11. White Unicorn

Darkling, listen…

You must heed me. Attend, and heed my words…

There is a different smell in the air. Faint but familiar. Something from long ago, long lost. It is—

Egg tempura. The kind used in murals in times long past. The scent fills the air, along with the tang of paint. And that's when he sees—

—himself. Standing, holding a paintbrush in front of a wall. A wall with a half completed mural.

On the wall is a picture of a white unicorn. The creature lays on the ground by a petal laden stream, entwined in vines of blue morning glories.

Trapped, ensnared.

Its innocence, lost.

But this dream—

—if dream it be—

—is different. Because this time he sees himself turn. He turns and speaks, as if looking down a long dark tunnel.

I made this for him, he says, for the first one drowned in the river. Cut down before his prime. There is a tilt of the head, then another observation:

You see him too. Just as I do. Floating there beneath the bridge. His head turns even more and that's when he notices the eyes—

—they are faceted like diamonds, in an unearthly shade of oceanic blue.

But you do not see the whole of the design, he says. You can only see part. You cannot see, which is why you must attend, you must listen—

But who are you? Gojo asks him.

He watches himself from the crux of the darkened tunnel as he turns, bodily, to face the impenetrable dark—

—and he sees the blood, deep mahogany on white, covering his shirt.

I am the one from the field, the one who almost won our freedom. I am you. Listen to me. For now, you must ignore the demon in your view—

I don't understand, Gojo says.

And heed my warning. Beware the other, who wears many faces. He is cunning. You will not see him approach—

But I don't understand! Gojo says again.

—before you've already fallen into his snare. And he will cut you down again. And again. And again. Always, this same fate. So you must attend—

Defiance in those diamond eyes.

Rage.

Fury.

Remember this well. For the demon is but the harbinger.

Remember, and watch closely. You will know him and yet not know him, the one they call Kenjaku. The shapeshifter, the skinwalker. Beware—

Heed this, and beware…

Consciousness came back in a chaotic pattern of flickering gold, shimmering along the edges of his vision. He felt cold, and heavy and—

Stones, weighted—

He is slowly being buried alive under rocks—

Suffocating slowly and—

Gojo jerked awake with a sudden gasp. He gulped in air, clutching his chest. He was lying on his side, sprawled on a cold hardwood floor. Lying in a semicircle of half burned candles, left there like some kind of blood sacrifice.

Blood—

That's when he pulled his hands away from his chest and he saw—

—so much blood.

All over his hands.

Over his chest.

On the floor.

Too much—

But whose—

He caught a glimpse of white in his periphery and turned his head. He saw his own reflection in the standing mirror, his front covered in blood in a pattern that would have made Jackson Pollock envious.

And then he remembered—

—he remembered hacking at Sukuna with a razor blade—

—but no, that wasn't quite right—

—he remembered watching himself hacking at Sukuna. But it was like he was a spectator. Like he was watching from a distance. Detached. But what he remembered most of all was—

—rage.

There was an overwhelming sense of murderous intent, of fury, on his part. And he didn't even know why, except it was somehow connected to that awful, suffocating feeling of being buried alive. He started feeling it when Sukuna slapped his sketchbook down on top of him, pushing down in such a way as to unlock a lost memory, connected to—

Fleeing through a field of wheat—

Pursued by torches—

Calling a name—

Calling his name—

Gojo tried to remember the dream he was just having, one that felt almost like a conversation. His mind tried to recall it, grasping in desperate futility at the unraveling threads, desperate to hold onto the tapestry of the dream. To hear the diminishing echo of the dissipating words…

Remember and listen—

Heed my words—

On the wall, a picture of a white unicorn. That was the only image he could remember.

His head swiveled around like a periscope, taking in various parts of the room, searching for another sign of life.

"Sukuna?"

Nothing. Silence. He felt a shiver crawl up his body, icy, like cold fingers playing over a keyboard. He slowly regained his feet, careful of the blood stains around him. He pulled bloody cotton away from his skin, frowning down at the dark patches.

Too much.

There was too much.

