Poacher
n. a person who hunts or catches game or fish illegally.
"Good morning, Orochi," Kagerou greeted. "The snow has finally stopped falling. The last of winter is within sight."
"Morning, Kagerou," she replied groggily. "You're right. I slept pretty warm last night, though."
"Did you? Well, that's good. We all need our rest for the coming days."
Orochi glanced around them, making sure that no one else was within earshot. It was quite early, after all, and the morning campfire hadn't even been lit yet. "I slept with Nishiki last night," she announced. "In the way you're thinking of."
Kagerou was normally a calm and composed person, so although the shock didn't fully register on her stoic face, it was clearly displayed as she had dropped the teapot in her hands, causing hot water to spill onto the frozen ground.
"What?"
.
.
.
When Pieri woke up, she found herself pressed to Flannel's chest, curled up in his warm embrace. It was so calm and comforting that she almost didn't want to leave, but then she remembered the position they were currently in—and the multiple positions they'd been in last night—and she almost screamed at the top of her lungs. Whether or not she made a lapse in judgement had yet to be known, but one thing was for sure.
Flannel was truly wild in some aspects, and Pieri overestimated his "kindness" from before. He was still a pure and innocent person, but the duration of that one night was enough to remind her that he was feral, powerful, and strong in ways she could never hope to compare.
So, Pieri carefully removed herself from his bed, and got dressed in the quickest, quietest way possible. She hadn't buttered up Lilith with offerings lately, but she would do anything in her power to convince the dragon to create a bathhouse, right then and there, so she could wash away the remnants of last night and be done with it.
Finding all of her clothes, ribbons and all, Pieri took one last look at Flannel, and really tried to understand the person she supposedly fell in love with.
If she had gotten to him sooner than this, would he still pine after Nishiki? If she loved him another night as this one, would he still fantasize about the fox in question? It wasn't fair that Flannel was in love with someone else that he hardly treated well these days, just as it wasn't fair for Pieri to fall for Flannel, too, alongside another person that won his affection by simply existing.
Yet, perhaps that was childish of her. Not that she could actively tell between right and wrong, but part of her knew that the two of them were destined for each other, and Pieri was just another victim in the way of their long, blooded lives together.
Content with a single night of red-hot passion between them, she reached over to the sleeping wolf, and kissed him softly on the cheek.
Then she absconded, closing the door gently as she went.
The sun was up, now.
.
.
.
Fate worked in odd ways. Despite both of them promising to themselves—and to Orochi and Pieri, respectively—that they would bury their feelings and confront each other, Nishiki and Flannel hesitated to do so. They spent most of their days apart, and it wasn't until one fateful outing that they were left to their own devices.
It was during the night patrol when the two of them were alone for the first time, ever since their falling out all those days ago. The forest that Kamui made as their makeshift base had paths that lead up to nearby mountains, and there were several small villages along the base of said mountain. Nishiki and Flannel were tasked with maintaining this area as they waited on the roadside, far outside of camp, with only each other and the darkened sky above them for company.
Needless to say, it was awkward.
Nishiki broke the silence first.
"Looks like there's no trouble out here," he commented dryly. "Maybe we should head back now."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Flannel uttered. "We're almost done, so let's hold out until then." His tone lightened up somewhat, and his ears began to twitch happily at new prospects. "There might be treasures out there, right? We have to check."
"I don't think we should—" Nishiki was about to say waste time, but the bluntness of his own words made him think twice— "do that. Let's head back before it gets too dark."
"Yeah? Well, too late for that."
The horizon blackened until the white stars were visible. Nishiki sighed, surprised they were able to let time get the best of them. "Okay, fine. Let's check out the last village and go back as soon as we're done."
"If you're in such a rush, you can head back on your own, you know."
"I'm not in a rush!" Nishiki denied. "I just hate this right now, and I want it to stop! Is that so bad?"
Nishiki didn't have to elaborate on what he meant by "this," as Flannel understood the implications perfectly well on his own. He was a good judge of character, and although some subtleties escaped him from time to time, this one was as clear as the day. "Oh, you hate this?" Flannel growled. "I couldn't tell! I seriously thought you just loved being around me, what with your Gods-damned groaning and whining this entire time."
"Ever think there's a reason for that?" Nishiki's voice was usual warm and bright, but today it was different. While it didn't lack energy or enthusiasm, the gentle warmth—the brilliant radiance—was darkened and weighed down with anger. There was fire in places where it should have been quiet sunlight, instead, and it burned him throughout. His body visibly shook, and it seemed as if the flames had been waiting to spread for so long.
Nishiki didn't hold back as he reiterated himself. "Ever wonder why I'm being so annoying about this? It's your fault, Flannel!"
"My fault? Was it my fault that I caught you kissing Orochi?"
"Oh, so now you finally admit it!"
"Admit to what?"
"You admit that Orochi is the reason why you've been so ugly," Nishiki sneered. "I don't mean physical looks, either! Ever since that day, you haven't even talked to me properly."
"And what's wrong with that?"
"You said we can still be friends!"
"And we are!"
"What kind of friends—" Nishiki inhaled deeply, yet spoke quickly that it was hard to decipher his words in the same breath— "don't even talk to each other, or look at each other when they're nearby? What kind of friends pretend they don't exist?"
"Whatever kind we are," Flannel insisted. "Whatever kind we oughta be. 'Cause that's all we are now, Nishiki. We're just friends."
"Well, if this is your way of showing people friendship, Flannel, then I've gotta tell you: it sucks. And I wish we were just friends, I really do! Because then at least you'd be talking to me, and we wouldn't be acting all weird or getting sad for no reason at all!"
"You think you've got it all figured out, huh? You think that people will just do whatever you want because it's what you want, huh?" Flannel snarled. "Well, why don't you ever think about what I want, for once? Why don't you ever think about other people?"
"Flannel—"
"WHY DO YOU ONLY THINK ABOUT YOURSELF?"
Maybe it was because they were too busy yelling at each other to notice, but the moon was full, bright, and shining over them. In the glimpsed light, Nishiki bore witness as Flannel's screams warped into howls, and his form shifted in an instant. However, it wasn't the black-and-white garou that Nishiki was used to seeing. Although the shape was still gigantic, muscular, and beastly in appearance, there was something different about it this time.
