Chapter Text
It happened almost a year ago. Rokurou remembers his brother telling him about a man named Artorius. He remembers that day vividly, for several reasons.
For starters, it had been the first day in about a month since he’d even seen the older man. Ichirou Rangetsu had made for the Gaiburk Plains far to the north, on the hunt for someone calling themselves an exorcist. That's about as much as Rokurou knew before his brother was gone, whisked away by the tide of battle. The place got awfully quiet in his absence, made him unbearably restless. Each day was agony, dragging on for what felt like forever. Rokurou did everything he could to fill the emptiness, but it was never enough to properly distract from the day Ichirou would return. The moment he spied his brother silhouetted between the gates, he flung himself into the courtyard, demanding a spar then and there.
If Ichirou was fatigued at all by the long journey, none of it showed. The eldest sibling doled out a particularly brutal thrashing that day, one that left the other seeing stars. None of Rokurou’s tireless preparation had mattered in the slightest. Long nights spent, pressing his begrudging siblings for fight after fight after fight, swallowing pride and dirt and blood. He was so sure that this time, finally, he’d land a hit past Ichirou’s guard. Yet his brother had brushed off his strikes with complete nonchalance, not even feeling the brunt of his swings. Ichirou towered over him, not a hair out of place, as Rokurou wheezed in the dirt, struggling to even kneel.
Tears burned bitter trails down his cheeks, hotter than the blood racing to meet them. It’s expected for partners to bow before and after a match, but Rokurou hadn't bothered, kicking dust beneath his heels as he made to excuse himself as fast as he could. He was treading dangerous waters showing such disrespect, and Rokurou could feel the shame bubbling in the back of his throat. Even to the adults, lasting three minutes against Ichirou Rangetsu was a merit to be proud of. The first time they'd fought, Rokurou couldn’t even last one. But it wasn't good enough — he still lost. It didn’t matter how much he’d grown since his first fight, the endless string of losses were just a savage reminder that Ichirou would always be better.
He was still nursing his sore wounds, most notably his pride, when Ichirou came racing towards him that afternoon. Despite Rokurou’s resentful glare, the taller swordsman beamed as he sat, close enough to overlap hakama, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders with a story to tell. What struck Rokurou at the time was the man’s good mood. Ichirou’s always in a good mood, but that day was special. The way his brother recounted his fight with the exorcist filled the older man with such raw vigor that Rokurou can’t recall a time he's ever seen his brother so happy. He'd brandished Tigerclaw, his strongest sword after Stormhowl, chipped and ragged from hilt to tip, as if it were a beloved trophy, and Rokurou could not understand why.
"But you lost," he'd said, disappointed.
Ichirou made a face, brows crinkling. "Naw. I'd say it was more like a tie." He went back to admiring his reflection in the fractured steel. "If we'd've kept going, maybe I’d’ve lost, I'll give you that. But man, what a fight!"
His brother's eyes gleamed, and Rokurou had a difficult time matching the intensity. He shuffled around awkwardly, silently tracing the web of cracks that marred his brother’s reflection as it said, "Next time we meet, I'll win for sure."
Rokurou offered some manner of grunt, a poor attempt to downplay how utterly captivated he was. A blind man could see through such a halfhearted display, to say nothing of the trained assassin beside him. There was bitter satisfaction felt in realizing his brother’s flaws, that he was capable of them. Rokurou was in awe at this mysterious and powerful exorcist, who dared to match a god and walk away with his life. The excitement thrummed along his fingers, and when he and his brother finally, briefly, made eye contact, there was a curious shift in his brother's expression that made his fists clench. How Rokurou wishes he could have seen the encounter in person.
Quiet stretched between them, long enough to be uncomfortable, before Ichirou made his move: an impromptu visit to the town below, with his youngest, most favorite little brother as his accompaniment. Whether he wanted it or not — and he most definitely did not — it was all Rokurou could do to keep pace with Ichirou’s superhuman grip on his wrist, and he winced knowing there might be bruises later.