"Sukuna?" Silence greeted him as staggered off to retrieve his clothes. He wanted out of the bloody robe, out of this darkened studio. His mind flew into panic mode as the full weight of what had just occurred came barreling down on him.

Assault. He was going to get charged with assaulting a famous artist.

Hell, he was going to get charged with murdering a famous artist, if all the blood that was everywhere was any indication.

But it wasn't me! Gojo thought to himself. Even though the notion was clearly absurd. Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuclfuckfuck!

He could see the headlines now: Famous artist Gojo Satoru assaults Ryomen Sukuna in his own studio in a drug fueled rampage, leaving behind a blood spattered crime scene worthy of the Manson family.

"SUKUNA!" Where was that fucker? Surely he wasn't dead. Surely he was only injured.

Maybe he went to the hospital?

Either way Gojo was in deep shit. There was no way Sukuna was okay with all this. Freaky blade play aside, there was no excuse for the way that Gojo had quite literally gone for Sukuna's jugular like that, violently slicing him—

Why didn't you come back for me?

Blood—

Pain—

Screams—

Don't look at what happens beyond the field!

Gojo struggled to get back into his own clothes. The more time that ticked past without Sukuna making an appearance, the more panicked he grew. He knew he shouldn't leave what was basically a crime scene, but if he didn't get the hell out of here, he was going to lose it.

Gojo pulled out the ever present bottle of Xanax from his jacket pocket and with shaking hands, proceeded to dry swallow some pills. He started towards the door between the shelves of human skulls, bursting out into the loft proper and yelling:

"Sukuna!"

He walked past the floor to ceiling windows that framed a flickering nighttime cityscape. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective glass: hair wild, pupils dilated, dried blood on the right side of his face. His hand flew up, pawing instinctively at the red flecks.

Too much blood.

Way too much.

He was still vigorously rubbing at the side of his face when he exited the loft and took the antique elevator down to the main floor.

Surely Sukuna was okay? Surely Uraume wouldn't let their boss just crawl off and die somewhere? Maybe they were tending to Sukuna's wounds right now?

Gojo's brain grasped at straws, spun various scenarios. But no matter what kind of outcome he came up with, they all eventually led to the police banging on his studio door. Taking him away on assault and battery charges…

With these morbid thoughts flitting through his head, Gojo fled the gallery. He exited the yawning mouth filled with sharpened teeth, emerging onto a deserted nighttime street. He pulled out his phone and was gutted by the lack of messages on his screen. Without thinking he called Suguru, putting the phone up to his ear and wandering, directionless, down the sidewalk.

Please pick up!

The rain from earlier made the roads and sidewalks shine wetly in the dark. Street lights formed brightly colored squiggles on the asphalt. Gojo's heart was attempting to leap out of his throat, banging louder with each passing ring of the unanswered telephone.

The call went to voicemail.

"Fuck!" he yelled out loud in consternation. He walked mindlessly onward, unable to still either body or mind. The wind whipped through his already disheveled hair, whistling faintly by his ear. His head popped up briefly, taking in the uneven cobblestone alleyway he was walking through. The street lamp nearest him was out, dead. The way through was miserably dark.

He suddenly froze.

And he remembered a whispered warning.

Beware Kenjaku…

His eyes squinted in darkness as he took notice of the outline of a figure standing at the far mouth of the alleyway. A figure that was standing, unmoving, frozen in the night. Gojo couldn't make out any features, but somehow he knew this person was staring at him. And it unnerved him.

He turned and started moving away in the other direction.

As he walked he tried calling Suguru again. He refused to look over his shoulder at the end of the alleyway. Even though he could feel the hair standing up on the back of his neck. Even though it was all he could do to keep his hands from shaking.

The call went to voicemail again.

Gojo clenched his jaw, opening his mouth to swear again, when suddenly his screen lit up with a text.

But it wasn't Suguru.

Where are you?

Gojo stared at the text. He tapped the screen and realized it was coming from the same number that had sent him the picture of The Nightmare.

Before he could do anything else, another message popped up:

Why did you leave?

Wind blew bits of discarded trash through the darkened alley as Gojo's fingers hesitated over the screen. Then he quickly typed out:

Are you okay?