The pitch-black irises turned bloody, as did the pristine white fur. As if all the color had been dyed in a sickening shade of red, Flannel's body nearly glowed with crimson shades, the white being replaced by red, the once-dark eyes brightening into fire, ruby, crimson—blood. And that word was an aura enveloping Flannel's body, a palpable bloodlust that emanated from every inch of him, from his claws to his fangs to everything around them.
Nishiki gulped.
Flannel roared.
He turned into a mánagarm, right before his very eyes.
The moon burned brighter.
.
.
.
It was a damn good time as any to settle their differences the old fashioned way. Not that either of them had a particular desire to hurt one another, but Nishiki and Flannel were mad in ways that only combat could alleviate. Nishiki was offended by Flannel's assumption that he only thought about himself (I was thinking about you, idiot) while Flannel was angered by Nishiki's insistence to bring up sensitive topics (Can't you just let sleeping wolves lie?), both of them knowing that in doing so, they'd be angering each other.
And now that Flannel was fully transformed into the strongest version of a wolf as he could be, the odds would be evened out.
Yet they didn't even have the chance to entertain the idea—let alone enact it—as a fine, silver arrow flew past their ears, its fletch shimmering and catching the beams of moonlight on its intricacies. They quickly dodged its lethal edge, and watched as it struck the branch of the tree behind them. Then their ears picked up on the rest of the noise: movements rustling the bushes, hushed whispers of conspirators and assaultors, wire and metal becoming taut, ready to fire.
Nishiki jumped into the bush where he detected the scent of the first attacker. "Go!" he yelled at Flannel. "I'll take this end."
He didn't listen to Flannel's reply as he dove. There was little time to say anything as the sniper stumbled backward, surprised at the sudden speed of Nishiki's descent. He snapped at their hands, bit the silver bow in half, and spat the remains at their feet. The sniper screamed obscenities, but Nishiki ignored it as he aimed his fangs purposefully and lethally at the base of their neck.
Blood bubbled over like a fountain into Nishiki's mouth, and he spat the excess out as his muzzle was stained dark—crimson. The opponent went limp in his grasp, and as soon as he felt the slack of muscle, Nishiki released the body and moved onto the next threat. There were three other snipers lagging behind, but he didn't give them time to mourn their ally, or even ready their bows as he jumped them, fangs bared and claws brandished.
He caught the scent of even more humans, however, and realized at once how grossly outnumbered him and Flannel were. With a sneer, Nishiki turned tail and ran back out into the clearing, hoping to see Flannel still in one piece.
Although, with the garou having turned into a mánagarm just now, Nishiki knew better than to worry. Flannel seemed uninhibited by the humans before him, and his body was a black-and-red blur of fury and bloodshed, swinging and tearing into anything that he didn't recognize. The blood splatters were much more discreet, now, nearly melding into the naturally red shades of his wolf fur.
Nishiki grimaced at the sight, before remembering that his own body was covered in blood, too. Together with the stark white strands of fur, Nishiki supposed he stood out as a grim reaper in his own right, fast and untouchable whereas Flannel was unyielding and powerful. Although Nishiki worried over their odds, the humans' efforts were nothing but child's play as they combined their forces and strengths, standing back-to-back as they faced uncertainty.
Just like old times.
As the forest floor became drenched in red, decorated by discarded weapons snapped in two, the wolf howled loudly, his cadence expanding into a cacophony that rang throughout: a death bell signifying the end. And the fox was no different in the sense that his high, shrill laughter sent chills up spines—right before he snapped them, that is.
Soon, all the noise disappeared. Scents died out with their owners, and Nishiki and Flannel found themselves devoid of enemies to decimate. The noise of metal clanging, clothes tearing, teeth snapping, and bodies ripping seemed to lessen more and more, and soon enough they found not a single soul to be found. Though that would have been a good place to stop, they knew better than to retire at the scene of the crime, and so the two of them ran through the woods, breaking through clearings and running down paths, until the blood and battlements were nothing but dark trails at their heels—like autumn winds leaving colorful leaves in their wake.
Nothing but everything, and everything all at once.
They sighed.
.
.
.
It started off small. Nishiki and Flannel decided to rest in another meadow, one that was far removed from the original place of bloodshed, one that was apart from the ambush-gone-wrong. At least, it went wrong for the humans involved, since the beasts were very much alive and utterly victorious. Perhaps it was the rush of being newly transformed, but Flannel was raring to go—more so than usual, anyway—while Nishiki settled into something calm and peaceful just moments after being caught in a murderous frenzy.
The two of them sat at each other's side, dyed red by the night's events, alert and cautious yet somehow relaxed. They didn't say anything during that time, either, as they chose to take in the rest of the night quietly, reflecting on their argument and the ill-timed attack of the human poachers.
Because surely, those were poachers. Who else would be so dead-set on killing a couple of beasts, otherwise? Normal warriors and fighters would be too scared of the inhuman creatures to approach them, let alone assault them. Regular humans would be just as fazed and twice as harmless in that case. The only ones that desired to hurt them were the ones that knew of their true existence, and those who valued the price of their furs in the marketplace.
Poachers were after them, and it was a simple but terrifying thought. The terror never truly left throughout the years, even though both Nishiki and Flannel had their fair share of run-ins. Their adulthood allowed them to lead and fight with clarity, but it didn't erase the natural fear that comes with facing against their true nemesis, those that would wish them dead and decorated for years on end.
Nishiki tried hard not to think about his parents in those moments, either. The same went for Flannel, yet in spite of their best efforts, the anguish and exhaustion showed itself on their faces.
In their bodies.
"Flannel," Nishiki muttered. "Listen, I—"
"Don't," Flannel said. "Please don't."
"...Alright."
"We can talk about it later, okay? I'm not in the mood right now."
"That's…"
"..."
"When are you in the mood for something, then? Fickle beast."
The two of them sprung up to their feet, and looked around them. A new voice had intervened, but it wasn't the voice itself that scared them. Rather, it was the lack of presence. They were inhuman creatures capable of sensing things much faster and sooner than any human could, so how was it possible that they weren't able to tell that there was an interloper nearby?
Silver arrows rained down on them, instinctively causing them to separate from one another, and make a break for the underbrush. They escaped one ambush already, but there was no telling if they'd escape another.
They didn't want to test their luck either way.
Their opponents weren't kind enough to give them another choice, though.