Before he knew it, the two of them were sharing a bench, just outside a quiet little corner stall, each with their own bowl of yozakura anmitsu. He remembers savoring the ice cream while pondering the older man’s behavior. He just didn't get Ichirou. Everything about the jerk annoyed him to the ends of the earth, no, the sky, the sun. Bellowing, gloating, over what should have been a shameful, disheartening experience. Rokurou’s known nothing but suffering from his defeats, nothing but anguish, punishment, criticism — none of it adds up. How could he lose and talk like it’s a good thing? Is it different for grownups? What did Ichirou have that he didn't?
Rokurou doesn't recall whether he actually voiced his concerns aloud, or if his brother just had unsettlingly good timing. All he recalls is that next, he asked him, "You remember what our master told us when we first started learning the ōdachi?"
The air smelled sharply of cherry blossom bean paste, bleeding memories of spring into the crisp autumn breeze. Rokurou licked his lips, hyper aware that Ichirou knew exactly how well he remembered, knew precisely how recently he'd learned. The leaves had barely begun to decay when he'd first been permitted to glance, to hold, the precious heirloom promised to his hands and no one else’s: a bright crimson blade that reached well beyond his head, that took all of his might just to keep from tumbling out of his grasp. His master surmised it would be yet another cycle of seasons before he would properly start to grow into its length. In the meantime, they’d been supplementing his lessons with longer and longer bamboo poles, which the longstanding elder used to great effect striking welts in Rokurou’s misplaced ankles and wrists. As the youngest of six, the green in his blood stood out like a third leg, tripping him at every turn. It was maddening.
He doubted Ichirou ever had that problem.
Carefully, he recited, "A sword can't just be hard. It must also be flexible, or it will snap the first time it meets an unexpected force."
"Yeah," Ichirou said, a rare note of sobriety in his voice. It made him sound older, more like the adult he was supposed to be. "But that goes for more than just your blade. That goes for in here, too." He thumbed the center of his chest. “You get it?”
Not really.
Rokurou ate the melon off his anmitsu, unsure how to reply. He was still thinking when his brother continued. "I saw it in him when we fought," he said. "As good as he was, there was an awful lot weighing him down. Looked like a friggin statue, all—" Ichirou cinched his brows together and frowned, deep enough to dimple his cheeks. "Like he'd break if ya blew on him. I wanna see the kind of strength he has when he doesn't have all that hanging over him. Then we'd have a real fight.”
Confusion bubbled to irritation in his belly, appetite draining away. He'd never spoken with Ichirou all that much before, so why now, all of a sudden? What was the point? Strong or not, the feelings of some exorcist had nothing to do with Rokurou. Maybe he didn't have anything to say at all, maybe he was just trying to push the boy down even further. "Your stance is so shallow, don't tell me this is your best?", "It's so easy to disarm you, look!", "Watch your grip, little brother, or you'll stab yourself with that toothpick". It's just more of the same, isn't it? More jeering, more insults?
Rokurou stared into his ice cream sullenly, counting sesame seeds without focus. He only looked up when he felt his brother's fingers rub messily into his hair.
"But if I'm gonna fight the strongest, I need to practice with the strongest," he said, with a smile as callous as his hand. "So train hard, Rokurou. I'll be counting on you."
And everything clicked. Why he was here, on this bench, eating ice cream with his brother like they didn't hate each other. Cause maybe, actually, on some indiscernible level, they didn't. Sure, all Ichirou wanted was to further his own goals, to use whatever he could to help Ichirou alone get stronger — but there was more to it. And Rokurou finally realized what it was.
There was acknowledgement in his words. There was praise.
Rokurou’s ears burned, having never heard such words even from his own mother. To his horror, there was a forgotten, buried part of him that sucked the words in like water, pressing them into his memory like tiny flowers. Several times, he opened and closed his mouth, struggling to form any kind of response. Butterflies frothed in his chest, mixed with a burst of joy so horridly unfamiliar it left his ears ringing.
