Verse: Though useless in battle, flowers bring hope…
Each pairing isn't concrete, but can be seen as a pre-relationship if you choose to see it that way. They're all within the same universe.
Dedicated to: De hearts 26
1. Remembrance
No other death had rattled Bermuda's bones more than Jaeger's.
Bermuda could do nothing when Jaeger was pierced by an enemy's spear and fell without even a whisper. He could do nothing after maiming anyone in his path, leaving an ocean of blood in his wake. And he could do nothing when Jaeger was carried to the pyre so he could be cremated with the rest of their fallen brothers and sisters.
"General." Alejandro, his newly-appointed lieutenant general, entered Bermuda's tent with a limp. His leg was bandaged and slathered with healing salve, his long hair disheveled. Though he wasn't Jaeger, could never replace Bermuda's little brother, he carried himself with serious poise that was a staple of the Vindice, Millefiore Kingdom's most upstanding army division. "The priest is here."
Bermuda did not look up from the map spread out on a long table. Wooden figures representing legions were set up in clusters around their respective kingdoms. "Tell him to leave." His voice was rough from the earlier battle, and etched with grief.
"It's tradition," Alejandro said. "Our men would have insisted." He paused, letting the air soak up the brief silence. "He would have as well."
A dull, simmering ache rippled through Bermuda's taut body. His hand gripped the handle of his sword until his knuckles turned white. He should not kill Alejandro. He thought of Jaeger and his wisdom that anchored him in trying times, of the men they had killed across Trinisette, of this pointless war his Emperor had concocted from the ashes of a heretic.
All the fury that boiled underneath Bermuda's skin waned like receding tides, and left a starved man behind. He left the tent without a word; Alejandro was a step behind his heel.
The evening sky was obscured by the pyre's rising smoke, and a young man in white-brown robes stood out against the inky darkness. For a moment Bermuda thought he was an intruder until the young man turned to bow in greeting.
"You are not Kawahira," Bermuda said.
"No, but I am Tsunayoshi," the man said with humor. His eyes were the color of sweet ocher. Bermuda didn't know if it was because of the fire-light or if they were really amber. "I am Kawahira's student. He is ill at the moment, so I came in his place."
Bermuda had heard of Kawahira mentioning a student before but hadn't cared to listen or remember.
"I have sent them off with the rites," Tsunayoshi said, "but there is one that has not parted yet."
Bermuda stiffened. He wasn't one to believe in the mystics as much as the people, having grown up in the slums and off of the villagers' more grounding ire. And even though he had seen what mages could do on the battlefields, conjuring rivers of fire or shattering the earth beneath their feet, he told himself that everything was a vivid dream and that in the end, when he woke up, he'd be back on the fields with Jaeger, harvesting their crops and letting their horses graze.
"You lie," he said, for a lack of better words.
"Jaeger forgives you," Tsunayoshi said in a soothing manner. He crouched to pat the dirt. A foolish move if he wanted to be beheaded so easily. "He forgives you, and says that the fields above might be too golden to be true, but that you should stay because you have a duty to fulfill." He looked up at Bermuda, his eyes ablaze. Bermuda wondered if he was a mage too, like Kawahira. "A duty to your men and a duty to your heart." He smiled. "You cannot stay true to your heart if it does not beat—his words, not mine."
When Tsunayoshi rose, his movement was graceful. Bermuda was not sure if Tsunayoshi was human or some ghost molded by his own grief. Perhaps everything was really just a terrible dream. He did not register Tsunayoshi's hand on his cheek until Alejandro unsheathed his sword half-way, the blade scraping against its scabbard. The priest's hand was warm and soft against Bermuda's skin, reminding him of his mother before she passed from the plague.
"I am sorry, but none of this is a dream," Tsunayoshi whispered. "Remember this reality, General, because it is just as much as yours as everyone else's." He placed something against Bermuda's ear and retreated with a kind smile. "They say if you wear a sprig of rosemary in your hair, it will help you recall memories. And of course, it makes lovely tea as well."