More weapons and spells shot out at them: five-pointed throwing knives, silver arrows, spirits of tigers, spirits of birds, forks of lightning, bursts of fire, the cutting edge of the sword, the blunt force of the axe, the accurate pierce of the spear, the callous touch of hand. Nishiki and Flannel weren't sure when all these people got here, but they chalked it up to the same magical force that let a voice invade what they thought was a safe resting place. Lately, whenever Nishiki and Flannel were daunted, it seemed as if magic was the cause of their undoing.
All they needed to do was stay whole, long enough for them to flee the forest entirely, and find their way back to the portal that Lilith set up for them. Once they did that, they'd be back with the others in Kamui's army, and they could pretend that these ambushes were just bad dreams. Then, after that, they could even confront each other, and put away all those childish arguments and feelings for each other. Hell, they could go even farther than that and start over. The whole thing with Orochi was stupid, anyway, and their love should be stronger than a simple misunderstanding. Their relationship was just starting to form, and if Flannel and Nishiki knew each other like they thought they did, then it would just be one hiccup in their infinitely long lives—lives they would rather spend together than apart.
"Nishiki, hang on!" Flannel screamed through the pain in his limbs, which began to form after the dozenth arrow landed itself in his backside. "I think we're almost there. I don't know how those guys got here, but we're almost out."
"Flannel, I—"
Everything fell out of their grasps, as the fox's voice pushed past its limit in an ear-splitting screech. Flannel skidded to a halt, horrified by what he saw.
Nishiki tumbled face-first into the grass, body convulsing and twisting until he reverted back into his human form. Flannel saw three arrows sticking out from his skin: two in his right leg and one in his left shoulder. Normally, arrows of bronze, steel, iron, or even silver weren't enough to cause that much pain, unless they were directed somewhere deadly. Unless the arrows were special—like the kind from Prince Takumi's Fuujin Yumi, for example—then they wouldn't be able to elicit such pure agony.
Instead, these arrowheads were curved in their entirety, pointed and red as if coated in blood, in carmine. Maybe it was a poison, because Flannel saw tiny drops of colorful fluid leak from the tip, falling into Nishiki's wound and causing him to shiver. Then again, it could have been the small charm—one that was attached to the shaft and hung loosely in the fletch—that was causing him so much pain. Three arrows were usually nothing, but these seemed harsher than usual.
Hunting bows had that effect, they supposed. It was more common for poachers to use beast killers in the forms of lances, but this one was a special type of bow and arrow that caused the same effect, only from a distance which proved itself to be more troublesome and even more unavoidable than before.
Flannel couldn't do much else but scream as a similar arrow pierced him squarely in the lower abdomen, followed by a second offender that struck him in the left arm. As he wrestled for the arrows in an attempt to pull them out, he felt a wave of magic wash over him, and the next thing he knew, he was back in human form, pitifully crouched over at Nishiki's side.
Vulnerable.
Next to dead.
"I-It's okay," he reassured Nishiki in a voice more broken than the arrowhead in his shoulder. The bits of metal must have chipped off, and the shards were noticeable as Flannel's limbs shuddered. "We can still get out of this. L-Let's—"
"Don't be stupid," Nishiki snapped, voice lacking the vitality of anger or fear. "There's too many of them. And I can't, I can't…"
"We are not staying here!" Flannel's volume rose to a new pitch, but he held back as they needed the energy to run. Although their pursuers were shockingly slow in catching up to them, it would only be a matter of time before the snipers emerged, and shot their magicked arrows in their heads to top it all off. In that moment, Flannel thought about Satin, envisioned the rope nets they'd tie them up with, and grimaced at the fear of dying painfully as they did.
In such a desolate place, too.
We have to do something.
Flannel pushed through the pain and rose to his feet, dragging an unwilling Nishiki along with him. By some miracle, the two of them made it into the thickest part of the forest, getting ever closer to their goal: the portal that would bring them back to the main camp. Although Flannel was awful with directions, Nishiki picked up speed, so he figured they had to have been closeby to where they wanted to be.
Their hopes were dashed in the same moment they were gathered, however. As they broke into the last clearing of the forest, they felt two more arrows shoot out from behind them. They dodged one of them, but the other landed itself in Nishiki's ankle, and he cried out as he fell to the ground.
Flannel screamed. "Nishiki!" He reached down to grab at him, but was mortified as Nishiki's hand—tremulous, blood-stained, and injured—swatted him away. "What are you doing?!"
"You have to leave," Nishiki gasped. "I-I can't do it, Flannel. You have to go. You need to go."
"I won't leave you here! I'm not leaving you here! Why, why would you even think that I'd leave you here?!"
"Flannel!" Nishiki grabbed his wrists, and stared at him with the most melancholic longing he thought was possible. "I'm not asking you to leave! I'm telling you to!"
"B-But...Nishiki…"
"I'm sorry," he murmured, fingers trailing over Flannel's chest. Wait, what? His chest? That wasn't right, but the realization never came as Nishiki's hands gently retracted from whatever they were doing, and rested at his bloodied sides. "I'm sorry, Flannel."
Flannel looked up, but couldn't see the crowd of poachers for what they were, as blurred colors took over his vision—colors that shook as violently as his hands did. There was a bright light shining from some unknown place, and a presence that kindled like fire against his skin. Was he dying here with Nishiki? Or was he leaving him behind? How could he decide between either choice, when both of them meant certain doom, regardless?
The same bright light assailed his vision, now, confusing him at first, but then bringing a stark revelation all the same. He was weightless, disconnected, floating in the air as if his mind and soul had detached themselves from his broken, battered body. The sound of Nishiki's painful whimpers quieted down behind him, as did the angry chorus of poachers in the distance
By the time Flannel became aware of himself, he was already outside of the forest. In fact, he was far removed from the forest, as the sight of camping tents, pine trees, and familiar faces greeted him all at once. It was the main base of Kamui's forces, stationed in the forest reclaimed from Mara and her crew all those days ago. It was the place that Flannel wanted him and Nishiki to get to—the place they were supposed to go together.
Instead, Flannel walked on his own, and stood out against the peaceful scene of the army camp as he was covered in blood, and pierced by arrows.
The first one to notice him was Orochi. Of course it would be, since she was only ten paces away from him when he suddenly materialized in the camp. As she approached him, Flannel sighed out, and fell to his knees. After seeing his injuries up close, Orochi gasped. "What happened to you? Dear Gods, you're all but dead right now! These wounds are—"
"They got him," Flannel muttered. He expected the words to come out louder, sharper, and harsher than they did. Rather, the breath left his lungs, escaped his lips, curled at the base of his lips, and died out there. The noise that followed formed out of sheer despair. "They got Nishiki."
