Archive of Our Own ^beta

They say the day will eventually arrive. Kanae had dreamed of it—to see her in white.

──

It started in the wake of spring, when humanity was on the precipice of an epochal shift.

To be level-headed was a necessary trait of a good leader, much less a hashira of her stature. Such a thing, however, was difficult when she found herself sitting right next to the person she had dreamed of.

Amane stood before the seven pillars for an emergency pillar meeting in their esteemed estate. After the defeat of two Uppermoons, Four and Five, and the recent reappearance of the legendary ‘Demon slayer mark,’ the higher-ups were on edge.

For the past few meetings, Oyakata-sama had been bedridden by his rapidly progressing illness, so Amane had taken on his duties. He promised to return as soon as his frail body would let him. To which his most beloved children would always put his mind at ease. Yet as moons passed, the fact loomed over them like a dark sky of gray; they knew a storm was to arrive soon–the Master could no longer evade his deteriorating health.

It didn't help that the Hashiras were down to seven pillars now. After Rengoku’s untimely passing and Tengen’s retirement, the corps’ pillars had taken a hit. From choosing between replacements to strengthening their forces, the deliberation had been tumultuous at best. Despite this, the Demon Slayer Corps cannot afford even a moment of grief; demons never wait to slaughter another life if possible. This meeting was of the utmost importance more than ever.

Which is why Shinobu wishes she could listen to the discussion, rather than feel a pulse race in her throat. While her body remains kneeling with poise, beads of sweat trickle down her temples as her peripheral vision sets its sights on him.

He, with his broad, brooding shoulders, appears calm as the deep ocean in the dead of night. He, with unruly hair held together by a rubber band, lurks, yet captures her sight. It tunnels ever so slightly, to keep him dead center.

Judging from the unusual bulge on his chest, the bandages she applied remain where they’re supposed to be. It was rather rare for a hashira to get injured; when they did, it was life-threatening. Even the strongest couldn’t evade human vulnerability.

His injury was minor, at least in comparison to everything the young doctor dealt with. A laceration along the left side of his chest. It tore through muscles, but luckily evaded major arteries. It would have been a simple fix if it hadn’t been for her already stressful night last night. Instead of receiving just an impeccable stitch and medication, he was sent off with a scolding as well.

She hopes he’s recuperating well. As it somehow washed away her shame.

When his gaze shifts to her momentarily, her body goes rigid. Without having to see, goosebumps erupt at that intense gaze of his.

But who could blame her? In this fleeting existence, one can only do so much to indulge in herself. It wasn’t as if she had done it on purpose; it was out of pure need. Although her nights of indulgences were a series of conscious decisions. Because deep down, she knew it was one of the few she chose for herself.

The conversation eludes her entirely. She barely grasps the words of her fellow pillars. Something about high body temperature, or their heart going ‘badump badump loudly’? Shinobu answers, yet it feels automated more than anything. Muichiro and Mitsuri keep explaining something; she knows because their lips are moving. She keeps a tight smile, hoping it is enough.

She’s there, but all she can hear is the silent screech in her ear.

“Does he know?”

The shame gnaws at her like a parasite to its host.

Her stomach drops; she’s in the center of his line of sight.

“No, impossible, I was quiet…I always have.”

His gaze was on her. Direct. Unyielding.

“Can he read minds? Did someone tell him?

His lips barely move, mouthing the beginning of her name. Her heart skips a beat.

“Fuck, I can explain-”

She feels the parasite pierce through her gut.

“Shinobu-san!” Mitsuri, the love pillar, chirps aloud.

“Y-yes?” Shinobu stutters as her eyes snap back into focus.

“Amane-sama is calling you…” Mitsuri continues gently, with her finger pointing forward.

Shinobu’s forehead slams onto the cotton mat of the estate. She doesn’t just feel his gaze on her; she feels the eyes of all of the elite slayers. The parasitic shame burns deeper into her skin.

“I sincerely apologize for my absent-mindedness, Lady Amane…” Shinobu says, her voice a manufactured calmness. A tingle of sweat meets the mat.

“No need to apologize, Kocho-san. Please raise your head,” Amane begins, “I was only asking for your current well-being. I was made aware of the frantic night you had…” Her delicate eyebrows knit at her words.

“Ah…It was hectic. However, all the slayers were accounted for by the kakushi and me. The vast majority of the slayers are in my estate, recuperating from their injuries. Although two are still unconscious, they are recovering. My sisters are tending to them as we speak, following through with my care plan.” Shinobu states, not once failing to deliver her report.

Her quick report brought forth looks of relief and awe, a grumble of “pathetic weaklings” from Sanemi, and a faltering smile from Amane. Amane chooses not to push her for an answer.

“You truly are a saint, Kocho-san,” Amane speaks with an ever-present kindness. The other six hashiras agree in unison.

Yet the burbling bile pooling in her stomach suggests otherwise.

‘What the hell were they even talking about?! Snap out of it, Shinobu. Only the immature cannot focus.’

Not long after, Amane departs to tend to her sickly husband, though she keeps her home open for the pillars’ strategic deliberation.

The weight is thick with air. The news of an impending battle against the Demon King doesn’t sit lightly. Amane and Oyakata-sama vehemently praised them as ‘the strongest group of Hashiras,’ yet it failed to reach the smallest pair of ears in the room.

Shinobu and ‘strongest’ couldn’t co-exist.

Now, the objective of this meeting is to attain a Demon Slayer Mark.

From what they had gathered, a mark only appeared in specific conditions of intense physical strain. The conditions are a requirement of a body temperature of 39°C and a heart rate of 200 beats per minute. In exchange, it grants the users superhuman capabilities of sight, reflex, speed, and strength. As Mitsuri cited, it was like “BAM! And POW!” which didn’t really help much; you just had to be there. Which was exactly what all the hashiras needed.