Bermuda couldn't speak with the sudden clog in his throat. Jaeger and their mother had loved rosemaries. Judging by Tsunayoshi's knowing gaze, still soft and kind, he knew too.
"I will see you again, General," Tsunayoshi said, stepping away. "Lest Kawahira recovers soon. Remember, then Jaeger and your men will be immortalized in your heart—always."
It was the closest the priest could give as encouragement without favoring sides, but Bermuda never forgot.
2. New Beginnings
Winter had suffocated Kokuyo's lands while Mukuro was away. His home seemed smaller since he had left 12 years ago for the capital, for a more promising future, but the scent of warm porridge and smoky hearths tugged his feet closer to the village.
"Would you like us to follow?" Chikusa said.
"Set up the protection charms," Mukuro said, petting Ava, his owl. "Hand out food for the needy. We leave at dawn. And you, dear, shall scout." He let Ava go and watched her fly off into the gray skies.
Ken opened his mouth to retort like he always did, but grunted when Chikusa elbowed his ribs and settled on muttering obscenities under his breath. They led their horses and group away. M.M., a powerful sorceress who wielded a flute as her weapon, patted Mukuro's arm in comfort before following the others.
Mukuro did not stop when the villagers called out to him, but nodded back in greeting to be awarded tired, awed smiles. He wasn't sure if they recognized him since he left; his cloak might have had something to do with it. A group of children peered at him over a stony wall, their eyes barely reaching the peak. Charmed by their innocent curiosity, Mukuro outstretched a gloved hand and conjured a small doll of a woodland fairy, with pretty green eyes and a bright smile.
"For you, little one," he said, handing it to the youngest girl. "Take care of her or else she won't bring back the leaves for spring."
Eyes wide in awe, the little girl nodded, and with her pigtails bouncing behind her, she ran off with her friends to play with her new toy. Mukuro continued his trek past his old home, which now housed a different family of four. He didn't linger at the hill where his parents were buried or Lancia's stone statue, where moss and weeds peeked out from the fraying cracks.
He did stop when he saw someone kneeling at Nagi's tombstone in a clearing. It was a young man wearing a pure white cloak. Some snow still remained across the hard dirt and naked branches; Mukuro's boots created dull thuds as he walked forward, his magic swirling in purple wisps around his hands, ready to attack.
"She is happy to see you back," the young man said, not standing or turning to see Mukuro approach. He seemed to be gathering dirt in his hands, though Mukuro couldn't see. "It has been a while, hasn't it?"
"It's rude to desecrate someone's grave like that," Mukuro said, tone light.
The young man paused but still didn't turn. "Yes it is, but Nagi likes my company and I enjoy hers as well." He looked over his shoulder then, and Mukuro was startled at how his eyes seemed like molten stars, orange and yellow in varying beautiful hues. "This grave is hers. Even the dead can hold onto such possessions."
Having enough, Mukuro conjured his trident and moved to strike when a golden barrier sprouted around the young man, throwing Mukuro back. The sorcerer regained his footing and stared, stunned, at the now standing stranger.
He didn't look pleased, more disappointed. "Nagi still harbors some bitterness," the brunet said, dusting off his pants. "I hope you can understand that."
Mukuro might've been adept in taming the Mist's power since studying in Vongola Kingdom's capital, but even he couldn't pinpoint the young man's magic. He didn't even sense any upon first seeing him. What he could in that brief moment was enough to make Mukuro wary—the magic felt old but powerful.
"My name is Tsunayoshi," the young man said. "I am a priest from the Temple of Jura."
"And what business does a priest have here?" Mukuro pursed his lips. "The temple is quite a distance from Kokuyo." It was located at the most northern point of the country. Kokuyo was in the west, surrounded by thick woodlands. It would've taken at least a month by foot to travel here, half on horseback.
"Nagi was lonely," Tsunayoshi said, brushing a hand against Nagi's tombstone. It was immaculate and untouched by the frost. "I could not ignore her."
"Then you can leave."
Tsunayoshi didn't argue. He nodded and started moving away when Mukuro noticed the small bouquet of bright yellow daffodils in front of Nagi's grave. As his trident dissipated, Mukuro kneeled; his knees were uncomfortable against the hard ground, which was dead and incapable of growing life.
