"Grandfather," Takashi breathes out. His hands spasmodically clutch at Madara, who twists and turns in his arms.
A spindly form slinks out of the darkness. Horns loom high and cast a shadow that undulates. Leathery wings arch in a threat waiting to be fulfilled. Broad shoulders span wide in the certainty that they could hold up the world. Verdant eyes gleam slitted in the light that trickles through the forest canopy. Silver hair shines moonlight bright. Tapered ears peek through a long veil of argent tresses.
Pale skin sings the song of marble—cold smoothness with none of the softness and give of flesh. There are no scars; there are no wrinkles. There is only uncanny perfection that warps at the edges of reality. The pearlescent shimmer of his skin hints at scales. High cheekbones slice sharp in a hollow gaunt beauty. A thin mouth twists and turns into the aloofness of the careless long-lived. The proud arch of a chin reveals the impossibly long line of a neck.
Thin white cloth drapes off the form in elegant dishabille and reveals a profound maleness.
"So, you have found me," he says coolly. He stands tall and unencumbered by the sorrow that weighs down Takashi's slim shoulders.
Madara scoffs. For all that he is ground-level, he manages to look down upon the yōkai before them. "Shouldn't have been hiding in the first place, you coward."
"Coward?" he repeats. An electrifying calm smothers them all. A breeze stirs the world into motion. It holds Madara and Takashi still. They gasp in unison at the pressure around their bodies. It tightens as the yōkai stares at them. His face is blank. The world is so silent that Takashi can hear his heartbeat in a deafening rhythm.
"Oi," Madara croaks, "let us go!" He cannot transform into his larger form. He is physically and spiritually bound. This yōkai, Reiko's lover, is far more powerful than he had expected. A weak dragon easily captivated by the material realm populated the world of his imaginings. Dragons were meant to be more serpentine and lithe than the predatory powerhouse before them. There is a perverse wrongness to his form—a discordant note in the symphony of creation. He is too big, Madara knows. He is wrong.
"Hmm, and why should I? I do not tolerate disrespect," the dragon says with no inflection.
He walks closer to them. When he moves, there is no sound and no indentation of force in the ground. His loose long hair does not swing with every step he takes. A slippery smooth quality to the motion of his limbs sets off wailing klaxons in Takashi's body.
Takashi's chest feebly rises in an effort to suck in air. Only a shuddering gasp echoes in the forest. A contemplative hum from the dragon echoes in return.
In a movement so quick that Takashi's eyes could not perceive, the dragon lunges and lifts Takashi's chin in one hand. A cold nose brushes against his pulse point. An inhale sends goosebumps crawling across skin in a sensuous cascade.
"You smell like my Reiko," he purrs, "and me. The blood runs true." The yōkai releases Takashi's chin and regains some distance.
The confirmation exhilarates Takashi, even in the uncomfortable situation. He had finally found his grandfather and soon he could help set his grandmother free from the book. Whether that would render her alive or dead, it would still be the best thing to do in regards to her in-between state.
The pressure, on the verge of cracking and collapsing bone, disappears. Takashi and Madara heave in gasps of relief. Their lungs greedily inhale and exhale.
"Damn jumped-up dragon," Madara mutters sotto voce.
Takashi jumps in. "Your name…what is your name?" His voice is hoarse from exertion.
"Tricky boy," the dragon says, "I would have your name first."
"Natsume Takashi," Takashi says with a promptness that is either foolishness or bravery. Names are not meant to be so easily given up.
Madara hisses in displeasure. Swatting at Natsume requires too much effort and would ultimately be futile in teaching that headstrong brat a lesson. His boy is a foolish boy indeed. But he is his in all the ways that matter (in all the ways that this damn dragon could never hope to infringe upon).
"Natsume? You've kept her name then."
"Reiko was…is…my grandmother. She was never married so her daughter, my mother, carried her name. And now I carry her name," Takashi explains. He is desperate for information. It almost makes him dizzy to contemplate the depth of his desire. He can only hope the reciprocal nature of the yōkai bears fruit.