The Insect hashira had never felt further away.

To everyone’s surprise, Tomioka wasted no time in leaving them. Claiming he wasn’t like them and that it had nothing to do with him. He granted Shinobu the explanation she asked for, but his delivery hadn’t made his departure any less disrespectful. He fueled Obanai’s accusations against his supposed ‘superiority’ and ignited Sanemi’s hot temper. But most of all, Shinobu’s masked vexation at his poor choice of words.

He listened to her, and only her.

“Oi, the last I remembered, some demon beat the shit out of you!” Shinazugawa growls.

“Tomioka crawled to Kocho like a kicked wet dog. How repulsive. A true hashira stands his ground.” Obanai adds, fueling Sanemi’s rant.

“You look worse than Kanroji.” Shinazugawa hissed.

Obanai’s eyes grew wide at that, he exhales sharply, “How dare-”

If it hadn’t been for Gyomei’s stern intervention, Sanemi would have landed Giyuu right back into Shinobu’s clinic. Not that she would have minded, as her eyes lingered long after he had left. So, the meeting went on without him.

“Huh…somebody left?” Muishiro inquires; the timid boy blinks slowly as if to process.

“Yes, Tokito-kun! Tomioka-san left us! Kyah!” Mitsuri replies, her face covered with a slight frown.

“Tomikoka, huh…” Muichiro responds absentmindedly.

“No, Tokito, it’s To-mi-o-ka! The water hashira with the mismatched haori.” Mitsuri explains, miserably failing to describe the Water Hashira with her hands flailing around.

“The statue next to the swallow lady?” Muichiro hums, nearly foaming at the mouth.

“Eeh?-” Mitsuri squeaks with an eyebrow raised.

“Tch, they’re only getting weaker because Kocho keeps coddlin’ them!” Sanemi barks, pointing accusingly at the Insect Hashira. “We’re just sending little shits to die off and waste our time on.”

“Exactly. Each new batch of slayers is weaker than the last. At this rate, carrying them is deadweight. We’re wasting resources on weaklings. For every mission you send them on, a hashira or a high-ranking slayer has to follow just to clean up their mess.” Obanai hisses, his eyebrows scrunching in disgust.

“Shinazugawa, Iguro, that’s way too harsh to our younger slayers! They’re still growing, they still need to-” Mitsuri exclaims.

It seemed the absence of three other slayers had tipped the balance into insanity. Without Tengen or Rengoku’s enthusiasm, Iguro and Sanemi were left with their vices to spread their harsh ‘anti-weakling narrative.’

Shinobu was always quick to defend.

“Shinazugawa, it’s not coddling if the support is needed. I only intervene for their health, to prevent death.” Shinobu begins calmly, “I’ve stitched lacerations on you before. Does that mean I’ve coddled you to be a weakling?” Her eyes rivet on him, challenging him.

“Tch, shit’s not the same, Kocho!” Shinazugawa barks back.

“-Silence!” The grizzly Gyomei commands, his beads clashing like thunder from his clap. “We are hashiras. Our objective is to earn a mark. We lack in numbers as it is. We can no longer wait another thousand years for the next opportunity to kill Kibutsuji. We have to strengthen these poor, unfortunate souls.” A stream of tears follows.

The hashiras fall tense, adrenaline courses through their bodies. Mitsuri nearly squirms, Shinobu sweats, while the others sit expectantly. The revelation is exhilarating yet terrifying at the same time. Centuries of bloodshed, hiding in the night, and despair could come to an end by their hands. That in itself was enough to set differences aside.

Though chaotically painful, the meeting concluded with a resolution thanks to Gyomei’s strong leadership and Shinobu’s rationality. From now on, the Hashira training would commence. Hashiras sparring against Hashiras; underlings training under Hashiras. They would unite, stronger than ever, to unlock their marks and accumulate power in the pursuit of victory. If the long-awaited battle were to commence, then they would end victorious.

At least, that was their plan.
──

The master was far from cruel. His request for Shinobu suggests otherwise.

She was seething. Each stroke of her pen hadn’t just marked the parchment with ink, but also engraved every stroke of her word. If the parchment could scream, it would have; because it couldn't, it hissed in her writing.

But if anyone had the right to scream, it would have been her.

‘Work with a demon?! Work with a demon?!’

The paper hadn’t just hissed or bled with black; it sagged and tore.

Kanae had once told her to feel her emotions. But that was all Shinobu ever did. Explosive. Rude. Stubborn.

Kanae told her to write poetry to ‘feel her emotions.’ Whatever that meant.

So that’s exactly what Shinobu attempts to do now. Kanae’s pen painted the scene of her heart––a harmony of flora and fauna. Shinobu destroys the canvas.

Because even with her late sister’s haori hanging loose on her, Shinobu wasn’t Kanae.

“Kocho.” A gruff voice calls from the office door, its steps ghostly.

Her hand locks in place; the pen's tip now bleeds onto the wooden desk.

“I’m surprised you bothered to show your face to me after today’s meeting…” Shinobu chirps, eyes fixed on the parchment before her, venom in her tone.

“You told me to come.” He simply explains, his tone an octave lower.

“And I told you to stay for the meeting, yet you didn’t,” she sings softly, resting the falcon pen onto its stand. “Perhaps your obedience or listening is selective, then.”

His stomach tightens at her words.

Silence settles before them as it had many times before, this time heavier with taut breaths.

He awkwardly pulls a chair to him, its legs scraping against the wooden floor of her office. Its screeching creates a swift cut through the thick air.

“Very well, I’ll take a look at that injury then. Sit.” Shinobu sighs, approaching him with dragging feet and a few medical items.