"She is bitter," Tsunayoshi said, his voice carried by a chilly breeze, "but she does not hate you. Perhaps both of you can find new beginnings in life and in death, such as those daffodils."
Mukuro cupped the daffodils without touching them, almost afraid he'd taint their lovely petals. That was what the flowers meant, didn't they? He wondered how long Tsunayoshi had visited Nagi over the years in his absence, and though he resented it, he was grudgingly grateful. Nagi had passed from the plague before their parents, who should've been the only ones to die. Her small body had twitched in Mukuro's arms until she exhaled her last raspy breath without another word.
And that was where she met her end.
"I'm not the good brother you thought I was," Mukuro said, smile weak. "I couldn't even protect you, dear sister, nor have I visited until now. Truly, I forgive you for being bitter. I would be, too."
He remained there for a while longer, and when it was time to leave, he whispered a protection charm only to meet a potent force absorb his spell with ease and reinforce itself. He could not identify how it was made, but the traces were that of Tsunayoshi.
"In life and in death," Mukuro murmured, then left Nagi and the daffodils behind to start anew.
At dawn he and his group started their journey and headed north—they followed the tails of the new sun towards a fate they did not know, but were eager to uncover.
3. Splendor
It was unnatural for humans and different species to intermingle, forbidden Torikabuto learned, but what was once natural and twisted into something they were not was what humans despised, too. Rather than crying out in sympathy for Torikabuto, who had once been a moth in an old lady's garden, the audience jeered and gasped in horror at his powers.
"They're a gift," Glo Xinia had told him with a sneer. "You are lucky to be elevated. None of you insignificant worms can appreciate what I've done for you."
Torikabuto had found that puzzling because he was not a worm. He later realized what the sorcerer was doing, turning what was natural into something the man called more superior—humans were terrifying, Torikabuto had concluded, after watching people, men and women, beat pretty Bluebell until she bled green and couldn't breathe anymore on land—was unnatural itself. That was what Bluebell had said, and Torikabuto believed what she said because she had been a fish before she was cursed. The ocean held more secrets and knowledge than land.
"And the most terrifying of them all," Glo Xinia said, raising his thin arms in a grand gesture, "the most powerful in my collection—you have all heard of him, I hope."
The crowd roared at his obvious ruse. Torikabuto twitched behind the thick maroon curtains and scratched at his bare arms, his stout claws creating red gashes on his pale skin. His large, brown wings quivered behind him. His mask, resembling an evil demon with tusks and horns, was strapped securely against his face. It was for the best, he thought. Glo Xinia had whipped him everywhere, had even burned him to comply to his demands.
"The one and only, Torikabuto!" Glo Xinia said, pushing the curtains back with a gust of wind.
Taking flight, Torikabuto circled above the awed and gasping audience once, twice, then landed in the ring for his act. It was the same thing every time: fly around, wait for Glo Xinia to pick a random person from the stands, and frighten them with the mystifying patterns on Torikabuto's wings, which can force the poor victim to lose grip with their senses and reality. Torikabuto hated it.
He hated what he had become.
His muscles were left sore after Glo Xinia lashed his back thirty times for not following his cues fast enough. Torikabuto didn't complain because there was no use begging a man who wouldn't listen. He let his wings wilt to the ground of his cage, and watched the sliver of light underneath his tent fade before the sorcerer retired to bed.
There was no sound of life inside his tent, no sound outside either. It was maddening. He missed the sweet wind that would guide him around the grasslands, the birds' raucous gossip every morning, and the trees' endless tales they'd share with anyone who'd listen. They were good to him, kind.
Torikabuto tensed when he heard a small creak. It sounded like metal. He heaved himself to his cage's iron bars but didn't touch them. They were laced with a spell that kept him in—and he didn't like being in pain.
That was when he heard it, the familiar murmurs of the earth and wind. They were faint, only hushed whispers, but he heard them. He knew he did. Someone pulled back the cover of his tent and stepped inside.
"Oh," the person said, his voice soft, "I am sorry for not arriving sooner."