"J-just watch!" The words came out louder than he meant, nearly biting his tongue with how tense his jaw was. "I'll train so hard, Artorius will wanna fight me instead!"
Ichirou shook the whole bench with his laughter, and if it carried a bit of a bite, Rokurou was able to ignore it. He tried in vain to keep the corners of his own mouth from curling as well, and desperately hid behind bites of melting ice cream. Buried in the wrinkles of his brother’s smile were unspoken words of reassurance.
Rokurou holds onto those distant words. Their unusual warmth helps him swallow the sting of bamboo and wood and steel and words that taunt and toughen and tear into him every day. The pain is immense, the humiliation profound, but he finds it easier to temper the bitterness into something else. Something stronger. He thinks of his brother's chipped sword and feels excitement stir within him.
He wraps those memories around him like a blanket as tremors wrack his body, rousing him from a blackout he hadn't realized he'd been in. Pain lances down his shoulder, lightning in his veins, and his vision splits. Awareness returns in pieces, and it takes several rounds of blinking to realize the stains of scarlet that paint the courtyard are from the eclipse and not his own blood. Wind bites at his wounds, and he can't stop the jolt in his spine as he tries to dredge up how he’s been injured, and where.
An inhuman shriek echoes off to his left. With effort, he drags his neck through the grass to spy a person lying some feet away. Well, what used to be a person. Their torso is in pieces, cut cleanly as though by a butcher’s hand. Their upper half is hidden amidst the garden shrubs, but there's an unsettling kernel of recognition that festers in the back of Rokurou’s mind. Still dripping with blood is the edge of a sword, dancing over the corpse as if debating whether to make another swing. Fear constricts Rokurou’s heart in a choking poison, keeping him still for several seconds before curiosity wins out, and his eyes roll up the blade's length. He stops just short of the hilt, focusing on its familiar curls and edges until he's able to conjure the blade’s name.
Stormhowl.
And Rokurou remembers. Remembers with sudden clarity how his brother Gorou had pulled him from his nightly practice swings to look at the moon. Off they had run, out of the estate, out of the grounds, all the way out to the grassy knolls along the edge of the mountain. They'd pointed out constellations and wrestled atop the wildflowers while shadowy trails of vermillion stretched along the grass like soft, bloody fingers. Only two years separated the siblings, but already that gap was showing in Gorou’s taller build and wider hands. None of those things ever stopped Rokurou from winning their sword fights, but Gorou always took a sort of pride in being the better grappler. The moon was high, rapidly approaching its zenith by the time the two wandered back to the manor, swallowing their yawns behind grass-stained palms and bleary eyes.
They had just come upon the gates when the older boy suddenly stiffened and pressed Rokurou behind him. Rokurou didn’t need his brother’s chivalry, but neither did he mind it, as Gorou’s protective nature was a longstanding relic from when they were much smaller, and Rokurou secretly sought those rare gestures of affection. Peeking around the folds of his brother’s kimono, Rokurou could only describe the source of Gorou’s hesitation as monstrous.
Gangly limbs, too many for a human, stretched the creature taller than even Ichirou. Horns sprouted all along the crown like rings of teeth. Black and red markings crisscrossed the beast’s body, jagged and hungry, glowing faintly with the moonlight. Eerie demonic eyes bore down on Rokurou, and the fury foaming within them was palpable.
In its hand was Stormhowl. Not the true God Blade wielded by his mother, but one of its lesser forgeries: a greener blade swimming with gold trim. A blade that was usually guarded obsessively by the middle Rangetsu sibling, Saburou. Several possible explanations raced through Rokurou's mind as Gorou unsheathed his own ōdachi, rotating into a battle stance as his stare hardened. Rokurou ducked into his robes and unveiled twin daggers, his own blade still tucked in the back of the training hall.
“Rokurou,” was the only signal given. Rokurou had no time to respond, to stop his brother from charging the monster. Something that could bring down Saburou, the only brother on par with Rokurou and rapidly approaching Ichirou’s skill, meant that Gorou stood no chance in a head-on collision.