Giyuu sits on the chair across hers, his body groggy with a lack of sleep.

“Chasing dreams again, Tomioka-san? Or too occupied with staring into the void?” She comments, venom dissipating slightly.

He greets her with silence, immediately falling into routine as he peels away his haori and uniform to let her work. Luckily for him, this particular sight was his key to winning her favor back. Shinobu’s ears immediately heated.

“I’m not surprised you haven’t been taking the herbal remedy I sent with you.” She hums reluctantly, a vein popping beneath her bangs.

“He has the nerve to show his face…”

Shinobu cuts through the bandages around his chest, ripping the cloth away with force more than necessary. Yet he doesn’t even flinch. He busies himself by looking everywhere but her; it seems the feeling is mutual. The half-written entry, a vial rack of liquid he can’t even name, and a sterilized syringe. It’s relatively tidy; hundreds of books neatly shelved, everything in its rightful place, and not a speck of dust.

In a way, he belonged here, too.

Shinobu tosses the blood-stained bandages into the bucket with a splat. She examines the wound––a nasty gash across his chest. It was deep, but not deep enough to damage anything beneath the skin. It lets her breathe easier.

But it doesn’t take her long to notice the lack of stitching near the wound’s head. Her face sours at that.

Stubborn mule.

“I told you not to perform strenuous movements. The stitches came undone.” She scolds him, her lips pressed into a tight smile as she continues ripping the cloth away.

“I-...had to train…” He coughs out with a violent racking.

Her brows furrow at the force of his cough. Her awfully cool hand moves to steady him, then to rest its back against the warmth of his forehead. Only now had she actually seen him––the exhaustion etched onto his face and the pallor of his complexion. For a moment, her gaze narrowed on his face, melting away any ounce of tension in her brows.

“Stop moving. I have to re-stitch them.” Shinobu sighs.

She briefly leaves him to gather her equipment. He sits there like a clueless child, wincing at the way the wind brushes against his wound from the window; his only distraction is the relaxing scent of wisteria. She returns and immediately begins to disinfect the site by tapping at its sides with a medicated towel. The cool towel contrasts with the burning sensation that follows.

Usually, she would have found a way to tease him with light banter. A ‘Nobody likes you’ here or a ‘you’re an airhead’ there––but not this time. She wasn’t in the mood for it. She was grappling with the aftermath of today’s events and the afterglow of her…activities about him. At least, the fantasy of such. However, she also had enough empathy to spare him the stress of her banter.

Shinobu works like clockwork on him, stitching and bandaging him up with immense precision.

As she works away, Giyuu’s unfazed gaze shamelessly locks onto her face. The warm glow of the lamps illuminated her face, enough for him to make out the deathly white of her skin and the light tints on her plump lips.

Her hair looked duller than usual. Thin patches of hair creep from the aggression of her intricate bun. A few strands rest on the fabric of her dark purple uniform.

Perhaps it was a lapse in his judgment to assess her as if he were the doctor, not her. In his eyes, she looked sicker than he.

He could see in the way her finger slips at the stitch, how her hand tremors ever so slightly with each drive of the needle through his skin.

“You smell… like wisteria…” He whispers, husky.

“Wisteria has multiple purposes.” She simply answers, nearly done with his bandages.

“More than usual…” He huffs gently. Her hands slightly falter on him.

“I was concocting a new blend until you came in.” She answers fast. Too fast; ties too tight.

Not even a petal of wisteria sits in her office.

It wasn’t just a scent, it was an odor.

Soon enough, she finished.

“Considering the state of your condition, you will be staying in the hashira ward downstairs.” She begins, walking away as she settles a kit of his ointment and some herbal medicine. “Your medicine is here. I’ll take you downstairs where Aoi can-”

The words die on her lips as a gust of wind greets her from where he’s supposed to be. The paper scattered from the table, while the chair shifted. The door swings back in a quiet screech.

“Tomi?-” She falters, then blinks to an empty hand and chair.

Her fists clenched.

‘Stubborn fool. He can’t survive without me.’
──

As the spring days began to lengthen, Shinobu hadn’t heard from him for a while. Not a whisper or a peep for days or weeks. Which was either good or bad. Good because he might have finally heeded her warning and taken the medicine she made. Or bad because he could have finally succumbed to the wound she stitched up.

From Giyuu’s lack of participation in the hashira training, the latter possibility seemed tangible. Only she could opt out of it, partly because the master had given her a confidential mission, but mostly, she had nothing to offer them. Something she wished her tsuguko, Kanao, could understand.

Since the hashira training program began three weeks prior, everyone had hustled to train. Despite the kindness of spring, slayers vehemently sparred from dusk to dawn under the unforgiving, sweltering heat of the sun. The hashiras’ usually leisurely estates boomed with the sounds of marching steps and the clattering of wood all day long. To say the least, the experience was gruesome.

No sane person would willingly choose such a life. But that was precisely the case. You didn’t choose this life; it chose you. People like Kanae want peace; they hold onto the belief of harmony. Such naivety, as if it were even possible for prey and predator to exist harmoniously. Meanwhile, people like Sanemi fight for their destruction.

Shinobu was the latter. Yet her proximity to the creature suggests otherwise.

Away from her usual scene of treating patients, she finds herself in foreign ground––a laboratory hidden away in the Ubuyashiki mansion. Ironically, this place felt the closest she had ever been to home. It reminded her of the days spent with her father in their pharmacies, happier times.

Here, she doesn’t hesitate. She chooses the correct herb and infuses the right compounds. She doesn’t just work, she flutters by. Medicine was the one thing she could still call hers. Whenever she was creating new concoctions, whether poison or medication, she felt isolated in the best way possible. Somehow, a serene silence settles with each new brew, as if a cruel world wasn’t waiting for her outside sterile walls. It was a world where fake smiles needn't be plastered.

