and nails long gone orange with rust. Even though great effort was made to shut it down, the area retained a soft warmth, as if its fires had never gone out.

Kunikuzushi moved ahead of her with the confidence of someone who knew every stone by heart; more in his element than she’d ever seen him. He didn't stumble or hesitate as his hand brushed the side of a half-collapsed workbench, fingers trailing over wood worn smooth by use.

"This was the main smithy," he mumbled. "Katsuragi worked here."

Lumine looked around at the skeletal remains of what must once have been a thriving forge. She could almost picture it: a small Kunikuzushi trailing behind the other swordsmiths as they left for work. Perhaps sitting somewhere in the corner, listening, cleaning, fetching tools, and eventually being allowed to make his own katana. 

"You must think about them a lot," she mumbled. "Katsuragi and Niwa."

"I do."

They kept walking. The path ahead sloped downward, winding through rows of abandoned buildings. Wooden beams jutted from the elevated structure like ribs. 

"What other things did they teach you?" Lumine asked. "Besides sword-making, I mean."

Kunikuzushi stepped over a fallen beam, ducking under a sagging roof. "Katsuragi taught me how to fight, how to track sounds, and anticipate movements. All practical things."

"And Niwa?"

He paused, head tilting as if listening to something only he could hear. Then he moved forward again, slower. "Niwa taught me... how to exist. He knew how to sit in silence or listen, not just to words, but to their meaning." His voice dropped. “He was better at understanding people than I'll ever be.”

Lumine picked her way around a rusted anvil buried in the mountainside. "I don't know. You've gotten pretty good at it."

"Have I?"

"You understand me, don't you?"

He went quiet. They finally emerged in the ravine once again, in a new area lined with storage sheds. A rusted gate, hidden by vines, stood half-hidden. 

Kunikuzushi stopped, resting a hand on the rocky wall. "Katsuragi used to say I was terrible with people."

Lumine couldn't help it—she laughed. The sound echoed strangely, swallowed by the ravine.

"He wasn't wrong," Kunikuzushi added dryly.

"What did he say exactly?" 

“I always had to write out what I wanted back then, and if it took too long for someone to understand me…I’d get upset.” Kunikuzushi winced. “Katsuragi complained about it constantly. 'You can't just tell people what you're thinking. You have to be subtle.'" 

Lumine grinned. "Subtle? You?"

His jaw tightened defensively. "I can be subtle."

“And yet you almost drew your sword on me when I couldn’t understand the characters you wrote in the dirt when we first met.”

“Because you were stupid.”

"And you told me I eat like a starving animal." Lumine mocked, forcing her register to lower and rasp in a poor imitation of his voice. 

"That was an observation." 

“Yeah, well, you could’ve been nicer about it.” Despite the argument, she couldn’t hold back the laughter. 

“It was true.” Kunikuzushi muttered something under his breath that she couldn’t hear and started walking again, faster as if he could outpace the conversation. Lumine jogged to catch up, her boots kicking up clouds of dust. He stopped in front of the metal gate, giving it a good shove. When it didn’t move, she decided to help. 

"Katsuragi said the same thing," Kunikuzushi said after a moment of pushing, so quiet she almost missed it.

"What else did he say?" 

"Nothing important."

Lumine narrowed her eyes. "Kuni—"

"It's not relevant."

"Well, now I have to know."

He sighed, long and exasperated, and gave one last shove as the metal bent away from its hinges. "He... gave me advice," Kunikuzushi admitted reluctantly. "About... relationships."

Lumine's eyes widened. "Relationship advice? How old would you have been? Thirteen? Fourteen?"

"It was unsolicited." 

She couldn't stop grinning. "What did he say?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Come on!" He may be reluctant to answer, but he'd already divulged so much that Lumine didn't feel too bad digging for an answer this time. 

Kunikuzushi pushed open the gate and stepped into the opening. Lumine followed. The interior of the mine entrance was dim, but shafts of sunlight pierced through gaps in the stone, illuminating swirls of dust. 

"Please?" she tried again.

Kunikuzushi exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "He said if I ever found someone who could put up with me that I should hold on and never let go."

The silence that followed was so thick Lumine could feel it pressing against her chest. "...Oh," she whispered.

