The sword in his lap is absurdly long, four feet if it is an inch, with the faintest of curves, as precise and graceful as the fall of a Noh dancer's sleeve. The wrapping on the hilt is pristine, deep blue and meticulously placed. Even the guard piece gleams.
But the steel is old, darkened with age despite its keepers' best efforts. The blade pattern fans darkly over the katana's brighter outside edge, the intricate feathering line begun to fade to indistinction.
Ren's sword. That was what the maids had told him when they delivered it, shrinking and torn between hope and terror, both impulses grounded in the same superstitious expectations. Preserved for centuries by the village's veneration of the hero who slew Yatonokami, it had been brought to him secretively, just before sunset on the third night, the light through paper walls gleaming liquid red on the unsheathed edge.
Tatsumi stares down at it dully. He hasn't held a sword in over a century—not since he was a child, living and breathing and knowing nothing about samurai save that his father had been one and something about that made his mother miserable. He remembers practicing steps and strokes and never seeing the point of it. His mother had despaired of it, but then, that had been the case for so many things in her last few years.
He is not Mibu Oriya, embodiment of Japanese masculine elegance, presiding over a place untouched by time with a sword that cuts so swiftly and so cleanly that blood does even have time to stain the blade, even as the bodies mount behind the walls.
He is not Kurosaki Hisoka, trained to the level of societal ideal in the old martial arts, kyudo and kendo and bujutsu, calm over passion, meditative clarity over a burning and ceaseless drive to improve.
He is Tatsumi Seiichirou, who has always distrusted old and distinguished lineages, who has never had any use for meditation, who is more salaryman than samurai. He can throw knives with an unerring aim befitting a class much lower than the station he was born to; he can use shadows to tear monsters limb from limb; but he has not even the beginnings of an idea how to use this sword.
He hasn't slept in over sixty hours, and while his limits are greater than a human's, he fears he is reaching them. Watari, two days ago, went for help, because Nagare was nearing the end of his strength and Rui only finally stopped screaming because she had screamed her throat raw. Tatsumi runs over the options in his mind to occupy his flagging thoughts.
Wakaba and Terazuma, because if it comes to a large-scale confrontation with a parasitic shikigami gone rogue, there is no pair with more direct and personal experience than the two of them.
Tsukiori Kira, because if Yatonokami is a demon rather than a shiki, she is the finest exorcist in Meifu and Kamakura is riddled with bolt holes that will need to be purified.
Hisoka and Tsuzuki, because there is a chance Reibaku could separate Yatonokami from this bloodline; because Hisoka has used the skill before and only grown stronger since Sargatanas, and because Tsuzuki will not let him come to this place alone.
It could be anyone. There is too much poison here for clarity, corruption left for far too long for a clean excision. Things have already begun to unravel, and whatever comes next will not be neat.
Tatsumi is almost glad of it. A memory of Nagare remains too clearly etched into his mind for sympathy. The clan head already knew what the legend said of his family, his role in carrying the weight of Yatonokami's curse, but to know it was different than to hear it demanded of you outside your own bedroom door, the paranoia of the village grown to such a fearsome extent over nothing more than two nights of undisturbed sleep.
Tatsumi had dared to enter the room after driving off the mayor. Nagare would not be touched, would not speak, had tied the blindfold over his eyes again to hide the pain, but it was using thread to rein a horse; the rigid line of his back and the tremor of his hands spoke too loudly. The vulnerable relief of the first morning had been driven back behind a silent, unassailable wall of resignation and despair.
No. Tatsumi's patience with this village is nearly at its end, and it is only because of Nagare's unfailing dedication to duty that Tatsumi has not removed him from this house already.
This is all I can do for them now—endure. His anger returns and helps to rouse him with the memory of Nagare's words, hushed and thin, in the pale, early light of the second dawn. I could not stop my daughter from being killed. The walls I put around my son did not save him. Kasane is dead, and Rui is beyond help. There is no future, and everyone is afraid. Do not hate them for it.
Nagare's eyes focused on nothing, summer-green and all but glowing in the grey room. His hair, the same wheat husk blond as his son's, brushed at Tatsumi's jaw as he let the shinigami support his weight, weary, unguarded, and almost—almost—smiling in the seized handful of moments that had begun the day.