At least, until shattered glass yanks her away.

“If you hadn’t noticed, Lady Tamayo is the special guest of the master. She was invited to work alongside you, not the other way around.” The mint-haired man scoffs. His hand was hovering over where the beaker once stood.

‘Audacious brute.’

Shinobu presses a tight smile. “Apologies then. I assumed you understood lab etiquette. Would you prefer I show you around? This is a beaker. It holds the chemicals in, and it’s made of glass, which is breakable. ” She remarks with an ever-present smile.

“Why you!-” He huffs in synchrony with his fist.

Shinobu’s hand hovers over the hilt of her blade.

“Yushiro!” A woman from behind calls out, turning heads. “Ms. Kocho, I apologize for his misconduct. I am Tamayo, and he is my apprentice, Yushiro. We are not here to harm you. We simply wish to collaborate with you, as per the request of Master Ubuyashiki…Yushiro will clean it up immediately…” Tamayo stands as an unwavering statue. The calm of her voice diffuses the heightened tension.

Yushiro attempts to revolt, but Tamayo’s gaze was enough to put him in line. He found himself holding a wooden broom in seconds.

If it hadn’t been for the Master’s request and ailing state, these two demons would have been spasming on the ground in a matter of seconds from her blade.

“I apologize for my impudence, as well, then,” Shinobu reflects, forcing her hand away to her sides, “I hope we can move past this hurdle. We must work together as allies on this mission afterall, Tamayo-san, Yushiro-san.” She bows, hiding the twitch of her eye.

“Likewise, Kocho-san,” Tamayo replies.

In the following days of their limited partnership, they scraped past milestones with ease. On the first day, they developed the blueprint for their final piece. On the second day, they had finished nearly half of their trials. On the third day, they created three drug prototypes subjected to clinical trials. Not that it was a surprise, with Shinobu’s intensive foundation for demon physiology and pharmaceuticals, and Tamayo’s centuries of experience and knowledge of demon physiology, they were an unstoppable force.

‘Master said we needed to work together. Not that we needed to get along…’

“Let’s act under the assumption that the drug will decompose. The first stage is to create a drug to turn him back to human—either the one you have created or the one I have. If that fails, we shall create another with a stronger effect of aging.” Shinobu reads out a passage from her notebook before peeking through a microscope with said drug.

“My drug can age Muzan 50 years per minute. Rather than creating entirely new drugs, let’s combine the ones we have.” Tamayo replies, intrigued by the younger girl’s initiative.

Shinobu was always curt and polite to them. She hands Tamayo the correct instruments needed and suggests feedback whenever she makes mistakes. But she keeps her nirichin blade close, clasped onto her belt; she reeks with wisteria, more than usual. Yushiro loathed her equally for her prejudice against Tamayo, and especially after Shinobu tried to chase his beloved chachamaru away, thinking it was a pest.

“Even with all four stages of the drug completed, the issue is the mechanism of delivery. We need a vessel.” Shinobu says, a slight frown plastered on her face.

Tamayo gazes back at Shinobu, her face resolved.

Shinobu nods.

In a week, that trajectory shifted. It started with polite comments.

“Kocho-san, it’s late. You may retire home for the night; you’ve done much work today. I need you in the laboratory at your best tomorrow.” Tamayo chides as she observes the sample through a microscope.

“I can stay a little longer. I’m just waiting for the cells to turn over.” Shinobu hums back, and a faint yawn escapes her.

Then flattery.

“Great work, Kocho-san. Without your help, I would not have noticed how to adjust the wisteria concentration. It would have diluted all other mixtures in the drug,” Tamayo praises with a tone softer than usual. Her smile reaches her eyes.

Then understanding.

“So long as Kibutsuji lives, I cannot rest easy,” The demon hisses, her eyes dilating into strips in its pool of lilac. “Which is why I took up Ubuyashiki’s offer. I will not stop at anything to meet his demise. I want him to ashes, writhing in pain.”

The demon's claws tremble around the glass she holds hostage. The crimson liquid within shakes in unison. The blood threatens to stain her violet floral kimono.

For once, Shinobu sees beyond the mature temperament of the woman. Beneath those lilacs is an unsettled madness awaiting to awaken, much like her own.

The petals of a small sakura tree fall, joining a small pile beneath it.

“...I also wish to defeat Kibutsuji,” Shinobu sighs, as she presses the glass of wisteria to her lips, its unforgiving taste burning her tongue as she swallows hard. Her body nearly wretches at its foul smell, but the bite on her inner cheek forces it down with spite. “...but I want to annihilate Upper Moon Two more…”

In seconds, the Hashira’s hand violently rattles against her knees. The small jug slams onto the red pine floor, spilling a drop of its contents: wisteria poison. Shinobu bites back a cough, then two, then three, before it escapes her in a barely controlled fit. She should have gotten used to its burning sensation by now.

A splat of vibrant red stains her snow-like skin.

They stayed seated on the engawa of the mansion for what seemed like an eternity. Their legs hang on the engawa like the toro, mourning lanterns, in Ubuyashiki’s mansion. Allowing the cool breeze to wash away the weight of the world, and the coos of crows to sing the night’s melody.

“Is that why you chose to do this?” Tamayo begins, her eyes locked onto the purple vial peeking from the Hashira’s drawstring purse.

“...hmmm…” Shinobu responds, her eyes set on the moon.

Beneath those violet gradients was a raging inferno, waiting to leave destruction in its wake.

Two women. Separated by species, united by motif. Those were the eyes of women willing to stop at nothing to see blood. Those smiles were a mosaic of those who had come and left their lives.

