Chapter Text
The patter of rain against the window mimicked the sound of hooves against hard-packed soil. It was enough to bring him out from under the twilight haze of unconsciousness, the screams of his steed still ringing in his ears as the manticore stepped on the wretched beast’s throat, silencing it. Akutagawa Ryuunosuke wrenched himself upright using the windowsill just above his head, his entire body aflame in pain.
He stared at his hand on the stone still, breathing hard and fast, his heart thudding in his chest. After several long moments, he loosened his grip and lifted his hand before slowly looking up.
The last thing that he remembered hearing, past the choked death rattle of his horse and the manticore feeding upon it, was a low rumble that resonated deep in his bones. An unearthly growl—and not of the manticore. His death at the hands of the creature was all but assured; sword lost along the haphazard flight after his horse spooked and he could not bring it back under his control. He had been trapped in the mud, the creature’s poison spreading under his skin, incapacitating him and his demon both, and his broken leg entangled by the reins.
Why then, did he still live?
…where was he?
The room was small and warm. He lay in an unfamiliar bed just slightly too big for a single person. Near the head of the bed, there was an old stone hearth with a stoked fire, cheerfully keeping the damp away, and a large, aged cauldron suspended over the hearth and bubbling merrily. Piled nearby was what remained of his armor, fastidiously cleaned of blood and ichor and now reflecting the warm glow.
Before he could think of moving to inspect his surroundings further, a door thudded open, stopped short from swinging to the wall by the foot of the bed “Ope,” an unfamiliar voice said, and the bed was jostled by the impact. A strange, hooded figure kicked the door closed and pulled down the heavy hood, revealing an all-too-damp young man with silver hair and suntanned skin. He glanced over at Akutagawa, clearly surprised to see that he was upright in the bed. “Ah, you’re finally awake.”
Akutagawa said nothing, hands resting in his lap and eyes narrowed as he watched the young man hang his sodden woolen cloak by the fire. “Glad to see you didn’t die in the night,” he said conversationally, nudging Akutagawa’s armor away so that he could drag the only unencumbered chair closer to the warmth of the fire. “Hungry?”
The young man wore the simple clothing of a farmer: a plain tunic and trousers without adornment. He didn’t wait for Akutagawa to respond either, ladling some of the contents of the cauldron into a wooden bowl and offering it to Akutagawa. “It isn’t much, but I salvaged what I could.”
Akutagawa held the bowl in both trembling hands, letting it warm him and further chase the chill from his bones. “Farmer,” he said finally, and his voice felt rough and wrong. “What became of the manticore?”
His benefactor looked over at him, surprise on his face. “The kirin took what was left of it, I figure,” he said with a shrug, handing a small, sharp knife to Akutagawa. “They take everything in these woods, eventually.”
He said no more, and Akutagawa speared some meat from the broth with the knife. It was tough and gamey, but between it and the root vegetables it filled his stomach and eased the ache in his side. He watched the young farmer intently as he ate, but the man simply dried his hair and sat in front of the hearth, stirring the cauldron occasionally.
Suddenly, Akutagawa realized that he wasn’t eating. “What is this?” he asked angrily, a familiar feeling rustling under his skin. “You intend to poison me?”
The young man seemed genuinely startled. He looked at the bowl in Akutagawa’s hand and then up at him. “I…only have one bowl,” he said. “I live alone, sir knight.”
That made sense. Akutagawa looked around the room again before settling back against the wall, and the static that had built under his skin settled as well. The farmer looked back at the cauldron and smiled a small, sharp little smile that unsettled Akutagawa all the more. “Besides,” he added, stirring the cauldron once again. “I already ate.”
In the daylight, the young farmer checked the wound that he had dressed on Akutagawa’s side. That was older than the manticore, he’d all but forgotten it in his mad ride into the dark forest, pushing his horse to its limit, frothing at the bit and coaxing every last ounce of speed from the doomed creature.
However, the manticore had struck with that accursed poisonous tail, and the barbs slipped between the plate armor and his tunic, digging deep into his skin. When his horse was felled by the monster, his wrenched leg was all but crushed.
“The poison should be out of your system in the better part of a day,” the farmer said, matter-of-fact, wrapping fresh bandages around the deep gouges in his arms. “Your leg, though…”
Akutagawa glared at the wall past the farmer’s silver hair. There was a chance that his leg wouldn’t heal right, and he would never walk properly again. And, without a horse, he was stranded until he was mobile, in whatever fashion that turned out to be. There was nothing for him to do now but wait it out and heal as well he could.
What a farmer barely his age was doing alone in the Kirinwood perplexed him. The ancient dark forest was patrolled by all manner of monsters; not just the kirin, and it seemed a fool’s errand to try to farm the land here, never mind survive by himself.
“Why are you here, alone?” he asked the farmer as he ladled more stew into the bowl for him.
“I’m not alone,” the man said, ever cheerful. “You’re here, aren’t you, sir knight?”
The farmer slept on the floor in front of the fire without complaint, bundled in a single blanket while Akutagawa occupied his bed. He lay on his side and stared at the young man’s back, the shadow cast from the fire flickering low in the night, long and heavy. He didn’t quite understand why his eyes felt compelled to the man but chose not to question it.