Nevertheless, Rokurou gripped his knives and raced, attempting to flank.
The beast widened his stance, swung faster than Rokurou thought could even be possible.
And then...and then...
And then.
Rokurou bites hard into his lip as the chill in his body sets in, adrenaline melting into agony. He can't tell whether the moisture hazing his eyes is from the pain or the grief, and his eyes close as a means of hiding from both. Will this murderous beast claim him as well? If only he had the strength to at least put up a good fight. His brothers, if not himself, deserve that much at least.
The click of the monster’s claws pull at Rokurou’s attention. Acutely, he hears the muted drag of a sword being lifted, tip rattling through the pebbles before tapering sharply as it leaves the ground. The beast could only be looting Gorou of his inheritance, another Stormhowl for another of its many arms, and the blood leaking from Rokurou’s bruised lips turns sour with rage. His good hand fists the dirt, needling stings of earth under nails punctuating his helplessness.
The beast lingers, rhythmically shuffling weight between its feet. Toes dig into the dirt, making soft, restless purrs. Like a lion lounging after a meal, wanting more, but in no hurry to change course. There's something about the behavior that forms a terrible heaviness in Rokurou’s gut, kneading into his mind like he’s known it for years, has heard those same sounds every morning, every evening, all over the estate — so many times he’s stopped taking notice.
When he finally makes the connection, he inhales sharply through his nose, uncaring of the bark and grime caught in his breath. The heaviness inside him hardens to stones. It reminds him of—
“Saburou.”
The voice of his mother, Shigure, cuts through the scarlet night with the might of a tidal wave. There is no tenderness in her tone, only harsh edges and untouchable grace, polished from decades leading the clan. Rokurou doesn’t need sight to know the eye of a storm is approaching.
“Even the oracle saw such high hopes for you,” she says, with chilling calmness, “but it appears even those blessed by the gods are not infallible. For you, of all your siblings, to succumb to daemonhood. I expected better of a Rangetsu sown of my own blood.”
The daemon screeches at her, so shrill it seems to bend even the air, and Rokurou’s hearing flickers. Saburou, it’s Saburou, it’s Saburou, he thinks frantically, not quite believing.
Warmth blooms momentarily in Rokurou’s shoulder, and its foreign comfort is enough for him to finally crack open his eyes. Healing as Rokurou knows it is reserved for the sick or the frail, and a true Rangetsu is borne of neither. He has never seen his mother use the healing hand, and frankly, didn’t think she possessed skill at all in the field. For someone of her caliber, healing has never been necessary.
Truth be told, the mana threading through his wounds is less a healing arte and more an adrenaline boost. Blood no longer bubbles ceaselessly through layers of kimono, and the pain has lessened, but there’s a dig in his shoulder, enough to know mobility is limited. Pulling himself to a kneel, the stones in his stomach jump when he sees the daemon through blurry vision, and it’s not hard to see his brother in place of that monster. The cocksure stance, the angled jawline, the way he holds Stormhowl, it’s all the same, how could he not have noticed? Just the other day, Saburou was picking a fight with Ichirou at the dinner table for taking the last of the fishcake, and he’d wielded his chopsticks with a similarly lazy degree of twist in the wrist. Seeing the same mannerisms twisted to this degree wrenches something loose in Rokurou’s heart.
“Shigure!” the daemon bellows, in a series of rolling growls that leave it unclear whether it meant to call out the name, or if its shrieks just happen to resemble its cadence. Regardless, Saburou charges, attempts to swing both Stormhowls upon the woman’s head.
Shigure blocks the assault with nothing but her short swords, swiping up and parrying the blows in quick, measured strikes. She counters with a volley of swings so precise and aggressive, the daemon is beaten back several meters in spite of his advantage. Rokurou manages to worm his way to his feet, only one dagger still clutched in his grasp. His mother doesn’t even turn her head.