Tamayo glances at the vial, “I can help you make it more potent. Your dosage is high, but your body will inevitably filter most of the poison. I suggest you make targeted bonds for poison retention...” she states.

Shinobu blinks, her eyes burning from intoxication. “Tell me…how so?” Shinobu wheezes.

That was the true beginning of the end.

They didn’t need to know much about one another, just that they knew enough about medicine. Because at the end of their stories, they were mere vessels––the instruments of demonkind’s undoing.

──

The year had slipped by like dried leaves in the wind. In the early stages of this winter, trees grew bare as the flurries violently carry its petals away. It was the coldest in the last few years; with that, the young girls of the Butterfly Mansion scurried to heat towels after towels and gather wood to keep the estate warm.

“Naho, Kiyo, Sumi! You girls are forgetting to close the doors!” A pigtailed girl, Aoi, scolds as she slams the screen shut.

“EEK?! We’re sorry, Aoi-san!” The three girls belted with interchanging bows.

Aoi huffs in annoyance, but lets the three girls go. There was much to be done in the Estate’s upkeep and patients. Luckily for them, the mansion had received fewer patients than usual. From what she learned from her sister Shinobu, the slayers were more careful now as a result of their training from the hashira. Because the low-ranking slayers often made up the population of admitted patients, their newfound skill lifted much of the burden from their shoulders.

Because of Shinobu’s work, many of the patient check-ups were performed by Aoi, and sometimes even Kanao. The girls often found their master coming home late, much more than when she was just fulfilling regular hashira duties. The girls didn't understand why; they just always followed along with what their master said. So they never asked.

By the time Aoi finished her nightly chores, the three little servants and Kanao were in the dining room, laying out the utensils. Aoi was met by the warm, vinegary aroma of salmon daikon filling the air. Its aroma is a savory, warm tug on the nostrils, inciting a subtle grumble from her stomach.

Tonight was special.

“Kanao-san…did you make this?” Aoi nearly stumbles at her words as she reaches the quiet girl holding the pot.

“Y-yes…” Kanao whispers. She looks away in subtle embarrassment and sets the savory goodness on the table.

Kiyo grabs a ladle and begins to fill up six bowls with it; Sumi sets the bowls to their rightful spot. The very last bowl was set at the head of the table with gentle care.

“Aoi…is Shinobu-sama…dining with us tonight?” Naho peeps from the side, her little hands grasping onto a pitcher of water.

“I’m not sure…” Aoi says, taking her spot at the table. “Kanao, is Shinobu-sama coming?” They all turned to her.

It makes Kanao a little nervous at first, “I think so,” She barely squeaks.

“Ok! Then let’s wait!” The three younger girls cheer in unison.

In an attempt to make time go faster, the three little girls talked their ears off with endless chatter.

“Shinobu-sama gave me these hairpins!” Kiyo announces with pride as she twirls her hair decorated with glass flowers. “And I have more, too! Now I can have many colored outfits!”

The girls stare in awe.

“Well, Shinobu-sama made me a drawstring pouch! And it’s my favorite color, too!” Naho chirps as she swings a light green pouch around for all to see. She struts to the head of the table and back, posing with it.

A series of “woaaahhhss” unleashes.

“Ha! That's nothing compared to!-” Sumi exclaims with pure excitement before she bolts away from the dining room. Leaving the four girls confused. A sneeze escapes Kanao, before they begin to hear rapid footsteps on their way back. Then, a girl bursts through the door, holding a pair of light blue shoes in the air,“-The shoes!- ha - Shi-no-bu-sa-ma got me!” The girl pants, her face a dark shade of red from running all the way from the shoe rack to the dining table.

Soft claps greet the wonderful pair of shoes and Sumi’s dedication to getting them.

“No outside shoes inside the Estate!” Aoi belts. Sumi yelps in response and performs another marathon to return it and make it back.

Even the older girls, mainly Aoi, joined in the show-and-tell.

“Shinobu-sama gave this pendant to me.” Aoi begins, then reveals the sapphire blue butterfly necklace beneath the collar of her uniform.

It earns a louder collective “oohs.”

Then they turned to Kanao, whose spot is right next to the empty Master’s.

“I…uh…Shinobu-sama…gave me a yukata…” Kanao hush-speaks, blinking awkwardly at her statement.

Unlike the other girls, Kanao couldn’t show her yukata, primarily because it was stored all the way in her room. It took the three girls a while to realize that. Eventually, they just showered Kanao with enthusiastic cheers to give her her moment. The timid girl’s cheeks tint pink at that.

The majority of the vapor rising from their meal had vanished—condensed into the atmosphere. Still no sign of the Master.

So they continued with their stories. This time, with mischievous adventures, they can say out loud because enough time has passed.

“What?! So it was you three who killed Shinobu-sama’s chrysanthemums?!” Aoi bursts out, her eyebrows furrowing in irritation. She points a finger across from them.

“AHHHH, We didn't notice where we were throwing the hot water, Aoi-san!” Naho sobs out.

“Yes, and we didn't mean it….” Kiyo interjects, her eyes sparkling in the light.

“It was a loooonngggg time ago, too! Even so, those flowers would be dead by now. Flowers don't survive the winter.” Sumi points out.

“Neither do the insects!” Naho adds smiles. “So Shinobu-sama won’t be mad even if she knew about it!”

A window swings open from the intense wind, sucking in a sharp howl from the cool air entering. Just as Aoi shuts the window, a familiar silhouette enters the dining room.

“SHINOBU-SAMA!” The three little girls beamed. Immediately running to the hashira to surround her.

