Chapter Text
Good for nothing-
I just need some time away from here-
Worthless son-
I'm sure he loves-
He wasn't always like that-
When Senjurou woke up, he didn’t immediately realize that there was something wrong with him.
He should have, if only because it's not exactly everyday that you wake up bloody and beside a dead person, but he didn’t. But there was a sort of detachment in his mind, like when waking up from a deep and dreamless sleep.His mind was empty of thoughts, and even if he had tried, he probably wouldn’t have been able to think of anything in this state.
Instead, what dragged his mind back to reality was the strange sound of gurgling, followed by someone chewing and spitting something. It wasn’t an unusual sound per say, but for some reason it made something twist in his stomach, and he started to fight against his tiredness.
The grass he was lying on was cold, and the only warmth he could feel was a wet stickiness that he recognized as blood on his forehead. When he dared to open his eyes, he noticed the dark night only illuminated by the moonlight, as well as the silhouette of a house a few meters away from him. Or at least, it probably used to be a house, but blood now painted its walls and the floor he could see behind the destroyed door.
What he noticed next was the green blade in front of him. It seemed familiar, the way a common object like a broom was: he knew what it was, but he also knew it wasn’t his. Yet, knowing why – some deep ingrained instinct, perhaps – he grabbed it, heart racing.
Finally, his eyes fell on where the sounds of chewing came from, and only shock stopped him from screaming.
A monster was eating a boy not far from him, blood flowing from its mouth even as the child’s empty eyes stared at Senjurou.
Ice filled his veins, and he started at the horrifying spectacle for what seemed hours. Strangely enough, he was not afraid. Numbness filled his body, and he stoop motionless, not even shaking.
Senjurou got up slowly, careful not to make any sound so the demon wouldn’t notice that he was breathing. His head and his leg was hurting, a burning agony that made his vision waver, but the sword was firmly held in his hands, weight strangely familiar.
The demon – for it was a demon, and how did he even know this? – seemed a bit taller than him. Even kneeling, Senjurou could see that he was muscular, though still thin. He must have been a teenager, maybe even younger. It made Senjurou even more sad and sick.
He had to move, he had to act, before the demon noticed, before he could hurt anyone, this was what
(he was taught, what his older brother would have done)
was right.
Finally, the demon turned its, no his, head towards him – was he smiling? Senjurou couldn’t see with all the blood, but he could have sworn – but he moved fast, before the demon had time to react.
Senjurou’s blade cut through flesh, and the head fell off.
Silence surrounded them, heavy, and the demon’s smile fell as he let out a shriek that made his ears hurt, and pounced on him. Senjurou hastily stepped back, but his leg gave way and he fell with a whimper.
The demon screamed, a deep and guttural thing, inhuman and painful, and Senjurou noticed with wide eyes that he was crying.
“You fucking traitor-”
He disappeared before finishing his sentence, leaving nothing but dust, and Senjurou breathed a sigh of relief. His hands shook and the sword slipped from his grasp, but he kept his breathing steady.
And finally, once he felt calm enough, the first question passed through his mind.
Where am I?
Again, he looked around him, but still nothing felt familiar. The dead boy was covered in blood – Senjurou could see some bones, but he fought not to focus on that lest he would threw up– and was wearing a black uniform. His face was covered in blood, damaged beyond recognition.
Grabbing the sword, he leaned on it and got up, legs and hands still shaky, and looked down on himself. While his left arm was bloody, it didn’t seem to be serious and he felt no pain. However, his right leg hurt a lot more and he wondered how he couldn’t help but wonder how someone like him (a failure)managed to defeat a demon with it.
The real problem was his head. He felt like his brain was trying to pound a hole in his skull to get out, and he was nauseous. Even if he wasn’t a healer, he knew that it was a bad sign.
A lock of golden hair tinted with red fell on his eyes, and he blinked before thinking, What a strange colour. Is it really my hair?
It was a dumb thought, and it brutally made him realize something much more concerning than his hair.
I don't know what I look like.
Fear gripped him, his stomach twisting in knots and his mouth suddenly became dry. He tried to remember, panicked because he wasn’t supposed to forget something like that, even someone stupid or a failure like him, but no matter how hard he tried, the memories escaped him, and the colour of his eyes or his age or his height or all the basic things someone is supposed to know about themselves seemed as unknown as the identity of the dead boy next to him.
Don't panic, breathe, it's okay, you know who you are, your name is-
Senjurou, but before that? Something Senjurou. It was a family name, it was important, it had to be. He was supposed to remember, but he couldn’t!
Did he even have a family?
He couldn’t remember it, and that may have been the scariest realization.
Shoving down his panic, he glanced down at himself. A plain white yukata with darker hakama pants were his clothes, and he noted faintly that they seemed too big on his small frame, both stained with blood. He was pretty sure most wasn’t his, and that madethe panic he was trying to forget come back with a vengeance. His own blood pounded in his ears, heart thudding in his chest.
His hands and his legs shook, his vision swimming and full of tears. He needed to move, to get away. He couldn’t stay near that horrifying place any longer. He couldn’t look at at the body a few feet away from him. A sob was stuck in his throat as he tried to stay calm, without success, andhis breathing quickened. His nails dug in his palm painfully, and the grip he had on the sword was almost painful and turned his fingers white.
A sound forced him back to reality, and he turned to see an older girl, almost a woman, emerging from the woods beyond the house. The same uniform as the dead boy was on her back, and she stopped when she saw the corpse, eyes staring at it before falling on Senjurou. She stayed eerily still and quiet, examining him and the sword still in his hands. Slowly, she asked, voice calm but soft.
“Who are you?”
The sob broke free. Senjurou’s answer was the whisper of a terrified child.
“I don't know.”