“If you can stand, you can run,” she tells him. “Find Lord Capalus. Defend him until you reach the capital. That is your duty as a Rangetsu.” The hilt of the God Blade winks at him in the moonlight, silent against his mother’s back.
“But Shigure—"
“Do it now, Rokurou.” There is no room for argument. Her word is law. Around Shigure’s heart is a steel cage, and whatever kernels of attachment she may or may not have are locked tightly behind its bars.
Rokurou makes a grunt of affirmation, the only manner of response she’ll seem to accept, and forces his wobbly legs away from the scene. He approaches the gates, the same ones he let Gorou drag him through just hours earlier. It feels like an eternity ago now, and the realization makes the impact of the last several minutes suddenly too much to bear. A flood of emotion chokes its way out of Rokurou’s throat, leaking fresh moisture into his eyes. “Such weakness,” the Shigure of his mind scoffs, and Rokurou rubs furiously at his face with his dirtied sleeve.
Just before he turns the corner of the outer wall, he stops. Caught in the thick, spidery webbing of this scarlet nightmare, Rokurou takes one last glance over his shoulder, a vain attempt to hold onto the crumbling fragments of his old life.
His mother has her head tilted to the side, speaking far too softly to be meant for Rokurou’s ears, yet clearly not aimed toward the daemon. Like she’s addressing the air.
Whenever he’s glimpsed Shigure doing this, it’s always been by chance, when she’s by herself, in the gardens late at night, or whispering within her room at the end of the hall. Always in spaces that feel too private to intrude, where Rokurou even knowing feels like some manner of heresy. He’s never worked up the courage to ask her what she’s doing. Now he’s wondering if he ever will.
It lasts but a moment, and then Shigure’s attention is back on the monster, and now she’s saying something louder, more intentional. It riles Saburou up, and something explodes, and Rokurou takes that as his cue to really get moving. Turning on his heel, he sprints, and the carefully sustained grounds of the Rangetsu estate bleed out into untamed forest.
There are several routes to the lord's manor, but Rokurou knows better than to take the road. Foot traffic is common enough that there are several well-worn trails sidewinding up the mountain, but he avoids these as well, opting for a more hidden route, nearly invisible to the naked eye. Not even the residents of Ywain, the village nestled at the mountain’s base, would ever take heed of the roughly hewn trailhead more suited for wildlife than people, but Rokurou knows it like the back of his hand. He and his brothers — brother, his mind corrects darkly — would use it to scale the peaks as part of their training. The grade of incline is much sharper here, the switchbacks notably absent, and the ground rough and unmaintained, but it’s as direct a path as he’s going to get. It’s close enough to the main road that Rokurou is confident he won’t overlook the Capalus carriage should it pass him on the way up, so really, he doesn’t see any reason not to take it. Speed and stealth must take precedence over his own comfort if he is to uphold the value of his mother’s expectations, and he’s positive he can make the journey, even with his injury.
He hops a fallen tree blocking the path and sprints the incline, overestimating the distance between his foot and the ground on that first step. He feels his full weight vibrate along his spine when his foot presses down too hard and his shoulder jostles from the impact. The shock nearly brings tears to his eyes, and his sinuses burn from the effort to keep from making a sound. His good hand tightens its grip on his surviving knife.
He’s mostly positive he can make the journey.
His senses are frayed, stretched to their very limit, but still he pushes beyond to listen and watch for any signs of movement. He can hear what may be daemons or may be animals far off in the distance, and the howling winds that buffet the trees above. And something else. Something that’s been trailing him, ever since he left the manor, just out of striking distance. It feels benevolent, like the beacon of a lighthouse, but Rokurou cannot go so far to say it feels safe. When he turns, a lonely sea of darkened trees is all he finds, but that can’t be right; it must be hiding nearby. Whatever this specter is, it feels powerful, and that alone is enough to keep him wary. Every few minutes, his eyes dart left, right, behind. Nothing. Maybe he’s just going crazy.