“Why hello, girls,” Shinobu speaks, a soft smile reaching her eyes. “I’m sorry for arriving late. I had to finish some things up in the laboratory.” She briefly pats their heads before taking her spot at the head.

If Shinobu hadn’t known better, she would have assumed it was Giyuu Tomioka dining with them, or even the chef of his meal. No one could rival his insatiable love for the fermented radish and savory fish. Her candle-like hands pick up a spoon and a pair of chopsticks, “Let’s eat!” She chides, and a cacophony of slurping fills the cozy hall.

Shinobu takes her first bite of fish, and her hand trembles for a second, causing the slice to slip off. She catches it with a spoon instead and shovels it into her mouth. The salmon melts in her mouth, lighting up her eyes.

‘Tomioka-san would kill to be here. I can already imagine that ghoulish smile of his…’ Shinobu thinks, flashing a slight smirk.

“Mhmmmm, this is delicious, Aoi.” Shinobu moans, chewing even more.

The little three girls hum in agreement, fervently slurping the warm broth with much gusto.

Aoi subtly raises an eyebrow at the bitten piece on her chopsticks. ‘…but this is kind of bland…’

“Actually, Kanao made this. On her own.” Aoi explains, a slight smile forming on her face.

Shinobu's hand falters at a bite, turning to see Kanao’s reaction. “Kanao, is this true?” She asks softly.

“…Yes… Master. I wanted to try…” Kanao audibly murmurs. Her eyes barely meet Shinobu’s.

This was the girl of skin and bone, dressed in tattered rags, that one summer day. This was the young girl Shinobu and Kanae pulled off from the streets, out of slavery. The young girl who held words tight in her throat, who flipped a coin for every decision. A listener, never a doer.

Shinobu and Kanae always gave her instructions. She hadn’t asked Kanao to cook now.

This was the girl now.

Shinobu’s heart bursts. Her smile widens to meet her eyes after a long time. “This is so lovely. Thank you for making dinner, Kanao…”

The timid girl nods slowly, her cheeks flushing deeper.

Dinners in the Butterfly Mansion had been like this lately. Although Shinobu often arrived home late, she always made the effort to show up as per request of the three younger servants. She always asked how their days had gone, asking about their well-being. It was hard not to get carried away with talking to her; Shinobu spoke in a manner that prolonged the time. By the time they would reach their final bite, they wouldn’t be halfway done with the new story Shinobu inquires about.

But they never really knew what she was up to.

The dining hall warms up even more as the winds howl from the outside. Its insulation is like a warm blanket around their bodies, like a warm summer night. Chatter spills over, long after meals vanish. It’s almost surreal, reality long forgotten.

“I almost didn’t notice. You’re all enjoying my gifts…” Shinobu chuckles, taking a deep breath to take it all in. The shimmer in Naho’s hair, and the glimmer of Aoi’s necklace. Her hands clasp together, “You all look beautiful…”

‘There’s more where that came from…in due time…’

“What’s the occasion for these gifts, Shinobu-sama?” Aoi inquires, attempting to hold in her geeky smile.

Shinobu’s eyebrows falter for a second, “I wanted to give you all a token of my appreciation,” she looks them all in the eyes, “ You all work so hard to keep this estate running. Without your help, there wouldn’t even be a Butterfly Mansion for the slayers.” Her eyes fall last on Kanao, who is nearly swimming in cold sweat. The girl’s fists shake beneath the table, attempting to anchor her to the present.

She smiles at Kanao, a silent ‘thank you’ for following her wishes.

It weighs down on Kanao, who drowns at that dreaded smile.

Moments like these were ones Shinobu wished to capture in time. As a frozen memorabilia, a painted image, or an artifact of time before it slips away. However, the lack of equipment and the cruel test of time’s odds were against her. So she drinks in the light, in its fleeting existence.

──

Later into the misty winter night, Shinobu finds herself assisting in burning wisteria incense and oil lamps for the mansion. Due to wisteria wilting in the winter, its demon-repelling properties were compromised. As an alternative to repel demons from the mansion, strong wisteria incense was used. Unlike Gyomei, who used a modest amount of it, Shinobu had an endless supply that burned throughout the day. Most of which were crafted by herself, as they were more potent and prevented a nationwide shortage of the incense. Thanks to her, the whole mansion smelled of a sweet, honeyed floral scent, with undernotes of spice.

She strikes a match to its box, a spark begins, and she tosses it onto the pit of charcoal in her sunken hearth. The charcoal set ablaze in an instant, giving life to golden flames. For a moment, Shinobu reaches out to feel its heat against her cool hands. She had been colder, more than usual. Even when the rooms were heated enough to make others like Inosuke sweat, her hands remained cool. The Insect Hashira grabs two sticks of incense and feeds them to the flame’s outer cone. Then she pulls away to leave a small flame on the incense before fanning it away a few seconds later, leaving only embers at the tip. A grey pattern of smoke escapes, weaving through the air as it spreads its honeyed scent.

The girls said it smelled nice, but Shinobu couldn’t fathom why.

As she sets it onto a wooden incense holder, she wretches from its odor.

Despite her altered sense of smell, it smells metallic on the back of her throat. The chemical aftereffect amplifies its putrid odor. Having seen, consumed, and injected the flower, its presence was a curse rather than protectant. This simple flower of lilacs and violets was visually stunning, yet the bane of her health. It lingered, haunted her in her dreams and nightmares.

‘It’s all falling into place…’ Shinobu pinches her nose.

She fills a small cast-iron kettle with water, then suspends it over the fire. Meanwhile, she collects a bunch of loosely packed rolled leaves for tea. Her movements are as soft as a whisper, mindful of the sleeping residents. As she sets a cup down onto a table, she hears a loud thud from outside her door.

She springs into action. ‘A demon?’