"They?"
"Poachers."
"Oh...oh Gods...it's okay, Flannel. It'll be okay." Orochi sounded less convincing than usual, but Flannel could hardly blame her. She was one of the only people who knew what it felt like to love Nishiki so much, after all.
And now he was gone.
"Because of me," Flannel said. "I left him to die, Orochi. I didn't want to! I didn't even notice! One minute, I'm at his side, next thing you know, I'm here."
"We'll get him back, Flannel. I swear we will."
"How? Those humans, if they have him, are long gone by now."
"I don't know how, but all I know is that before anything can happen, you need to rest."
"No!" Flannel sprung to his feet. "No, it's because I wanted to rest that this happened! If I just pulled through—dragged him behind me kickin' and screamin'—then he'd be here right now, and I...I…"
"..."
"Maybe I wouldn't be here. It should have been me instead."
"Flannel, stop blaming yourself, and get some rest. I should get a healer and—"
"No! No, don't you understand? It could have been me! It should have been me! Why did he—why did Nishiki bother saving me? I've...I'm…"
"Flannel…" Orochi cupped the side of his face, fingers cold yet soft on his skin. "It's not your fault, okay? And I'm so, so sorry."
"What are you sorry for?"
"For distracting you."
Flannel detected Tsukuyomi's scent a moment too late. The child onmyoji was behind him, now, and he moved with such purpose that Flannel could hardly protest. Somehow, Tsukuyomi reached Flannel's height (wind magic? levitation? or was he dedicated enough to jump?) and covered his eyes with his hands, those small hands that glowed with cyan light. Then, the magic from Tsukuyomi crashed over him, and as he keeled over, Flannel's world went entirely dark.
Forced to run and rest against his will, Flannel wondered if he'd been so incapable from the beginning.
.
.
.
"The mánagarm got away."
"What a shame, I prefer their furs over a nine-tailed fox's any day. Oh well, we'd best make with what we have."
"You know, it's funny, I expected him to be more...ugly. Terrible-looking, awful, even."
"If anything, he's handsome. Hell, he looks like one of my cousins!"
"Well, handsome or not, he's a beast, and it doesn't matter at the end of the day if he looks like your cousin or even your brother. And you know why? It's because death don't discriminate—"
"Between the sinners and the saints."
.
.
.
Nishiki remembered Flannel's face as he left him. The medallion around his neck shone with an ethereal light, the fragments of which sparkled in gold and silver hues. His eyes hazed over as the protection charm forced him to act against his will, and when Nishiki's broken voice demanded that he leave him behind, he actually did. His shadowed self disappeared further into the foliage, and the fox was left with nothing but his pain and the bitter enemies that wanted him dead.
Maybe their wish would come true. The anti-beast arrows left his body reeling, and every fiber in his being begged for relief of some kind. The sensation was boiling hot and icy cold all at once, each fluctuation in temperature leaving abrasive marks on his skin and heart. His mind was cloudier than the sky above him, one that verged on storming. If he was lucky, the lightning would strike him down before those poachers did. He was already forced back into human form, and bleeding out before they could obtain his velvety pelt would be ideal.
Although his ears and tail would be the same, they could be shaved bald for all he cared. He'd never let his true self fall before them, and this human appearance was nothing more than a mirage, anyway. If he wanted to, if he could, then he'd let it all crumble away.
Yet, they would not even allow him that small luxury. In the bareness of his consciousness, he felt his body be picked up by multiple hands, heard the thrums of a deafening chorus of victory shouts come to life below him. They wanted more blood than this—they wanted his body to bleed out for hundreds of people's worth and his eyes gouged out on spits. The same went for Flannel, although they couldn't have either of those things, for some reason, and so their rancor was subdued.
Nishiki was too tired to muster strength for anything. He quietly and obediently sunk into the void of his mind, letting his body fall to the mercy of the bloody hands beneath him.
.
.
.
He woke up feeling absolutely drained. Even so, his eyes adjusted quickly to his surroundings, only to realize that he was in a dark, dreary room—a prison cell more than anything. The colors were all muddy, faded, with grey, brown, and black overlapping into ugly, unrecognizable shades. The walls were made of stone, with dark green crawls of ivy along the sides. The floor beneath Nishiki was cool, slate, but covered with a fine layer of dirt that made it just a little too uncomfortable to lie down on.
But his body was badly injured, and so he had no choice in the matter of where he rested.
The fact that he was even alive to process these things was puzzling, as he was sure the poachers would have killed him by now. It was a risky move to leave him alive, especially considering that once he healed from his injuries, he could muster the strength to fight back, and eventually escape.
Once he got over the agonizing pain, that is.
And just as he got used to the overwhelming quiet, a laugh resonated through the room and shattered his illusion of peace. He froze up at the sound of it: eerie, scratchy, high-pitched, familiar. Almost as if he had heard this laughter before, at some other point in his life. Usually, his memory was watertight, but the pain clouded his mind like no other. He shut his eyes closed, ignored the laughter, and thought back to every human he'd ever met. Yet there was no one whose cadence matched, and it occurred to him that despite the cruel laughter, this was the first time meeting such a person.
"What a joke. I can't believe you're the mystical kyuubi-no-kitsune. A nine-tailed fox, and for what? To get caught as the lowly beast you are? Laughable."
Ah, he thought. I know who you are now. We've never met, but I've heard your laughter before.
I've seen you in the eyes of someone else before.
"What are you so quiet for? Did one of my lackeys cut your tongue out your mouth already?"
"I wondered how any two people could be so ugly. It's because of you, isn't it? You're her mother."
"Yes, I am, you insipid little bastard! You killed my daughter, and the wolf killed my son. Mara and Dante were their names, but do you even care? Do you even care to know the lives you've ruined? The lives you've ended?"
"They knew what would happen if they tried to fight. Someone had to die, and now you're mad because it wasn't me."
"Not just mad, you little fucker. I am irate!" The mother—stranger—shrieked. "Ooh, you're a feisty one, you know that? Some women are into that sort of thing, but I can't stand it. I like my victims more...sedate than this. You want to play games, beast? Oh, I'll give you games."