Kunikuzushi's shoulders went rigid. "I didn't—that wasn't—"

"Kuni—"

"Forget I said that."

"I don't think I can."

He made a strangled noise and turned to face her. "Then try harder." 

Lumine stepped closer, close enough that she could see the tension in his frame, the way his hand clenched at his side. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling broken shutters.

"What if I don't want to?" she asked softly.

Kunikuzushi stopped moving entirely.

She took another step. "I ‘put up with you’, as you say."

"That's different." His voice came out rough, almost desperate.

"How?"

"Because—" He struggled, mouth opening and closing. "Because you're you."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"It means—" He backed up slightly, bumping into the doorframe. "It means I'm not having this conversation."

Lumine laughed gently, almost fond. "Okay. We don't have to talk about it."

The relief that washed over his face was immediate. But underneath it, she thought she saw something else—disappointment, maybe. 

"But for what it's worth..." She smiled, even though he couldn't see it. "I think Katsuragi was right."

Kunikuzushi went very still.

"If you find someone who puts up with you..." She let the words hang in the air between them. "You should hold on."

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, from somewhere deep in the mines, there was a slow, deliberate scraping, like claws on stone. Kunikuzushi's head snapped toward it, his hand flying to his katana.

The centipede. They’d found it. 

Lumine's heart lurched. The moment shattered.

"There," Kunikuzushi said, voice sharp again, all business. "It's close."

He moved past her, deeper into the cavern, and Lumine followed—but not before casting one last look at the forge behind them. Hold on and never let go. The words echoed in her head as they pressed deeper into Tatarasuna, toward the monster that waited. 

—————

The mines swallowed the daylight. Lumine pressed her back against the rock face, listening. Somewhere ahead, beyond the reach of her vision, something moved, heavy yet patient. The scrape against stone came at irregular intervals—a limb dragging, then stillness, then another limb.Kunikuzushi remained frozen beside her, his head tilted at an angle she had learned to read. 

The mine stretched on in long, narrow halls, the ceilings rising nearly two stories overhead, too high for comfort yet still claustrophobic in their endless repetition. There were no natural light sources, only clusters of bioluminescent plants clinging to the walls and floor, casting a dim, unnatural blue glow. The rock was a faint reddish hue, but if she stared at it too long, it seemed to darken and glisten, as if it were slowly bleeding from beneath the surface. 

"Two passages ahead," he murmured, barely moving his lips. "It's somewhere on the left."

"How far?"

"Forty paces or less."

She tested her grip on her sword. The crescent hilt sat familiarly in her palm, the piece of Inazuma repaired into the blade catching faint light from the shaft above. Kunikuzushi had already drawn his katana, holding it low at his side.

"I'm ready whenever you are," she said.

He didn't give a signal, just moved, and she followed.

The centipede erupted from the passage the moment they crossed the threshold, not waiting, not circling—it came straight at them, and the sheer mass of it filled the tunnel wall to wall. Lumine dove left, felt the rush of displaced air as a leg the width of her torso slammed into the earth where she'd been standing.

Kunikuzushi was already moving. He tracked the sound of it with an accuracy that still startled her, driving the katana deep at the joint where a leg met its body, unobstructed by scales. The centipede reared as he pulled back. The hit had been clean, but with so many other limbs it kept moving. 

Lumine moved ahead, cutting what she could reach—the underbelly had armor, while the segments between the legs offered less protection. She found the gap and drove her sword through. The centipede shrieked, a sound like metal tearing, and lurched sideways. It’s mandibles snapped for her leg, catching on the hem of her skirt and ripping it. She managed to escape at the last possible moment, losing her balance and landing on one knee.

She recovered quickly and they fell into their rhythm—Kunikuzushi drawing its attention, Lumine flanking, cutting, retreating before it could track her. Yet nothing they did slowed the centipede down. Every wound they opened, it recovered from. Lumine watched a gash she'd cut across its midsection simply disappear as tens of other legs scurried across her field of vision, hiding the cut. 

"It has no weak spots," she said.

"I know." Kunikuzushi was scowling. 

She fell back, ducking into a small alcove with Kuni as the centipede scored back and forth, tearing apart the walls of the cave. She needed time to think. Her sword arm ached. The centipede circled, slow and contemptuous now, as if it had decided they weren't going anywhere. 