Going back over the day’s events, he knows that Ichirou and several students of Shigure’s will be at the estate, not including the lord himself, his family, his retainers, his servants, any other visiting lords accompanied by their own staff. Anywhere from several dozen to several hundred people. It occurs to Rokurou that one or all of them could have become like Saburou, and it makes him realize that he doesn’t have any backup plan beyond fighting until he dies. Dying in combat is not in itself an unappealing plan — it is in fact the ideal exit of every Rangetsu — but the thought of his remaining brother becoming a monster, of having to fight him when he’s not even himself anymore, tears holes in Rokurou’s chest that ache and wheeze with each breath. He pushes his mind past those thoughts, towards the future, and thinks of the two of them sharing a bowl of anmitsu once they reach the capital. It’s not much, but it’ll do.
Rokurou is maybe halfway to the count’s mansion before he begins to lose pace, exhaustion hanging over him like the moon above, still so large and oppressive. Overhead, curtains of branches shiver in anticipation. Cold air strains against his shoulder, and he quivers with the wind.
Suddenly, his body springs to the left, quick reflexes saving him from a blow to his side. Air cuts past, pushing him back even farther with recoil as he dodges — what, exactly? Rokurou has the best hearing of his whole family, and there were no signs of anything breaking his guard, so what’s attacking? The moon should be just past its zenith now, but with the thick canopy of the forest, sight is proving difficult. No matter where Rokurou swings his view, he spies nothing but desolate forest ground, and it’s all he can do to maintain his defensive stance with wide, feral eyes.
The hairs on his arm prickle and he forces his legs into a backstep, nearly tripping, but grateful when it’s enough to avoid yet another blow, and he watches a section of tree carve out of existence to his right. Hair whips into his face, and the great mass groans, bending into the bite and collapsing with a deafening crack along its bark.
As the dust settles, he finally hears it: a faint, muted rumble, like ocean waves. It escalates in volume, sharpening into howls and snarls that ring inside his head and all around. There’s a massive, shrieking tear, and Rokurou has to cover his ears as the head of an enormous serpent thrashes its way out of thin air, directly in front of him, all gnashing fangs and glowing violet eyes. Purple tendrils crawl along the base where a neck would normally be, creating a snaking cushion of smog beneath moon-pink teeth.
Rokurou has little time to process the logic of what’s just happened before he’s bringing the butt of his knife up to deflect the creature’s massive jaw.
“Get lost!” he shouts, bewildered, as the daemon winds back around. It’s glowing more fiercely now, a telltale sign of an arte. Rokurou hurriedly rifles through his list of techniques, tries to think of what he can use against this, wonders if he can even accomplish the feat with one arm. Only one idea comes to mind.
Time runs out and the serpent strikes, and Rokurou chokes on his scream as fangs the length of his arm slice against his wounded shoulder, barely avoiding both rows of teeth as they clamp down on the branches behind him. Using the opening, he thrusts the knife into the eye of the beast, and twists. The benefits of being on the early end of his growth spurt allows Rokurou to corkscrew with the momentum, vaulting the scaled head with ease and dragging the knife through the whole length of the cranium. He pushes his mana through the edge, slamming blast after blast into the daemon and grinning wildly when its pained cries register over the pounding in his ears.
He’s laughing even when his legs hit the ground and crumple like jelly, and he wonders if this is where he gives up the ghost. The ground warms with his blood, his shuddering gasps sounding more and more like a stranger's as lucidity fades. Here he was, worried about a daemonic brother, not even considering that he might be felled by — well, again, whatever this is. Not the worst way to go, but damn, does he wish it could have waited a bit longer.
Looming over him is the specter from before. Must have taken its chance to sneak up during all the commotion, for now it's barely a hair’s breadth away. Rokurou can’t even muster the energy to brace against whatever’s coming, much less turn his body over to look. A mass of energy builds, casting sharp, frightening shadows against the trees, followed by the chime of a spell. The ground trembles violently beneath him, and then dozens of earthen spikes are erupting out of the rock. Where Rokurou expects to be impaled, he is instead filled with awe as stone lances pierce the wounded serpent over and over and—
Consciousness leaves Rokurou as the daemon shatters into smoke, much like how it’d appeared to begin with. Death is dark, and warm, and he swears he can hear a faint voice in the distance, garbled and familiar.