He waited, holding his breath as three little dots skittered across the screen, three little dots that magically held his whole life in the balance. Then another text appeared:

Of course I'm okay.

A pause.

Come back to me.

Gojo stopped walking and just stared at the text. He was back on the sidewalk proper. Random cars from the nearby road hurtled past him, whipping up more wind, blowing hair into his eyes.

Come back to me.

Not come back to the studio. Not come back to their session. No, he meant—

Gojo's fingers flew across the keyboard.

Why would you ask that after what I just did? He was careful not to be specific, to not say anything too incriminating. After all, he had committed a crime, no matter what Sukuna said. A response immediately popped up.

Why? Because you intrigue me. You surprised me tonight, and that rarely ever happens. But don't worry, I'm not angry, in fact…

Gojo watched the three little dots dancing rapidly in their minuscule bubble.

…I'm feeling inspired, in a way I haven't been in centuries. I'm utterly enrapt, fascinated by this version of you. I've never seen such ferocity. So come back to me. Come back and we'll mix the paint and start on the underpinning together.

Gojo stopped walking again. He couldn't believe what he was reading. There was no way in hell that Sukuna was up to mulling minerals and grinding down rocks, not after the wounds he'd been given. The man was truly insane.

You can't possibly be that okay. Gojo typed. He waited for another response. It appeared instantly:

If you don't believe me then come see for yourself. Let me send a car to pick you up.

Gojo stared at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He could hear those words, Come back to me, playing over and over inside his head, spoken in Sukuna's soft, seductive tone like a lover's serenade. Sensual and insistent. Or maybe—

Coercive. Sinister.

Ignore the demon in your view.

So came the warning of an echoing voice.

But he couldn't just ignore it. There was a latent pull, an elusive irresistible compulsion to it. Gojo's brows drew together and he said out loud, "You fell for it, too, so how can you tell me not to?"

More the fool were we, answered the far away voice. Chiding, disappointed.

Gojo suddenly looked up, taking in the wet empty street before him. He realized he was talking out loud to himself, and his shoulders shook with silent, mirthless laughter. I'm legitimately losing my mind, he thought.

And that's when he noticed the car that was slowly creeping along the curb, just a few feet behind him.

His eyes went wide as a wave of anxiety washed over him. He thought about that ominous figure standing at the head of the alleyway earlier…

…beware the one called Kenjaku…

…and he instantly sped up, walking faster. Only to notice the car behind him gaining speed as well.

His heart nearly leapt out of his throat and onto the sidewalk when the car suddenly surged forward, screeching to a halt right next to him. The tinted glass window scrolled down and he was confronted by the glaring eyes of an extremely annoyed Uraume.

"Sukuna sent me to fetch you," they said in a flat icy tone that clearly communicated their displeasure with this task.

Gojo didn't move. And as Uraume waited, two things happened simultaneously:

Gojo's phone started ringing.

And a loud metal bang hissed out of the nearby alleyway.

Gojo jumped at the sound, which for all the world resembled a gunshot. Then he saw a striped cat fly from the alley and flee across the road, disappearing like a frenzied blur into the night.

Gojo looked down at his still blaring phone. Suguru. Ignoring Uraume's scowling face, he turned his back on the P.A. and answered his cell.

Suguru's voice sounded tired, "I saw your missed calls. Why are you calling so late, Satoru—"

"—I think I screwed up tonight," Gojo interrupted him. "Something weird happened at Sukuna's. I cut him with a blade, going straight for his jugular, and there was blood everywhere—"

"—what? What are you talking about? You're speaking too fast—"

"I assaulted Sukuna with a razor blade," Gojo repeated. He moved away from the car, walking hurriedly down the street, ignoring Uraume's incensed calls from behind him. "I think…I think I may be losing my mind," he admitted in a whisper.

"Okay, okay, just calm down," Suguru told him. "Just tell me where you are and Shoko and I will come get you."

Gojo felt a sense of relief at this declaration, the words instantly wringing the tension from his limbs. He'd never been so thankful for Suguru's sensible nature, his steadfastness in a crisis, as he was now. He was walking along under a lamppost when he noticed a second shadow next to his own, keeping time with his steps. Elongated. Silent.