“Kocho…” The voice is a pained groan from behind the wooden door.

‘A human?’ She runs to slide the door open. She finds a limp body resting against the oak floors. A tall, lean figure pants against the floor, his breath escaping him in an erratic rhythm.

The mismatched haori was a dead giveaway.

“Tomioka?!” She gasps, immediately dragging him into the inside of her home, before shutting the door tight. “What the hell are you doing outside this late? There’s a snowstorm!”

He could only groan in response.

She kneels to his side and feels his icy skin for a pulse. Over his neck, a rapid one radiates, accompanied by the violent movement of his chest and intense shivering. She helps him up to set him lying nearby by the sunken hearth, then hurriedly rushes to return with quilted blankets and a spare patient yukata.

She first wraps him in layers of blankets before finally taking a moment to assess him properly. His face is a deathly blue, cheeks flushed in deep red. His eyes shut tight, as his teeth chatter like thunder clapping.

Her hand unconsciously cradles his blue cheeks, flinching from its frozen bite, “Tomioka, can you hear me?” She speaks slowly, clearly.

He groans and mutters incoherently in response.

“Can you hear me? If you can, how many fingers do I have?” She says, holding up two fingers.

“T-t-two…” He chokes out, nuzzling closer to her hand.

The weight on her shoulder nearly dissipates.

‘He’s responding well. No neurological damage…his body is free of frostbite…it seems like mild hypothermia.’ She examines him carefully, noting every inch of his body from beneath the blankets.

When she feels he won’t pass away in an instant, a high-pitched screech captures her attention. She pads to it and then brings the kettle into the kitchen. She slides a cupboard open, her hand moving with ease as she navigates the array of tea stored in containers. Shinobu reaches for the small container labeled ‘amacha’ on the outright right side; another one, full of bitter sencha tea, on the left.

‘Perfect. Sweet tea to help with temperature regulation...’

She opens the airtight container and grabs a generous spoon of its dried fermented leaves onto the respective cups. Then, she adds the boiling water and gently stirs until Giyuu’s becomes golden, hers an earthy green. By the time she returns to her…surprising guest, she finds him kneeling before the flames.

‘In decent enough shape to move with coordination, to hold himself up….’

“My, my, you have a lot of explaining to do, Tomioka.” Shinobu voices, planting her knees near his, and settles the tray of brewed tea between them. “Although it's common for half-dead men to fall onto my doorstep, I still would appreciate an explanation.” Shinobu gently grabs her cup

The tea’s stream curls in the air between them, as if it reaches out to him. The soft huffs of his breath replace the answers he keeps. His face hides behind the shadow of the quilts on his head.

“Drink the tea. It will help regulate your body temperature.” She announces quietly, before taking in another sip. “Drink it while it’s warm.”

She adjusts the crooked placement of his cup, then the kettle.

He remains still, stone-like.

“Hmm? Can you hear me?~” She hums. An eyebrow raises a centimeter or two.

She nudges the cup again, forcing a splash of tea to spill onto the tray with a splat.

Her irritation simmers beneath the surface of her practiced veneer of calm. He doesn’t need to see it; he feels daggers staring through him.

‘As always. Never answering when needed. He shows up at my home and expects a welcoming reception. God damn it-‘ Her eyebrows furrow. ‘No, calm down, Shinobu. He just needs a bit of time.’

“You’re lucky to be alive, Tomioka-” she pokes his shoulder through the quilt, “The storm was only beginning to get worse. Not even water breathing can withstand this snowstorm—you would have suffocated to death. If you hadn't made it here on time, you would be a frozen demon treat. “ She states in a tight, matter-of-fact tone.

His jittery hand captures the cup to chug the golden liquid down, causing her to flinch. His throat feels sharp as knives, dry as a desert; the warm liquid was the closest to relief. Yet it burns his tongue before he could even swallow it, leaving a numb sensation. He jumps, nearly mumbling curses before drinking in smaller sips.

“K-k-kocho…” Giyuu chokes out with heaving breaths. “I-“ He lurches from the hacks of strife, clutching onto his chest.

Shinobu leaps to his side, catching his bulky form as his breathing races. “Breathe. Slow, steady.” Long forgotten was the shattered ceramic, her herbal blend a memory of yesterday.

His lungs feel tight against his bones, as if it tries to rip away his skin.

“I- I-…“ He gasps onto the wooden floor.

“-Shhh. Breathe first. Normally, no total concentration breathing!” She scolds, harsher this time. “Follow my lead. “

“Inhale.”

“What the hell were you thinking, Tomioka? You never think with all that air in your head.”

“Exhale.”

“I always have to fix you.”

“Inhale.”

“Please just breathe.”

“Exhale.”

Her words pierced through the deafening static of his ears. Out of sheer willpower, his lungs fall to her command. It rises and falls to the soft velvety sound of Shinobu. That voice he savors, he drinks in. He’d do anything to keep it streaming through his ears like an endless record.

When he feels his lungs away from the verge of collapse, he laces his calloused hands onto her. He pulls it away to interlock it with his. “Kocho,” he pants, to finally reveal the red wash of his face.

His dry throat holds his words hostage before her.

It’s the whiff of his sweetly fermented breath that gives it away.

“Sake.”

His body spasms, aching to bask in flames.

She’s seen patients like this before. Some fared better than others.

He tries to use her head as a pillow. He nuzzles into her head, then neck, chasing a warmth from her. Her arms relent, running over his back to give him warmth.

His huffs die into softer gasps. Drunken murmurs paralyze her with his pitiful prayers.

“Please…”

The touch of a woman felt foreign.

“Help..”

Yet it felt like the blessed rain after a drought.

“K-kocho..”