“Gorou…?” he manages to whisper, and regrets speaking immediately, as his shoulder throbs in response to his wakefulness.
“Nah,” the unmistakable drawl of Ichirou replies somewhere near Rokurou’s ear. “Just me.”
“Oh,” he replies. He’s being carried, cradled against his brother’s chest by a single arm, with several ropes and fabrics tied together to secure him further. It reminds him of how he’s seen women around the village secure infants for travel, albeit a much shoddier version. That rhythmic irritation he’s starting to notice in his wounds is from his brother’s brisk steps, and Rokurou has just enough energy to feel humiliated about the whole situation. “You can just leave me here to die, now.”
Ichirou laughs. His voice is too close, and his bellowing hurts Rokurou’s ears. “Wow, you get sassy when you bleed out. Is that any way to thank your big brother for coming to your rescue?”
Rokurou huffs and refuses to answer, falling against the warmth of his brother’s shoulder with as much irritation as he can muster. The older Rangetsu hums to fill the silence, Stormhowl shimmering over his back. Drawn and secured in his brother’s grasp, the blade is ready for the slightest hint of danger. It must be a lot of work, hauling Rokurou’s deadweight around in such a way while keeping the ōdachi upright, but Ichirou looks nothing but pleased by the challenge. Of course Ichirou can handle a daemon onslaught with such a handicap, what sort of second-rate swordsman do you take him for? Rokurou really shouldn’t be surprised by the things his brother thinks he’s capable of.
From his vantage, faced over Ichirou’s shoulder, he can’t see much, but knows the carriages they’re escorting belong to the Capaluses. The retainer manning the one in immediate view is an older gentleman, appearing far too composed to have lived through the same night as him. There’s no doubt that at least the count rests safely within the covered compartment of one of these transports. A handful of other students — less than Rokurou expected — are lined along the other carriages, but Rokurou suspects the count must be in the one Ichirou is guarding. A group of servants make up the back of the line, doing their best to keep pace and flee with some measure of protection.
The road stretches parallel to the river as far as Rokurou can see, meaning they're more than halfway down the mountain, and he’s been out for far longer than he cares to consider. The moon’s position reaffirms his suspicions, dipping far into the sky at this point, and he expects twilight to peak over the treetops at any moment.
The energy boost from his mother’s parting gift has long faded by now, and Rokurou can acutely feel every point of fatigue the spell had been masking. Not just the wounds on his shoulder, which alternate between prickling chill and bubbling anguish, but the bone-deep aches in his calves, the coarse dryness of his throat, and the tender blisters and bruises that pepper his soles and ankles from the trail's impurities.
It’s a wonder that he’s even alive at all. He wants to ask Ichirou how he found him, what happened at the manor, to the daemon, the specter, and so much more, but he curbs his appetite for now. Certain matters are more important than his curiosity. Besides, he’s not sure whether he could properly digest the answers. Rokurou’s had about all he can take of surprises for one night.
“Gorou is dead,” he says, having nothing else to offer as a starting point. "He was killed by a daemon. I think it was Saburou.” He doesn’t know exactly what being a daemon means, but he’s too prideful to let that ignorance slip into words. He figures he’s seen enough to have an idea, anyway.
“So, the bastard let it get to him, too.” Ichirou tuts, shaking his head. The barest hint of stubble on his chin bristles against Rokurou’s forehead. “Jirou used to tell him all the time not to take things so seriously.” He sighs, wistful, like he wants to say more, but the silence pervades. It makes Rokurou wish he knew more about Shigure’s second son beyond a tired-looking name on the family tombstone.