Torikabuto did not know who this human was, but there was a deep and rooted familiarity about him, like there was a thread between them that he couldn't see. He raised his hand but stopped, remembering the painful spell, and let it hover instead.
"You have suffered so much," the young man whispered, shocking Torikabuto when he slipped his hand through the bars. "I will not hurt you, not like the others have done. Trust me. My name is Tsunayoshi."
Torikabuto could not help but be compelled to trust Tsunayoshi, as if he were a burning, beautiful flame, promising warmth and benevolence. Tsunayoshi was not human, no matter how plain he seemed in his white-brown robes and long cloak; his eyes were his most striking feature. Torikabuto had never seen a human with such vivid, gentle eyes.
Tsunayoshi rested a hand on Torikabuto's mask. Torikabuto wished he could feel the other's hand. It had been a long time since he felt anything warm. He flinched though, when he heard Tsunayoshi unraveling the straps behind his head, and tried to move away, but Tsunayoshi hushed him.
"You have lived in this cold for too long, sweet moth," he said, letting the mask fall. It clattered on the ground. "Let yourself see the light."
Torikabuto sucked in a small breath when Tsunayoshi caressed his scarred cheeks without fear. There was only regret in his eyes that Torikabuto couldn't fathom. Why would this pure-hearted creature be sad for him? There was blood on the monster's hands after all, of men who had wronged Glo Xinia in the past; there were scars marring his entire frame, carved so deep into his skin he could feel them against what humans called bones; there was no chance of him ever leaving this wretched life.
It would have been better if Tsunayoshi laughed instead. His sorrow or pity did nothing for Torikabuto.
"No," Tsunayoshi said, snapping Torikabuto out of his thoughts. "Do not think of such awful things. You may have been dealt a cruel hand by Fate, but do not let your own hatred consume you." A familiar sweet and delicate scent wafted in Torikabuto's nose. "Do you remember this?"
"A—Amaryllis," Torikabuto rasped out. He rarely used his voice since pleading Glo Xinia to stop the beatings didn't work. The bright red, star-shaped flower was striking against the darkness of his tent. It was so beautiful, so real and red, that it frightened Torikabuto. The flowers he had seen in the woods could not bloom properly in his head; instead they meshed together into a fountain of blood.
Tsunayoshi anchored him when he brushed a thumb against his cheek. "Pride, sweet moth. You have still not forgotten where you are from. Determination—though you may not realize it, or do not want to, you have endured your hardships for this long, because deep down, you did not want to lose." His eyes softened as he laid his forehead against the bar where he drew Torikabuto closer to. "Splendor—your wings are beautiful, sweet moth. You are beautiful, still. I am glad you were created."
A softer silence resided in the tent. To Torikabuto, it was nearly bliss. He reached to take the amaryllis from Tsunayoshi's hand and held it on his palm, its weight delicate, like a feather.
"You are free now," Tsunayoshi said.
"Others?" Torikabuto didn't want to leave the rest of Glo Xinia's victims behind.
"I have freed them."
The cage's bars then melted away like sand, and Torikabuto stepped out of his own accord for the first time since this terrible existence. The shackles on his body dissolved into dust. He was free.
It was frightening—until Tsunayoshi took his hand.
"What you do now is up to you," he said. "I am not strong as I used to be to reverse the curse on you, but I can heal your wounds."
Torikabuto glanced at Glo Xinia's tent. He could hear the sorcerer's quiet snores in the silence. Though his back ached, his wings unfurled to their full height. Tsunayoshi did not stop him from his vengeance.
Blood drenched Torikabuto's arms after he walked back out. Tsunayoshi waited for him and didn't scold him with harsh words when Torikabuto fell on his knees in front of the saintly creature. Instead Tsunayoshi carded a tender hand through Torikabuto's long dark hair.
"My last life," Torikabuto whispered, closing his eyes.
"Your last life," Tsunayoshi crooned.
And soon the fountain of blood in Torikabuto's mind sprouted buds through the crevices, and bloomed into brilliant amaryllises, small but proud, and everlasting.