"Do your worst," Nishiki scoffed. Although he was hurt, prone, and completely at this woman's mercy, he didn't show it. He made it past multiple hurdles before, and this was just another obstacle getting in the way.
She made it worse than that. "You'll regret saying that, beast. You'll regret taking so many lives. It wasn't just my children, I'll have you know. We lost many allies, friends, and comrades thanks to your little murderous stunt. You massacred everyone! You killed all of them and you'll pay for their lives in blood!" Her voice was acid in his ears, dripping slowly and methodically down his brain. There was no denying the obvious guilt, indignation, and amazement in her voice, but the strongest of all was the fury—the unadulterated rage.
"I'll make you bend to my will. You'll be grovelling over me, telling me anything and everything I want to know. And if you think I'll kill you once I'm done with you, you're wrong. Dying is easy, you see. Everyone dies. But only the strong can live, and so I'll make you wish you were dead!" She smothered her foot into his chest, stomping and pressing until her breathing was ragged. Then, she paused, snickering behind a pale hand adorned with a myriad of silver rings. "And there's no better time to start than the present."
Nishiki felt something stick him in the side, and he cried out unwillingly. He knew blood very well, to the point where he could tell when it was there and when it was not. Although his mind was blurry, he had the distinct thought that the blood came out in low sprays, this time—clinging to the sleek, metallic edge of whatever blade she thrust into him.
He needed to inspect the damage, because knowing her and how unstable she was, the blade was surely coated in poison. He turned carefully, but she didn't let him get away with them. She reached down, and shoved her putrid fingers into his face, squeezing his cheeks until she forced him to stare up at her. She whipped his head around so quickly, it would have made anyone get a head rush, but his head was already full of so much static that it didn't bother him as much. His weary eyes locked with hers, and the flames of her hatred burned once more.
"This is just a taste. It gets worse from here on out. I want my face, my name, my existence to be burned into your skin. You'll have nightmares about me—no, I'll beat you so badly, you won't ever dream again! And that is a promise!
"But," she interjected herself. "But, until then, you can rot in here for a while. You can rot until everything is ready for your complete and utter destruction. And I want you to remember your maker—I want you to remember what you've chosen to forget." She was out of breath at this point, but she disregarded any exhaustion or pain that might have formed, and pulled on Nishiki's ears, whispering into their folds with complete and utter repulsion.
"My name is Vilra, and in the name of my fallen children, I will tear you to pieces."
.
.
.
It started off small.
Vilra came in, stabbed him in several places, making sure that his body lapped up all the poison on the blade. His beaststone had long since been destroyed, and she forced him to understand that if he were to perish, it would be in his weaker, human form. She was careful yet crazed in her movements, stabbing him with relish and squealing at his painful grunts.
It didn't truly hurt as much as he made it seem, but Nishiki pretended that was the case because he knew it would be worse if he clammed up on her. Yet there was a mutual understanding between the two of them that this would only get worse, so he soon abandoned the hopeful idea that Vilra would somehow go easy on him if he acted like it hurts more than it did.
But it really did hurt. When she was done with him for the day, he'd be left bloody and bruised, writhing in the dirt as he hoped for release. To make matters worse, the condition of his cell was ghastly. It smelled like mold and sweet, with dry, dusty air everywhere he breathed. Every now and then he coughed at the sheer murkiness of it all. Not to mention that such dour conditions invited insects and other crawlers to his cell, things that he was not particularly fond of.
He wondered at what point during his captivity would they begin to implement psychological torture, as well as physical ones. The insects weren't so bad, but Nishiki didn't know what to do if they brought out spiders. He thought about Flannel (now more so than ever) and how the wolf was always at ease with such disgusting things, and if it were him instead of Nishiki, he might have even figured out a way to escape somehow.
It was too late for Nishiki, though. As the hours slipped by, he felt the clarity in his mind start to fade. At times, he would scuffle his feet across the floor, then recoil fearfully because he thought it was Vilra who made the sound. There were discarded, broken blades in the corners of his cell, but they were more unsettling than useful, and he grew sick of their metallic gleam. And whenever he made a noise, he tried to settle down, knowing any sign of vitality would quickly be banished by Vilra's harsh touch.
The psychological game already started, and it was more deeply rooted than he could ever anticipate. The only hope he had was that, somewhere outside this place, Flannel made it out alive, and went beyond the accursed forest to seek help and medical treatment. Because at the end of the day, knowing that Flannel could have died instead was greater torture than any scheme Vilra could concoct.
And Nishiki knew this for a fact.
.
.
.
It grew larger. Vilra stabbed him so often that it became a common occurrence, although it was no longer the sole perpetrator of Nishiki's pain. She became more creative in the sense that she brandished a whip, and added the lash-and-slash technique to her array of lethal arts. This whip was a normal, leather one—not enchanted or embalmed in some anti-beast nonsense—but its onslaught and cruelty still hurt, nonetheless.
If only he had his beaststone! Without it, he was unable to transform, and his injuries lasted longer. Couple those weaknesses with Vilra's torture, and Nishiki's agony increased tenfold, giving him no choice but to accept the beatings as they were. On several occasions, he bit his tongue too hard, and nearly choked on the blood it produced.
Vilra, unforgiving as ever, laughed at his misery. "If you think that's bad, then wait 'til you see what I've got in store for you. The sad part is that even if you die, I won't be satisfied. So I guess I have to make things count while you're still alive." She took one step forward, and stomped her right foot into Nishiki's chest. It was her favorite way to demean him, he learned.
She scoffed down at him, and his refusal to look her in the eye. "Tell me, beast. Tell me your name."
"Never."
"Oh, feeling strong, are we? Feeling brave? Feeling hopeful? Don't worry, all those stupid things will disappear by the time I'm done with you. Once I'm finished, you'll be telling me everything I want to know."
"As if," he retorted. The reply was only half as strong, due to the daze that formed in his mind, and the sluggishness that weighed down on his body. At the very least, he was thankful, because even the smallest strength allowed him to resist. "I'll take my secrets to the grave. You'll never win."
"Keep telling yourself that, fox. Maybe it'll come true! But it doesn't matter, because I'll just keep doing as I please! Besides, you'll break eventually—everyone does."
"Not me. I won't break."