An eerie smile contorts the lips of the yōkai. He has too many teeth. Takashi cannot comprehend as to how they all fits. He is a compression of inhuman form ready to burst in lethal manifestation. This is a creature not meant for smiling, Takashi knows. He is meant for the triumphant baring of teeth and not this pantomime of human joy.
"To think," the yōkai says, "that our union bore fruit. What a cursed child you must be."
At the condemnation, so reminiscent of his earlier life, Takashi recoils. Cursed child. Rotten seed. Liar. A litany he knows by heart whispers to him. The gossamer strands of memory weave a web in the forefront of his mind. He is his own spider.
Madara cuddles closer in his arms and bats at Takashi's frozen face. The warmth of his form does little to thaw out Takashi's frozen frame. Ice water replaces the heat of his blood. It's an unwilling transfusion. How easily his body betrays him. This body of his has always been the problem. His eyes had brought him so much grief. It's taken so long for him to recognize when they are a curse and when they are a gift.
This burden of his is an obligation he must coexist with. He has made his peace but it rankles. Normality sings siren-sweet on the edges of his mind. He thinks of his life now. He is grateful he does not have to make a decision. He has friends now, human and yōkai alike. Yet, there exists the specter of normality. Of when he had a family and no troubles.
Takashi had started seeing yōkai after his father's death. His eyes do not belong in those halcyon times of before the world he knew was ravaged by death. These eyes of his, these yōkai of his are inextricably linked to the zeniths and nadirs of his life. Normality is the mundane middle ground. He is cursed and blessed in a dizzying simultaneous state.
"Oi, Natsume! He's just some washed-up old dragon who probably hasn't seen a human since Reiko's time," Madara consoles. As thorny as ever, his words do put it all in perspective. Yōkai are not known for their tact and it's likely that there is a more literal meaning to it all. Seeing yōkai could be considered a curse of its own. There is not something inherently wrong with Takashi, he had come to learn. His family and his friends had done well to dissuade him of his most prominent fears and insecurities.
"Oh, no, I quite mean it," the dragon says smoothly. "You have more of our blood than I expected. No wonder your mother died giving birth to you."
Madara yowls. He wriggles in Takashi's arms, who only tightens his grip with a faint smile.
"How…how did you know?" A quaver in Takashi's voice accents his glassy eyes and thin-lipped smile. It is the sort of smile that appears when uncertainty wipes a mind clear and instills a desperation to escape.
"Carried, you said. And your power is far too strong to have been diluted. You sucked her dry." The casual cruelty, unashamed and barefaced, lurking in the dragon's words mars the pleasant timbre of his voice. An indifferent examination of his claws only incites hissing from Madara and a soft sigh from Takashi.
"You mean I killed my mother?" Takashi says in a tone so emotionless that it bubbles with emotion. His hands go slack and release Madara. A heavy weight crushes his chest, reminiscent of his earlier bondage. This is all the information he could never want. How easily he lost control of the conversation...
"How dare you!" Madara growls. His rage is force enough to bypass the friction of the dragon's power and shift into the motion of his greater form. The bulk of his body hides Takashi from view. It makes no difference. The retroactive action does not negate the emotional pain of the dragon's words.
"It's not your fault," the dragon says. He ignores Madara and stares into the distance. His eyes do not blink or flicker. Smooth and expressionless, his face has all the dispassion of uncut marble.
"Reiko and I were fools in love. Though I do suppose that I always loved her more than she could ever love me. That's the problem with you humans. We yokai never change much in the end, but you humans are as fickle and long-lived as fireflies. You must understand why I did what I had to. You must understand that, for once, we did not think of the consequences and the world beyond us."
He smiles. It is horrific. A mouth full of a million needles gleams bone-white in the light.
There is nothing left to do but listen to the dragon's words. There is nothing left to do but hope that this is all a dream. If this is reality, Takashi cannot bear the revelations bestowed upon him. He had only wanted to find his grandfather in order to free his grandmother. He had only wanted to meet a family member. He had such high hopes. This is his punishment for hoping beyond his means. He should have been content with the Fujiwaras and left his grandmother awake. His initial instinct of just waiting for the Book of Friends to dwindle to nothing and set Reiko free at that eventuality has now been proven correct.
How funny. Takashi still does not know his grandfather's name.