He inhales the deep scent of wisteria along her neck–––it helps lull him to sleep.

“Tomioka, you’re inhibited. You can’t think-“ She calls out. Her hands froze before they could force him away.

Little did she know, this was the clearest his mind has ever been.

His wheezing drowns her.

His words come in a stream of slurs and slips. His rough cadence savors her name on his lips. Desperate breaths pray for her name.

Because she was his saving grace. When he lay at the feet of death, she always dragged him away.

It takes everything for her to refuse his grasp. “Stop! You’ll die if you keep stopping me-” She croaks.

Did it matter if she couldn’t this time?

But his half-lidded eyes sag from the weight of a long night. If this was death, why was it lulling him into a gentle sleep? Nights had robbed him of slumber for too long.

Her words faded into buzzing.

She was like Tsutako, in a way. He had just noticed it when he came this close. She was as warm as the feel of an older Tsutako comforting her from a bad dream. That’s why it felt so foreign.

Thud.

The weight of his chiseled body sags against her.

The faint smell of wisteria lulls him to a slumber that had evaded him for too long.

At the hands of a saint, he is held, cared for like a bud. Somehow, he was dragged by the meager strength of the Insect Hashira.

Before he knows it, he’s resting on a cotton bed.

A gasp shatters through the quiet of twilight.

“Kocho?!”

His muscles cry from the sudden movement.

The room was illuminated by the rays of moonlight bleeding through the windows. An empty room decorated by only a drawer and a wooden chair nearby; the body of a petite woman hovers over him like a sleepy guardian at its post.

His eyes couldn’t tear away.

Upright, he squints to make out her figure. Her head hung down as she snoozed to rest, and the wisps of hair covered her face.

His weary eyes could barely make her out. But, he didn’t need light to see the sight to behold.

His eyebrows furrow at that. It makes him scratch an itch on his cheek. Instead, he feels wool rub against his skin.

“…you gloved my hands?”

He stares blankly. Eyeing the faint blue hue of the fabric. For once, his hands were warm. He looks back at her, then to his body dressed in new garments. A cleaner uniform, reeking with the scent of soap. If he had a guess, it was the rehabilitated uniforms.

The gentle rise and fall of her chest captivates his ears. A breath he hadn’t known escaped him.

She often scolded him for training before a wound would heal, being out in the rain, and not sleeping. It seemed like she should have listened to her own scolding. The deathly white of her skin rivals the moon. Her physique hadn’t fared better than his during his injury.

She changed. Little by little.

Her hair thinned. Lines on her face threatened to carve. Color drained.

He hadn’t seen her much ever since she and the other hashira began their training. At first, it was a relief. On missions, he was able to think in his own head. Without her constant banter, he had a moment of silence. Without a partner, there was no liability—no concern if a mission had claimed his life or not.

It quickly soured when the silence became deafening.

Glimpses of her and snippets of conversations in passing were all he had of her lately. So despite his fuzzy ordeal, he would not have had it any other way. It has been far too long since he heard her voice.

Even for just a moment. Before the weight of it all comes crashing down on his shoulders again.

Without thinking, his muscle twitches as it reaches for her exposed hand. His dilated blues locked onto her lips. It freezes centimeters away, trembling against the cool air.

It meets the touch of his sheets. Then, clenching into a fist.

He feels the itch to move her to the other bed. But he knew what it entailed. A hashira should have awoken at the faintest decibel. Yet she was fast asleep even when his sheets rustled.

It was almost as if time grounded him in reality. A reality as sweet and warm as the youth he had lost.

But even he knows how to run. To run away before it captures him in its piercing shackles once more.

Because reality was far from warm or sweet.

So he slips into the dark hallway of her manor. His steps are feather-light as he spares her a final glance. This one time, his heavy eyes hoped for the sparkle in her eyes.

Maybe one day.

──

For the first time in a millennium, the sun has finally risen. Its rays wash away the ashes of strife into the abyss, wrapping over like silk blankets amidst the bite of winter. Long gone was the anguish of man from the clutches of demons––for the sun had risen in the empire of the Rising Sun, once and for all.

As the final specks of ash disintegrate in its blazing gaze, the howls of the weary wind carry away the remains of tyrant Kibutsuji Muzan. Yet, the remains of stories ended too short haunt the sight to behold; scattered throughout the battlefield like a carpet of snowdrift stained in red.

For the first time in over a decade, it feels quiet for the Water Hashira. His knees collide with the gravel.

‘…it’s done…’

His tired blues peer through the scene. The masked kakushi run to mask bodies in tattered haoris and white cloths. Over the bodies of the intertwined corpses of the Serpent and Love hashira. Over the gigantic stone hashira, once the strongest of the nine. Once amongst the most valiant with determination, who now lies to rest.

Then his blurry vision catches a glimpse of a purple butterfly fluttering past. He blinks. It was that purple clip he knew all too well. After all, it was hard not to notice when it was the only thing on her that could reach his line of sight.

“..Ko-…”He chokes on the gravel in his throat.

He racked into a bloody fit, crimson dyeing the pebbled pavement. His stiff form shook, his already high temperatures threatening to sear through his skin. He feels like a trembling leaf.

Shinobu would arrive soon, like she always had. He knew he could live in her hands. It was only a matter of time.

Then, after who knows how long, he finds himself in that same room. The fragrance of wisteria is long gone, replaced by the sterile aroma of herbs. To his right, a woman hovers over him. She wore the purple butterfly clip, but not the amethyst eyes or angelic smile.

Her calloused hands trembled to lay an ivory cloth. Beneath it: the four-petaled hilt of a sword, its shattered blade, and the shreds of what once was a haori.

Alas, the day did arrive for Shinobu––or what was left of her––to be wrapped in white.