"Oh, but you will. You won't notice yourself giving in at first, but you will. It's a gradual process. First, you'll stop resisting my attacks. Then you'll stop biting and shouting at the guards that come in to check on you every now and then. You might even start eating the shitty food that we give you! It's a descent, slow and steady. But don't worry about getting bored, because I'll have played with you so many times that it'll feel natural. In fact, it might even be fun!" Vilra was talking to herself, for the most part, with a faraway look in her eyes almost made her seem vulnerable.
As soon as Nishiki lifted his arm in some semblance of movement, however, she quickly remembered herself and stabbed his limb through with a knife she secretly held behind her back.
He cried out miserably, but she didn't care as she tore the blade out from his arm, only to dig it into his left hip, instead. She pressed the blade further into the grooves of his body, cackling at the blood that spilled out of the wound because of her. She pushed deeper and deeper into him, delighting in his fear and in his weakness.
"Now there's no question about it, right? You understand what I'm going to do to you. And trust me, beastie. This will be so much fun."
.
.
.
It got worse. He started getting angry, and constantly imagined what escape would look like. Above all else, he thought about Flannel. Did he die, after all? Or did Kamui save Flannel, but decided to abandon Nishiki and his foolish heroism? Not that it mattered to him if he was saved or not (Yes it matters please save me please save me please get me out of here), but Nishiki simply had to know. One of the worst parts about being confined, he decided, was not knowing what would happen. After all, there weren't any windows in his room, and there was nothing to see or hear beyond the large metal door. The only noises that came from out there were the guards changing shifts, or the metal slot opening so they could leave a tray of food for him.
Why they bothered keeping him alive, still, was beyond his understanding. Though he was secretly glad that he wasn't dead, he did his best to avoid the food they gave him, regardless of the biting hunger or loss of energy. Clearly, the meal was tampered with somehow. Vilra claimed they gave him "shitty" food on the daily, and she wasn't entirely wrong in that assumption. The food was nondescript, gray and black, the same sad colors and pathetic shape as the stones in the wall. If Nishiki ate their food, it would be the same as giving into their ways.
So even though he'd taken a few hits or two, he refused to fade away entirely. He wouldn't eat out of their hands, just as he wouldn't beg Vilra for forgiveness. Instead, he'll be defiant, and loud. The thought of rebellion made him smile, and even though it was too hopeful of a scenario, he bought into it. The next time Vilra walked in, Nishiki would use the discarded metal scrap he found in the corner, and slit her throat wide open.
Yes! Yes, the next she reared her ugly, Gods-forsaken face around, he would gouge her eyes out, and make her scream for forgiveness. Then he'll kill the rest of the poachers, and find his way back to Flannel all by himself. It was too simple, too easy, and too real in his mind, that Nishiki had full hope his plan would work.
He couldn't wait for tomorrow to come. As he closed his eyes, and pretended the dirt underneath him was actually a hammock, Nishiki fell into a much-needed slumber.
He dreamed of Flannel.
.
.
.
"Snakes?"
"Negative."
"Lizards?"
"Nope."
"Rabid dogs? Cats?"
"None of it."
"Let's amp it up a notch. There has to be something in this world that he's afraid. Everyone is afraid of something, after all."
"That's—"
"Like, you there. You're the one that's scared of fish, yeah?"
"Yes…"
"Don't be modest! I'm afraid of peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth. The point is, I want him to break, and physical pain is just not gonna cut it. Ooh! Ooh, I know! What about spiders?"
"We'll try out spiders right away, ma'am."
"Good, and while you're at it, make sure my scissors are sharp. I think someone is overdue for a little haircut."
.
.
.
Everything went wrong.
Nishiki envisioned his escape by his own hands, and Vilra lying dead with a slit throat at his feet. Instead, he awoke to cold water dousing him thoroughly, and multiple hands tying up his feet and legs. For good measure, the guards also struck him in the side with poisoned arrows, to defeat any hopes or energy that he might have stored within him for the day. Through it all, Nishiki grimaced and hissed through his teeth, becoming all too familiar with the iron taste in his mouth and the awful thrumming in his chest.
Today was going to be a bad day, he just knew it. Because once the guards finished binding his limbs, they made way for Vilra, who strutted into the room as if it were a dance hall, instead. She leaned forward, and pulled back on the ends of Nishiki's hair, tilting his head upward. He glared into her eyes with such vengeance that if she were a lesser person, she might have been scared. But the hatred had fueled her since day one, and it remained throughout her very being, so all she could do was laugh at him in the face.
Oh, he was sick of her laughter, but she cackled on, anyway. "Good morning, beastie! I have a special gift for you. A little birdie tells me that, surprisingly enough, you're not scared of much!"
"Get away from me! I don't want anything from you!"
"Funny you should say that, because I have just the present for you. Take it, beastie. You deserve it!"
Vilra shoved her hand against him, and Nishiki was confused at first, because he expected the "gift" to be a dagger, knife, or other weapon to hurt him with. Maybe even magic, if his captors were getting creative with the punishments.
It was neither of those things. Instead, it was a living creature, with a small black body, long thin legs, and beady black eyes. The way it moved was frantic yet controlled, like a needle with thread, and it wasted no time climbing out from Vilra's hand and onto Nishiki's shirt.
It was a spider.
Of course it fucking was.
Nishiki screamed.
Vilra laughed. "I told you guys! I told you he had to have been afraid of something! Just my luck that it was spiders, and what a shame. They're so beautiful, so harmless. Or are they, beastie? Don't you just love spiders?"
He couldn't answer her even if he wanted to. Instead, he continued to scream and thrash, as if they were really on the verge of killing him. And maybe they were, because after so many beatings and endless days of lying in a dingy cell, it was hard to differentiate between real pain and the imagined kind. It was hard to discern between the poison in the arrows and the poison in his mind, because both left him feeling equally dizzy and disoriented. Now that they spread their influence into the psychological realm, they truly had Nishiki in the palm of their hands, because he couldn't deny the primal fear that ran its course through him, replacing his blood and vitality with their own.
The truth of it was that as long as Nishiki remained their captive, he would be nothing more than a plaything. He did his best to tough it out the past few days (weeks? months? he lost track), but he had finally reached his limits. He wasn't eating or sleeping well, and those disadvantages made his natural healing abilities suffer, too—all of which stacked against him, making him pay the price for his foolishness.
As long as Nishiki stayed in that cell, then he'd be painstakingly reduced to nothing but a bundle of nerves, which had been their goal from the start.