Please. Just keep him away for as long as you can. Until I can bear it again.
It will be Iwao tomorrow, Tatsumi thinks, if nothing happens tonight. He does not believe that man will be dissuaded by a warning, whatever words Nagare says passed between them. With Iwao, perhaps the police, certainly if the man has had the sense to listen to his servants about how Tatsumi and Watari eluded them at the shrine.
He doesn't know what he's going to do in that case. He sighs, tipping his head back against the frame of Nagare's door. Eventually, somewhere on the other side of this vigil, reports are going to be filed, and there will be lectures and upbraiding and very possibly pay cuts, and with any luck someone will have learned to not send Tatsumi out in the field again. But that's a distant future, a drifting point in time unconnected to now, when he sits in the hallway outside Nagare's room for the third night running, waiting for the shadow that comes after midnight and leaves as soon as it senses his presence.
Perhaps tomorrow, if Nagare will consent to it, he can snatch an hour or two of sleep while the man sits on the porch and takes tea. It's unbecoming to need a reprieve like that, but he would rather be unbecoming in the day than fail during the night.
Inside the room, Nagare wakes as he has the two nights prior, with a catch of breath in his throat and the rustle of fabric as his arms draw up defensively. Something moves along the outline of his shadow, cast low and huddled away from the one candle burning in the hall beyond the door.
Nagare's pallet is like a fleck of lint floating in ink; every part of the room around it is bathed in shadows. Tatsumi doesn't have to move even a finger to spin an eddy across the surface. The darkness twisting around Nagare twitches—
—and where before it has always faded, now it freezes, and from within the room, Tatsumi can hear the low, angry hiss. Nagare gasps, a ragged catch of breath, and the sound of it carves into Tatsumi's ears as he whirls to his feet and throws open the door, Ren's sword held awkwardly in one hand.
Tatsumi does not have a strong spiritual sense. He never has, or he might have been better at the classical skills. He doesn't need it now; even a mortal would sense something wrong in the room, the wet, heavy press of the air, swampy heat and marsh gas lights in the dead of night.
But a mortal couldn't see it, the tremendous bulk of it, piled coils circling Nagare's pallet, one end rising up to face the door as the very air vibrates with the sense of its fury. No shadow follows its movement as its massive head turns, bedraggled black hair dripping, and the sodden, rotting reek of it rolls over Tatsumi in a wave even as he realizes that, for all the weight of its presence, it has no physical form.
The sword of that man… You dare? To bring that repugnant piece of metal here?! The voice buffets against him like the waves pushed ashore ahead of a storm surge. One eye, snake-slit green and with a malevolence too ancient and ingrained to have ever been human, glares at him as the demon god Yatonokami coils tighter about the Kurosaki clan head.
Nagare is splayed on his back, limbs trembling, yukata fallen open to show the rapid pitch of his breath rippling across his abdomen. At the words, his head snaps to the side, eyes wide and horrified.
"Ren's—how did you—why is it here?" Yatonokami's heavy neck sways over him and he gasps, convulsing, though the serpent has not touched him.
Did you think this creature could save you, Nagare? The piercing stare of the village's legendary beast pins Tatsumi in place, raking over him; at what it sees, a tone of cruel pleasure slips into its words. This little slave of Enma who can barely even hold the weight of that sword? Who stands in the doorway and stares like a fool at his folly? A chuckle rumbles in its throat, a dark and ill-omened thunder, as Nagare rolls onto his side, hands rising to wrap around his shoulders, eyes tightly shut.
Tatsumi's rage is distant, distorted, a pulse of meaningless noise through clouded water, and still Yatonokami stares, coils undulating closer to him.
Did he give you hope, Nagare? Did he promise to destroy me? Fool! The word rattles the portraits on the ceiling, and Nagare moans in pain, wordless, hopeless. I will crush him before your eyes and he will not even move to stop me.
You have come too late, little shinigami. The words are in his head now, all-consuming, and though he can hear others, an undercurrent as Yatonokami continues to torment its host, he can't make sense of them over the dread building in his gut. The serpent's mouth opens, and the gleam of its fangs are of less concern than the ropy tentacles that emerge, moving with unnatural fluidity, glistening and wet.