“Shame about Gorou, too,” Ichirou continues, “Always thought the kid was too soft. But at least you turned out fine. I knew you were my favorite! Good job proving me right, Rokurou.” It’s the same as back then: praise layered between callousness, like a cake filled with needles. Rokurou buries his face further in his brother’s robes, glad to hide the pink in his cheeks. After everything that’s happened, he can’t tell whether he’s embarrassed, upset, or ashamed. Maybe all three.
His lack of response doesn’t seem to bother Ichirou in the slightest. “What about Shigure?” he asks, moonlight casting a strong line down his profile as he presses onward. If Rokurou were looking, he might have seen his brother’s gaze drift purposely off somewhere in the forest as he spoke.
“Don’t know,” Rokurou replies, “She was fighting the daemon, when she told me to go and protect the lord.” And what a good job he’s doing, too, arriving for duty so beat up he needs protection himself. Disgraceful.
Ichirou makes a noise of acknowledgement, and the two fall back into quiet, broken only by the chatter of horses. One of the carriage wheels is worn at an angle, and it squeaks with every third rotation. Where Rokurou expects the flutter of wildlife, there is instead an eerie emptiness. Light breezes rustle the trees, keeping him on edge.
He feels Ichirou’s left arm, the one supporting him, curl just a bit tighter around him, and it takes longer than Rokurou wants to admit to realize that it’s meant to be comforting. He tries not to show how the gesture actually settles his nerves, somewhat. When he throws his good arm around Ichirou’s neck, he plays it off as insurance in case his unreliable brother drops him. Ichirou doesn’t call his bluff.
The first sunbeams of a new day bleed through the thinning treetops. The road opens to a wide valley, nestled cozily within the chain of hills and mountains behind. A vast sheet of lakewater branches off into several fierce rivers, fed by glacial peaks even taller than the slopes of the Capalus domain. The highway winds off to the west, closer to where Ywain lay, but Rokurou doesn’t blame the caravan for taking the calmer route through the lakelands. The small size of their travelling party alone says plenty about what must have happened at the Capalus manor, and Rokurou witnessed the precursor to what’s likely befallen the Rangetsu abode. Who could say what would await them if they tried to stop in the fiefdom village? At least the lake serves an adequate moat for their makeshift camp.
Ichirou loosens the supports, but doesn’t untie them entirely - trust Ichirou to always be on guard. It makes Rokurou realize just how disoriented he is. The world spins, and he weakly grasps for purchase on Ichirou’s kimono, misses spectacularly, and pitches to the side. Thankfully his brother catches him, not that Rokurou would ever put a voice to his gratitude.
There are words, too, he realizes, things his sibling is saying to him, but he doesn’t have the frame of mind to do much more than grunt. His brother is trying to feed him some manner of food, and his head is jumbled far too much to focus on what’s in it. His brain latches onto “medicinal” during part of the explanation, so he opens his mouth and lets Ichirou feed him, and determinedly swallows all of the humiliation alongside the food. It’s hot, and his stomach coils painfully in sickness, but he forces it all to the side and impatiently opens his mouth for another bite. What must be years pass before the herbs kick in, and when the pain finally begins to ebb, he bodily melts.
He feels the rumbles of his brother’s laughter against his back more than he hears it, and tries not to think about how nice the rough pads of his fingers feel carding through his hair, no doubt covered in dirt and blood and maybe an ant or two. Someone drapes a blanket over the two of them, and Rokurou relishes in the warmth, as warm as memories from nearly a year ago about exorcists and ice cream.
“Ichi…” he tries, stops, can’t quite find the breath to say the whole name. He doesn't correct himself, and decides if Ichirou ever brings it up, he’ll claim amnesia.
“Hm?”
“Wwe shld get...yoz’kruh…an...mmm…” In his mind the words are clear, if only his mouth would cooperate. Keeping his eyes open is a monumental task as well, and Rokurou fights to keep from nodding off.
“It’ll be our first stop when we get to Loegres,” he hears above him. It sounds farther away than before. “So tough it out a little longer, alright Roku?” The last bit comes out in an infuriatingly teasing lilt.
Jerk, he thinks as his vision goes black.