Nothing but the nerves and the blood, which was constantly being shed from his body. As he shrieked and cried at the mere sight of a spider, his side leaked out more blood with each movement, thin arrow wounds leaving tiny holes to fester injury and pain all at once. At some point, Nishiki thrashed around so badly that he fell over his own bindings, falling face-first into the dirty floors beneath him. He was crowded by cruelty, as dozens and dozens of people gathered to laugh at him, kick at him, and call him names. They spat on him, shoved him, stabbed him, and scratched at his ears and tails in mock-fox gestures.
Their treatment worsened since the start, and Nishiki scolded himself for ever thinking it would get better.
.
.
.
He was fading away.
Nishiki knew this to be true, because at some point, he stopped keeping track of the time. Before, he would struggle tooth and nail to figure out if it was light or dark outside, and he'd strain to see past the sliver of space that the large door left in its hinges, hoping to find some indication of sun or moon. Now, the idea of time was nonsensical—as it had always been—and it no longer mattered to him. In fact, Nishiki scorned himself for guiding his life with the sun's rise and fall, anyway. He should have simply lived as a free man, without any boundaries holding him back, even if those boundaries included the concepts of time and space themselves.
He was fading.
He remembered how vigilant and defiant he was in the beginning, despite the bone-shattering torture he endured. He remembered the fire he used to carry himself with, the resolve to stay alive and to hold out so he could get back at the abusers, somehow. It seemed so easy back then, and now he regretted taking it all for granted. Why did he hold on so tightly to those foolish hopes, anyway? Why did he try so hard to escape?
He even sang songs to keep himself tethered to reality, but now the only music he heard was his own screaming, coupled with Vilra's cruel words pounding against his ears and hissing into his skin. What did she say back then? She said that he would start breaking eventually, and he wouldn't even notice it at first. She said it was a gradual descent into madness, one that he was sure to take after the days went on. She said the process of breaking down happened in steps, and the first thing that happened would be his resistance against her. Then he would start eating their food and drinking their water. Then he would come to appreciate, love, and even enjoy their harsh treatment of him.
She said that everyone gives in, and that it was only a matter of time before he gave in, too.
To think that she was right all along, and there was nothing he could do to stop himself from falling down into this endless spiral—from burning in the flames of hell that he fanned himself.
He was fading away.
.
.
.
Nishiki didn't know exactly what kind of plant Vilra was smoking, but he was sure that she was on something.
She once said that their food was shitty, at best.
He never tasted anything better in his entire life.
.
.
.
Nishiki stared at his wrists and ankles. They were a tiny bit thin, somewhat thinner than what he remembered them being, but other than that they seemed perfectly fine! Well, there were strange purple marks on them—bruises, or so they were called—but that's besides the point! Looking down at his body, and he figured that he was in pretty good shape, all things considered! Of course, his meals were lackluster, and his room could use some better lighting, but all he had to do was talk to Kamui about it! They were so nice to him most of the time, so asking for a bit of spending money should be easy. And he'd even pay them back, for what it's worth, so everyone ends up happy!
First things first, he needed to stand up and open the door. Only, standing up proved to be a difficult task—what with his world spinning and his body yelling strange things at him, like to sit down, or whatever—and the door didn't seem to have a handle, anyway. Or maybe it did, but no matter how much he grasped at it, the solid steel didn't produce any door knobs or handles of the like. Nishiki frowned, and sat back down when the world spinned too much for his liking.
Huh. Strange.
He gave his body another once-over, and realized there multiple small bumps on his chest and neck. There was, like, five or six at the most—if the last bump was actually a bump and not his nipple or something—yet they were all bright red and lumpy. He felt a stinging sensation when his fingers grazed over them, and the touch of pain was exactly what he needed to understand what was really happening.
"Oh," he deadpanned. "Oh, those are spider bites."
Five minutes later, and Nishiki let out a chaste scream. It ended because he buried his face in his hands, and started laughing, instead. The noise came out in broken, disjointed strings, and they died with soft whimpers trailing behind them. His breath hitched further, and he dug his (dirty) fingernails into his cheeks, hurting himself for such insolence.
"I'm going mad," he gasped. "Oh, Gods, I'm actually losing it, aren't I?"
He distantly thought of appearing and disappearing, but as soon as he did, something cold climbed up his skin, causing him to shiver. All at once, Nishiki dropped his hands, and laughed again when he realized what he'd done. Then he curled in on himself, and stared into the dirt patches between his legs.
"Maybe...Maybe I can ask Kamui for help later. I need money, so I'll just...I'll, uh...I'll repay them, like I always do…" The words didn't sound right, and his voice was unlike his own, so he stopped paying attention if the noise actually came out of his mouth or not. His eyes trailed to the purple (bruises) on his wrists and hands, the remnants of his sanity telling him that they were "rope-burns" and "torture" and such, but he couldn't make heads or tails of any of it. He merely turned his hands over and over again, gazing at his marred skin and bloodied fingers. Then he looked at his ankles, feet, and toes, gawking at the blood and dirt that smeared over the surface like fresh paint.
He stared and stared, but found nothing worth noting. So he fell onto his back and looked up at the ceiling.
He laughed again.
He lost himself again.
.
.
.
"Beastie, you're so tame this morning. You've finally broken, haven't you?"
"W-What are you saying? I'm not a vase, I can't just...break."
"Well, you're not entirely wrong, but you're not right, either."
"..."
"Beastie, do you remember my name?"
"Yes. Your name is Vilra."
"Hahaha! Yes, yes it is Vilra! So kind of you to remember! Now, I asked you a long time ago what your name was, but you never told me it!"
"I didn't? That's...that's awfully rude of me!"
"I agree, but I don't blame you, as it's hard to remember formalities in such...trying times. Now, if you'd be so kind as to tell me your name..."
"Okay. My name is...is—"
"Yes?"
"Nishiki. My name is Nishiki."
.
.
.
After that day passed, the edge of sanity came back for a short moment. Nishiki became livid at the realization of what he had been doing this whole time. He ate their food, drank their water, and accepted their beatings like it was nothing. He bled, bled, bled until he was half-dry, only to hydrate himself once more on their meager supplies and return himself to a mere fraction of what he used to be. He talked to himself and paced around aimlessly in the room. He recoiled at the sound of his own footsteps, the sight of his own shadow, and the smell of his own body. He screamed and yelled whenever they brought spiders to him, and cried and begged for death in between these moments of hysteria.