Aether's sword.

The memory surfaced without warning. The recollection felt centuries old despite it happening only last night, an insignificant detail she'd barely registered. Aether's blade connected, and the centipede flinched back in a way it hadn't from anything else they’d done. She'd thought it was the angle of the strike, the force of it. But it had happened. The creature had retreated from him specifically. 

"Kuni." She kept her voice low, her eyes on the centipede. "When Aether fought it. It pulled back from him. His sword—something about his sword was hurting it."

"What was on his blade?”

"I don't know."

What had been different about Aether’s sword? He still carried the same make from their homeland, crafted of the same material as hers. Though her sword had been altered, it hadn’t been changed enough for that to be the main reason. What else… She remembered more of the moment, the way she’d been lying prone on the ground, head tilted up at her brother, his sword had caught the light just so.

And it had shone. 

Not in the way metal normally sparkled, sharp and angular; no, it had been dotted with pinpricks and speckles of light, abstract and random. A clear coating of some kind? Maybe water or oil? No, the monster had been unharmed by the ravine’s water, and oil would have dripped like that. For a moment, she looked down at her own hands. Her palms were slick with exertion, her grip damp where it wrapped the hilt.

Sweat.

“Hey, um…” She wiped her palm deliberately across the flat of her sword, leaving a visible smear. Could it be that simple? “I think it was sweat, human sweat."

A pause. The centipede clicked somewhere in the dark ahead of them.

“Some yokai react poorly to humans,” Kunikuzushi said, glancing into the dark, “Niwa once read me a story about the Yamabiko who keep their distance from anything that carries a human smell—so it wouldn’t be strange if something like sweat set it off.”

"So we need to coat the blades." Lumine surmised. 

He nodded, holding his katana with his wooden hand while the human one ran up and down the blade. He almost smiled. "So your eyes are good for some things."

She ignored him, and they pressed forward.

This time the strikes came differently—slower, more intentional. Each time Lumine drew back her blade, she ran her palm across it before the next thrust. The centipede's reaction was immediate and unmistakable. Where before it had taken hits without flinching, now it recoiled, hissing and pulling back into itself. The damp blade seemed to corrode the centipede yokai’s armoured plates, damage it couldn’t easily brush off. 

Lumine drove her sword through another segment, and this time the wound stayed open.

Kunikuzushi flanked it from the right, moving fast—

The centipede's head swung toward him. She saw it before she could shout. The creature's mandible snapped sideways, not at his body but at his head. The strike was almost casual. A reflex, like swatting at something annoying.

His katana fell from his grip, and Kunikuzushi went very still.

The centipede retreated a few paces, recalibrating. It let out a happy little chitter, equal parts ecstatic and mocking, then it scurried away from them and into the cave. 

"Kuni." Her voice came out wrong. Too careful. "Are you—"

He started flailing, and she didn’t know what to do. 

“Hey! What’s wrong?!” Lumine shouted, but he didn't respond. His arms were out in front of him, weaponless and searching. His head turned toward her, but not quite right. A fraction off. His eyes didn't find her face.

“Lumine!” He called her name brokenly. 

She wasn’t sure she'd ever heard him say it so loud, certainly not like that. It was then she noticed the trickle of blood from the right side of his head, dribbling down his neck and soaking into the white of his collar. 

He was missing an ear. It had been ripped clean off. 

She rushed over and braced his shoulders with her hands, but he lashed out. She dug her fingers into the meat of his upper arm, bruising in her hold. He continued to fight against her. How did she tell Kunikuzushi that she hadn’t left him? How to let him know without words? Thinking quickly, she snatched his wrists firmly in one hand, the other one pressing into his cheek, the only visible skin she could touch right now. 

Here. 

Was all she wrote. 

She wrote it again.

Here. 

One more time. 

I’ll put up with you. 

Maybe a bad time for a joke, but he finally stopped struggling.

He freed his hands from her grasp and circled his fingers around both wrists of her firmly, squeezing so hard she thought her bones might pop. Lumine couldn’t imagine how terrifying it was to be cut off from the one sense he’d relied on for most of his life. 

This couldn’t go on; she couldn’t bear to watch him like this. Resolved to end the centipedes herself, she tried to leave, but he was quick to catch hold of her. 