You will not see him approach…

Beware…

He stopped and immediately spun around, colliding with the other figure, clumsily dropping his phone in the process.

He was greeted with rust colored eyes and wild spiky hair. Sukuna caught both of his arms and said in a deep melodic drawl, "Why are you wandering around in the dark like this?"

Gojo just stared at him, open mouthed, his phone call completely forgotten. Sukuna was dressed in the tight black button down that he had on the very first time he had visited Gojo's studio. He looked clean. Refreshed. Dapper, even. And most importantly…

…there wasn't a single scratch on him.

Gojo was staring at his neck.

No mark—

Nothing—

Impossible—

Gojo surged forward and grabbed the collar of Sukuna's shirt, pawing at the cloth. Throaty laughter bubbled out of the other artist, his voice filled with obvious amusement as he said, "I'm fine with it if you really want to tear my clothes off, but perhaps we can go somewhere a little more private…like a phone box maybe?"

Gojo froze. "The fuck did you just say?" He was still holding Sukuna's collar and their faces were mere centimeters apart. Anyone driving or walking by would have thought them two lovers, clenched together beneath a lamppost, overtaken by passion during a late night stroll.

Gojo dropped Sukuna's collar and attempted to back away, only to have Sukuna grab his arm and pull him back in again. "I was serious earlier when I said I wanted you to come back to me," Sukuna said in a low sonorous voice.

Ignore the demon in your view…

Gojo's mind was reeling. There were too many variables, too many inconsistencies at play right now. How did he know about the phone box? Has he been watching me all this time? And how did he find me anyway? I didn't send him my location, and most importantly—

"—why don't you have any cuts on you? I know I…I know…"

He couldn't admit out loud to Sukuna what he had done. The words died on his tongue, felled by ambivalence, by uncertainty. He found himself questioning what had actually occurred.

He felt like he was going mad…

"Oh? And just what do you think you know?" Sukuna asked him, amusement dancing in those russet colored eyes, the barely concealed smile. Secretive. Sphinx like.

"I just…" Gojo stared at Sukuna's unmarked throat. He lifted a hand and placed it over Sukuna's heart—

—the other place he was sure he had slashed him with a blade. Sukuna reached up and caught his hand, holding it fast against his chest. His voice was a deep, rich timbre that swam with an emotion that Gojo had never heard from him before as he said, "I'm not in the habit of apologizing. And certainly not for something that happened almost six hundred and fifty years ago. But I suppose I may have owed you a debt for that one, the payment for which you rightfully took in blood—"

"—what are you talking about—"

"—but I don't fuck around with religious zealots. Especially back in those days. They were far too fond of lighting people on fire, among other assorted things. And the one that caught you back then was a particularly nasty piece of work—"

"—I don't get what you're saying—"

"I'm talking about Heinrich Kramer, the fucking inquisitor. That nut case who wrote the Malleus Maleficarum. Witch hunter. Of course, that was just a front. He didn't give a shit about god or righteousness or demons or any of that bullshit, so long as he could get his rocks off torturing people—"

"—what—"

"—do you know how much of a sexual sadist you had to be to get censured by the church in those days? I mean, really, it was the place to be if you wanted to act out your own messed up predilections, so long as you wrapped it up in a bow of public penitence, of humility—"

"—what?" Gojo's face went as white as the street light hanging above their heads. And in his head heard—

Screams—

The sound of sobbing—

Distant pain—

Blood dripping—

I told you not to look at what happens beyond the field! It's the voice of that other one, the other version of himself. The one who painted the white unicorn. He can see him in that room, down the darkened tunnel, his back turned to the wall. Just like before, except—

It isn't the same—

There is no mural on the wall—

Just the icy dark—

And when he turns—

His eyes are gone, with only gaping bloody holes remaining—

I told you not to look! he hisses. And then he turns and slams the door, cutting him off, leaving him alone in the blackness.

Alone with the echoing cries of his own screams.

And in the present, Gojo's eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped forward, caught by Sukuna's waiting arms. Unable to face remembering something that should have never been remembered…

Something that should have remained buried under stone…

To be continued…