You cannot touch me, wretch. I live in the bloodline of this family and you dare not end his life before its allotted time. You will suffer for daring to show that blade to me. I will drag your remains down into the swamp and give them to that woman to toy with for eternity. You will never return to Meifu.
You will regret coming here, little god.
The first length of flesh touches his leg, and Tatsumi can feel his skin twitch and crawl with revulsion, but he can't break away from the murky tourmaline depths of Yatonokami's stare. He is drowning, his lungs filling with water, his limbs growing heavy and cold. Another wraps around his shoulder, sliding down the length of his arm, towards the white-knuckled grip he retains on a useless weight of steel. Why is he even holding it, he wonders faintly. He hates swords, hates sharp edges, hates things that are too broken to mend.
The images flash through his mind unbidden. A man collapsed at the gate, reaching for him with shaking hands as all around him the servants rush forward, shouting in dismay. His mother, knees bound together and blood at her throat, finally a proper samurai's wife. Tsuzuki in the early days, all bright eyes and brittle smiles.
Soporific warmth is enveloping him, a smell of wet earth and the sweat of fever. His eyes flutter; all he can see is green. Something touches his hand and eases his fingers apart. Even through the drowsy haze he can hear the heavy clatter as the katana falls from his grasp.
The sound fades away, chased into silence by a man's broken whispering.
Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.
Nagare.
Tatsumi's eyes open wide; his heartbeat slams against his ribcage like a wrecking ball's first swing into a skyscraper. Yatonokami's tentacles are wrapped all over him, constricting tighter every moment, and across the room, Nagare writhes, tear-streaked and naked, in lurid tableau. Tatsumi knows in that moment, this is not real.
Watari was right; he has become careless. Well, that's enough of that.
He stretches out his fingers and wraps the shadows around himself, smiling mirthlessly as Yatonokami howls in thwarted rage. Then he is crouched at Nagare's side, the vision broken, hands on the man's shoulders.
"Master! Master! Wake up!"
Nagare's eyes open, glazed and staring blindly upward. His lips part around Tatsumi's name. The shinigami wraps his arms around the clan head's shoulders, glaring up at Yatonokami, who whips around them in a tightening, furious circle.
Filth! I will kill you tonight and then tear myself out of that woman's festering womb! This house will be in ruins before sunrise!
"You can't be in both places at once," Tatsumi declares, calm now, cold and certain. "And you can't leave Nagare while he lives. So, the only thing to do is to buy time. You are both coming with me."
You—!
He draws shadows from everywhere—slicks and depths from corners and alcoves, latticework patterns from the doors and windows, black blocks beneath the shelves, the spearing lengths of the candleholders, the shapeless mass of bedclothes, and all the ribboning lengths of darkness behind the frozen, empty stares of the ancestors—and closes them around himself and Nagare like the fabled final curtain.
Nagare wakes and knows he has fallen at last. The darkness is primordial, endless, featureless save for the movement of scales in a grey half-light. He is weightless, drifting and alone, and he closes his eyes against the bitter memory of all the demon's promises of pleasure and release.
Yatonokami screams in frustration at the same time that he registers the arms wrapped around his waist.
He lifts his head from where it has been resting on Tatsumi's shoulder and finds Tatsumi's face inches from his own, closer than it's ever been. The man's—the shinigami's—eyes are blue as the free sky.
"My kendo is terrible," he explains apologetically. "So I left the sword and took us someplace I know is safe. It looks like it worked." He nods out into the void, where Yatonokami coils and twists and lashes out into the nothingness. For the first time in Nagare's life, the god looks—small. He can see all of the demonic serpent's length, head to tail, and while it is still larger than Nagare by far, against the backdrop of endless black, its struggles look desperate and frail.
"It's all right to talk," Tatsumi adds calmly. "It won't be able to find you here."
Nagare turns to back to stare at him. "Where is this place?" he asks, voice hoarse and uncertain, moving his arms from where Tatsumi has tucked them into the sleeves of his yukata, pressed between the two mens' waists. Tatsumi loosens his grip before answering, though their bodies continue to hover close together.