Akutagawa watched the farmer as he bustled around the small homestead during the day, going about his daily life. He cleaned and added vegetables to the stew, darned old clothing, and mended tools. He displayed no fear nor concern of a strange man in his home, gravely wounded or otherwise. The farmer clearly knew nothing of him, nor his reputation.
He washed Akutagawa’s wounds gently and bathed his skin. Akutagawa hated it, being treated as infirm; and said nothing, eyes fixed on his hands as the man rubbed soap into his skin.
He couldn’t recall the last time anyone touched him with a gentle hand.
He hated it.
With his jaw clenched and fingernails digging tight into his palms, he suffered through the care in silence. The gentle pressure of the warm rag on his back ceased. “Am I hurting you?” the farmer asked softly, and Akutagawa had to let out a ragged breath and steady his voice.
“No.”
He pulled his tunic on without assistance and watched the farmer rinse himself off across the room, stripped naked in front of the fire. The man looked up at one point, and Akutagawa immediately looked away, angry at himself for some reason, ears heated.
For the first time since he woke in this stranger’s home, he lay with his back to the open room, curled in on himself. He listened to the farmer finish dressing and settle on the cold stone floor in front of the fire. Eventually, Akutagawa raised himself on one elbow, checking over his undamaged shoulder to see that the farmer had his back toward him as well, before lying back down on his side and exhaling softly.
It was not in his nature to be affected like this; perhaps it was an ill effect of the manticore poison still creeping its way through his body. Regardless, Akutagawa closed his eyes and pushed his hand down the front of the loose trousers he wore, palming himself and exhaling as softly as he could manage, surprised at the heat gathered between his legs.
He needed no assistance in completing this deed, but he could not stop the image of the man in profile from filtering through; the breadth of his shoulders cast in sharp relief, moisture already drying on his skin, those eyes like twin moons, watching him in the dark.
Akutagawa bit his lip, eyes still closed tight; the demon under his skin rustled through his clothing, wrapping around the hand he had closed tight over his burning-hot prick and absorbing any mess from his shuddering climax.
Heartbeat loud in his ears, Akutagawa exhaled again, fighting to even out his breathing. He drew his now-clean hand from his trousers, pressing his fist to his breast and making a silent oath that he would depart as soon as he was physically able.
“Is this all your armor?” the farmer asked, in the morning when sunlight eked through the window over the bed, dappled with dust in the air. “But you have no weapon.”
Akutagawa could feel the energy of the demon bound under his skin, and he looked away, out the smudged, dirty window above the bed. “Lost, along with my rucksack and horse.”
“Your horse isn’t lost, sir knight,” the farmer sounded slightly amused. “Dead, but not lost.” Akutagawa gave him a sour look in return, but it did not seem to dampen the man’s mood. “Your weapon, though, was lost before the manticore felled your mount?”
Somewhere, back in the mad, wild rush of darkness. His memories of that fight were badly jumbled, and now he wasn’t sure why. He’d managed to get at least a single hit in, if not more. If his steed hadn’t already panicked, his demon would have protected them both, but he could not manage its rage and the horse’s panic both without sacrificing something more important than them both.
“Probably,” Akutagawa said. “It is no matter. A weapon always finds me when I need it.”
The farmer tilted his head, his mood still clearly light. He was seated at his table, putting something together that Akutagawa couldn’t quite see from the angle of the bed. It was fine, though, as they fell into a silence that filled the room.
Eventually, in the afternoon, the farmer rose and collected his cloak. He nodded at Akutagawa but gave no indication of his intent, closing the door of the homestead carefully behind him. Akutagawa watched him cross the small stretch of cultivated farmland through the window before the shape of the farmer disappeared into the thick, tall trees that bordered the cultivated land.
Safely alone, Akutagawa exhaled. His tunic rustled around his shoulders, and the fabric came fully to life, sliding across his skin in thick ribbons until it wrapped around his damaged leg, pulling tight over the wood that was keeping the limb straight to heal. Carefully, painfully, Akutagawa stood—supporting most of his weight on his good leg, his demon keeping him upright on his bad.
The farmer had salvaged nearly all of his plate armor. More importantly, though, he was missing the satchel, definitely lost with his horse and his weapon. A pity, but the mission he carried was engraved upon his heart. He needed nothing else but a good, fast horse and a clear night sky to guide him.
Akutagawa picked up his helm and held it in both hands, staring into the open visor. This wasn’t his proper dress armor, and he had no fondness for it, but it had borne many battles with him and was fit to his size. As he stared at it, the blackness began to spread from his fingertips, staining the steel again the color of his heart.
He was the Black Knight, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, demon-bound and cursed. Cast out of the Royal Guard but not stripped of his duty to king and country, he had a mission to complete. He would not linger a single moment longer than necessary.
All at once, his demon left him, going silent under his skin. Without its aid, his bad leg could no longer support his weight; Akutagawa dropped the helm atop the other pieces of his armor with an enormous clatter and staggered back, catching himself before he could crumple fully to the floor.
He swore an oath aloud, flinging himself back and somehow managing to land on the very edge of the bed, the pain and the dizziness bringing with it the rushing dark of deepest night.