“Don’t go.” His voice cracked. His hands came up and locked around her wrists. 

The centipede clicked somewhere in the dark behind them, regrouping. She didn't have time to let him process this. She had every intention of leaving, but for his sake and maybe hers, she did the only thing she could, and gave him her sword. He had to know what she meant. He’d taken her sword off her long enough to know what it felt like. 

Her intention was to leave her sword here while she took his katana to finish the job. She watched him process it—not just the ask for his katana, but what it meant to step back and trust her to finish this. His brow knitted and his hand tightened once more around the hilt of her sword.

And then he stepped back, letting her collect his katana from where it had fallen. 

She took it and pressed her own sword into his hand in exchange. His fingers wrapped around it slowly, testing the weight and shape by touch alone, finding the balance. He finally accepted it. 

She turned back toward the centipede, venturing deeper into the cave. The glowing flowers disappeared from the wall, as if they'd all been trampled.

The creature had stilled at the edge of the passage, watching her with whatever passed for intelligence behind its faceted eyes. Without the distraction of Kunikuzushi, she was its sole focus now.

Then it stilled completely.

The chittering stopped. The legs stopped scraping. In the sudden quiet, she could hear her own pulse. The wounds she'd opened across its midsection—the ones that had stayed open, the ones that had been working—knitted themselves closed. The plates reformed, the gaps sealed. It rolled its head, flexed its legs one by one.

Whatever Kunikuzushi's ear had given it, it was using it now. The way it moved had changed, less reactive, more deliberate, as if something new behind those eyes had started to pay attention.

That was fine. She could deal with that.

Her leg chose that moment to remind her it existed.

The burn started low, near her thigh where the creature's leg had caught her earlier. She'd thought it was an impact. It wasn't impact—something had gotten through her skirt, something caustic, and it had been sitting against bare skin long enough that the flesh underneath was protesting loudly. Her next step faltered.

The centipede lunged.

She got the katana up in time to deflect the worst of it; the momentum driving her back two steps, three—her bad leg buckled on the third and she went down on one knee, both hands braced on the hilt, holding the blade horizontal above her as another leg came down.

The weight of it was extraordinary. Her arms shook.

Then it spat.

The acid hit the rock beside her face, melting into the stone and leaving a crater of hissing goop that smelled like the forge behind. Lumine wrenched sideways, still pinned, the movement sending fire up her bad leg. She heard Kunikuzushi moving somewhere behind her, tracking the creature by instinct alone, and she couldn't warn him. She could only watch as the centipede swung toward him and spat again.

The acid caught his left side, but Kunikuzushi didn't scream or stumble. His expression flickered with confusion; she could see him registering that something had happened, but he kept moving, kept his footing, kept his grip on her sword. The wood. His wooden arm had absorbed the spray that would have eaten through flesh. The acid was already working on the carved surface—the lacquered wood smoking faintly, but Kuni clearly felt nothing; he had no way of knowing how close it had been. 

The centipede reared back, confused by his lack of reaction, and in that moment of hesitation Lumine saw it—the way its whole body oriented around the head, how it always seemed to curl in on itself when they got too close. The head. Everything was coming from the head.

Then Kunikuzushi was there next to her.

She felt him more than saw him—his hand finding her shoulder, steadying her, then moving past. He drove her crescent blade in low, beneath the leg that was pinning her, finding the gap between segments by touch and memory and some understanding of the creature's anatomy she couldn't match. The centipedes hissed as the pressure lifted.

She surged upward, both hands on the katana, and drove it under the centipede chin and through its head.

The blade went in to the hilt.

She leaned into it—all her weight, her bad leg burning, her arms past shaking now—and held. Held. Held until the thing underneath her stopped moving. Until the terrible clicking stopped. Until the only sound in the mine was her own ragged breathing and the distant drip of water somewhere deep in the rock.

Slowly, the centipede went still.

Lumine stayed braced over it for a long moment, not trusting her legs to hold if she straightened too fast. 

"Done," she managed. Her voice came out worse than she had expected. "It's done."

—————

Kunikuzushi heard Lumine plunge his katana into the monster's head twice. He tried to pay attention to her, and not the familiar tremors wracking his body, signs of an oncoming transformation. They felt violent as he placed a hand on his still bleeding but fully formed right ear, another on his new, human leg. 