"It's the shadow dimension. A place I can reach as a kagetsukai and a shinigami." The remorseful tone returns to his voice. "It's all I can do, though. I don't have the power to separate you and that thing. I'm sorry—"
Nagare reaches up and lays his fingers over Tatsumi's mouth. "Quiet." The shinigami blinks at him in surprise, color rising into his cheeks. "Just answer." Tatsumi nods, and the assent privately astounds Nagare in its simplicity. How is it that something like a shinigami is obeying him so readily? Tatsumi certainly hasn't been up to this point. He puts the thought aside.
"What is happening to the village?" he asks with a severity that he doesn't truly feel. He removes his hand, resting it primly against Tatsumi's elbow.
"…The servants will come back and find us gone," the shinigami answers after a moment of thought. "You can probably say how they'll react better than me. But the core of Yatonokami is here, tied to you. Whatever's in Rui isn't going anywhere for now. Past that it'll depend on which of my co-workers Watari brings back." He hesitates for a moment, mouth still open, but falls quiet without further words. Nagare lets it be for now.
"Why did you really come to Kamakura?" he asks next.
"It's the same as what I told you the first night, Master. We were assigned to investigate the circumstances surrounding Kurosaki Rui."
Nagare's lips tighten. There are many things he could say, many protests he wishes to make—for the village, for his ancestors, for Kasane, for his children, for himself. He settles for, "Don't confuse this situation by calling me 'Master' here, shinigami. How long will we be here?"
Tatsumi seems, for a moment, almost crestfallen, but answers quickly, "Until we see a change in it." He nods towards Yatonokami, thrashing in darkness, sometimes turning and slithering past them, but never seeming to notice them or come close enough to touch. "Time passes a little strangely here, but we won't have to worry about food or water, at least. It should start to diminish once Rui's been helped and they can start purifying the area. The lake especially." He smiles grimly. "Yatonokami-sama should get very angry around then. That's how we'll know there'll be someone there to help when we go back."
Shinigami! I know you're here somewhere! I will rip this rabbit hole you've built apart to find you!
Nagare jerks at the sound of the demon's echoing rasp; he half-turns in Tatsumi's arms to watch the serpent arc by above them in the gloom.
I will tear you into pieces and devour you, Nagare! Blood and waste will be all that's left!
Nagare shudders with the force of visceral memory. His companion's embrace tightens protectively.
"It can't find you here," he reiterates steadily. "And it won't find a way out. This is an infinite space. We could stay here forever and it wouldn't find us."
The thought of that wrings chills from Nagare and he wraps his arms around Tatsumi's waist thoughtlessly, biting back a shaky exhalation. Tatsumi stiffens briefly, then moves one arm up across Nagare's back, fingers patting awkwardly at his shoulder.
"Don't be afraid," he says. "It's going to be over soon."
Inside, Nagare can still feel Yatonokami's rage. His skin is still covered in scales; his vision still blurred and indistinct. What Tatsumi has told him comes back to this: this is a reprieve, not a cure, nor an ending. They will have to return to the world eventually, where Yatonokami will be able to perceive him again, where his wife will still be shattered and mad, where his brother will still be holding the first Hisoka's remains and plotting. And if he survives all of that, he will be left again to his solitude, for Tatsumi is a shinigami, and will of course move on. The resignation sits in his bones like lead, heavy in the chambers of his heart.
Stilll…
The village, at least, will be saved. The knowledge of that is freedom at its purest and most beautiful. He can choose to live out his days quietly amid his servants, tending to whatever is left, letting fate bear him onward to whatever end it sees fit. Or he can choose the manner of death which suits him and enact it, serene at last in bringing his pitiful life to an end, knowing that he can do so without having to think of those who looked to him for protection.
And perhaps if shinigami are real, then when he dies...
He breathes, softly, turning his head to rest it on Tatsumi's shoulder again and dropping one arm down around the shinigami's waist. He rests his other hand over Tatsumi's. After a moment, the other twines their fingers together.
He breathes.
"Yes," he says quietly. "Soon."
Written for a Yuletide treat, and because I need very little excuse to write about these two. Gosh I can't wait for the new chapters to get back to Kamakura.