Lumine returned to him. Placing a hand on his shoulder and then another ‌on his cheek. The second she made contact, his own hands moved to circle her waist, clinging so tight he might never let go again. He pressed his face against her midsection, listening to the sounds her body made, alive and whole and here. 

"Kuni—"

"Shut up." He pressed closer, as if he could climb inside the sound. "Just—let me—"

"Are you—are you listening to me breathe?" 

"Yes, now stop moving." The contrast in his actions, holding on for dear life, but ordering her in the breath, might’ve given her mixed signals, but he didn’t give a damn about what she thought right now. Not after the stunt she’d pulled. 

"That's—" 

She’d tried to leave, tried to face the centipede alone, and she’d tried to leave him—

His voice cracked.

"I don't care." His grip on her shoulders tightened. "I couldn't hear you—I didn't know if you were there. Didn't know if you were saying something. Didn't know if you were dead and I—"

Lumine's hand came up and carefully settled in his hair. "I'm here," she murmured. "I'm right here."

"I know. I can hear you now." He turned his head slightly, pressing his ear harder against her sternum. "Say something."

"Like what?"

"Whatever you want. I don't care. I need to hear your voice."

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "You're crushing me."

"I don't care."

"Kuni, I can barely breathe—"

"You're breathing fine. I can hear it." He shifted slightly, redistributing his weight but not letting go. "Your heart rate is elevated. Probably from the fight. Or from me tackling you. Your breathing is evening out now, though. It's—" he stopped.

"This is—" Lumine laughed, a little hysterically. "I swear I’m okay."

"Probably." He didn't move. "Keep talking."

"About what?"

"Anything. Everything. I just—" His fingers dug into ‌the fabric of her skirt. "I need to know you're real. That you're here. That I didn't—"

So she did. She told him about how the stars looked that night, about the few constellations she could see—he eventually stopped trembling, but he didn’t let go of her. 

“You can’t do that again.” 

“But the yokai—” 

“You can’t.” He pleaded. “I don’t care about those damn yokai; it’s not worth losing you.” 

He felt her flinch away from him. Carefully, she eased him off her until their faces were only a few inches apart. 

“Don’t say that.” She said, “Your mission, your revenge, you can’t—”

He'd spent twenty years with one purpose. To get his body back, find the people who wronged him and make them pay. He'd never thought past that point—he'd never needed to. What came after revenge wasn't something he'd allowed himself to consider, because after had always felt like a word that didn't belong to him.

But somewhere between Yashiori and here, between a stranger who wouldn't stop following him and the sound of her voice telling him about the world he couldn't see, the ending he'd always planned ‌looked different. Less like a finish line and more like—nothing. 

It was his turn to cut her off. 

"Lumine," the word came out quiet. Final. Like a door closing on everything that came before it. "Don’t you dare do that again."

He turned his face toward hers, close enough that he could feel her exhale.

"The yokai, my family, all of it, it'll be there tomorrow." His grip on her skirt tightened fractionally. "It's been twenty years. It can wait."

—————

Lumine was at a loss for words. Kunikuzushi looked at her the same way he had back in Konda, when he’d placed a hand over her mouth, eyes too wide, too intent, as if he were afraid she might vanish if he blinked. It was hard to deny the picture before her; this person she’d gotten to know so well—who’d spent his entire life fighting to get his body back—he was willing to choose her over it all. He was willing to stay blind and incomplete if it meant she would be safe.

Was this what she had been waiting for?

Lumine looked at him—really looked at him—and understood, with sinking certainty, that he had already chosen her in every way that mattered, before she knew what it would mean to her, before he’d probably known too. 

When he called her back from the edge of leaving.

When he’d dragged her feverish body across the ocean. 

When he fixed her sword without hesitation.

When he hadn’t let go of her hand at the festival.

When he’d defended her to Aether. 

When he asked her to marry him.

She had seen it all and had just been too afraid to respond. Too scared to acknowledge that answering him would change the course of both their lives. But she had her proof now, written across his face, more proof than she would ever need. 

Her other hand lifted, now cupping both his cheeks. She did what she should have done weeks ago, what she hadn’t had the courage to do. She angled his head up, closed her eyes, and leaned in. 

And Lumine kissed Kunikuzushi.