All of this transpired and more, but with each passing moment-hour-day, he was losing awareness of what was truly happening around him. The only thing that brought him back to reality was the sound of him saying his own name, because for the longest time, he refused to let Vilra or anyone else know his identity. Not that they would know him as Nishiki, leader of the shape-shifting foxes, but the fact that they knew him as Nishiki, the kyuubi-no-kitsune of Kamui's army, was already too much for him to handle. Yet at the same time, his own name was the spell needed to break the curse of exhaustion and torture which claimed its hold over him, rendering him unstable and unsteady in one full sweep.
He nearly had a heart attack thinking about those lapses in judgement, but he'd falter no longer. He didn't want to fade away into that incomprehensible, obedient mess of a person that he had been for a short time. He didn't want to lose himself, and become whatever monstrosity they were trying to turn him into by keeping him there for as long as they did.
He didn't want to give up anymore.
So he steeled himself, and stared at his reflection through the metal tray they typically brought his food on. He was definitely thinner, but wasn't emaciated like he feared he would be—and he hadn't eaten properly for days before giving in and eating their junk, so that was saying something! Then aside from that was the fact that his face still didn't change. Sure, he was covered in grime and blood from his filthy conditions and sound beatings, but he could still make out parts of his golden skin that were miraculously untouched by the horrors around him. Even better than that were his eyes, which were unchanged in color and shape, still functioning in their entirety.
The best part, however, was his hair and fur. Both were still in tact, and none of it had been haphazardly shaved or cut off. For that, he was a tiny bit grateful. His image was his everything before, and it was his image now that kept him grounded, kept him aware. Without this little miracle, he might have floated far away from his body again, going somewhere not even he knew where.
Nishiki sighed deeply, and let his body shiver with cold awareness.
He still had a chance, after all.
.
.
.
"N-No, don't...!"
"Nishiki, what's wrong? We were having so much fun before. When did you get so rude, hmm?"
"Shut up! You, you're just a m—"
"Now, if you call me a monster I will laugh at you, fair warning. You're the real monster, after all. You killed my daughter in cold blood, not to mention most of her friends and allies. Don't forget that little factoid just because I'm giving you hell right now!"
"I-I—"
"Oh, and you keep stuttering! What's wrong? Are you scared of me, Nishiki? Does my image burn you with hatred and fear all at once? Do you maybe, just maybe, feel a sliver of what I felt when I found out that both of my children had been killed mercilessly? Do you maybe, just maybe, understand a fraction of my suffering when I discovered that the only people I loved were ripped out of my hands like they were nothing? Do you?"
"S-Stop it already! I-I'm not scared of you!"
"Then why are you shaking?"
"Because...because—"
"Haha, so you are scared. I see it in your eyes, you know. Then, tell me Nishiki, what would you prefer? Spiders, today? Or how about a nice lash-and-slash session with a hunter's dagger? Hmm? Pick your poison, Nishiki! Pick it!"
"Stop it. Stop saying my name. Stop it, stop it, stop it!"
"Now you're really begging, huh? That's too bad. Even if you grovel on your knees, I'll never listen to you. Hehehehe! Hahaha!"
"...Stop...laughing at me..."
"How about no, you pathetic fucking excuse for a living being? But don't cry, Nishiki. I have something very special planned out for you. How would you like a little haircut?"
.
.
.
His screams died out. His voice was hoarse and beaten from overuse, and without the sugary and honeyed tones of his cadence, he had nothing left to defend himself with. After all, his beaststone was long gone, and there were no other weapons at his disposal.
There were no more miracles left to save him. He was bare and exposed, like a nerve, like a sitting duck.
His screams died out, and he could do nothing but whimper as they continued to take away what was his. They didn't even have to tie him up, this time, because the poison in his system was paralyzing enough, and Vilra was surprisingly strong so she could hold him down with one hand and hurt him with the other.
As it currently was, she pinned him down with her non-dominant hand, using the other hand to brandish a blade, or something metallic. Nishiki was afraid, and his amber eyes were bleary with fatigue and despair. He had trouble focusing on her, and each movement she made was a shaky frame in his vision that only served to disorient him further. He felt dreamy and far-away, like his soul had been forcibly separated from his body, and he was watching all of this from an outsider's point of view.
The metal was blinding, and its steel edge came crashing down on him. He didn't feel anything pierce, impale, injure, or maim him, so at first, he was confused. But then he felt lighter, as in the weight on his head became less, and he heard the soft fluff of something fall off his shoulders.
It was his hair.
They were cutting it off.
That was the last straw.
He wept loudly and angrily, twisting and turning to hopefully throw Vilra off of his body. She ridiculed him and his pathetic attempts to resist, forcing him back into obedience by stabbing his shoulder with a dagger. She twisted the handle, torquing the blade until it became unbearable, and between this new injury and his lost hair, Nishiki couldn't evenly divide his attention. Instead, his eyes settled on hers, though her stare alone was enough to send him into cardiac arrest.
She bore, bore, bore acid into him, pressing her heated body against his in a display of pure hatred. She sneered at him, laughed at him, and debased him with each discordant note in her voice. It grated against his ears and pounded on his eyes, pulling a veil over his body, mind, and soul as she drowned him in her madness.
Vilra cut away more hair. By the sound of it, she chopped off the soft strands in uneven, haphazard movements, and his perfect image was now desecrated to hell and back. He felt patches of his hair come off in clumps, and other times he only felt tiny snips of hair fall off his shoulders. Even worse was the knife pressed against his ears and tail. She subdued him, and relished in his frenzied whines as she viciously cut away at the fur there. He felt cold when his bare skin underneath the fur was exposed, and even colder when the edge of the knife was too rough and it took out the top layer of skin along with the fur.
He sobbed. He begged. He whined. She heard none of it as her laughter drowned him out, and drowned out all other sounds in the prison cell. The guards watched with a nervous expression as their leader lost herself in the heat of it all, cackling and shouting declarations of revenge and death—howling into the air. All the while Nishiki helplessly writhed in his own indignation and agony.
The precious furs were stuffed into bags and counted like any other object. The poachers seemed very pleased with their work, and it was as if Nishiki no longer existed. They slammed the door on him, leaving him trapped in the infinite darkness of the cell. If he had half the strength he started off this hellish journey with, then he might have cursed their names and cried out for redemption.
But he didn't have that strength anymore; it leaked out of him along with his blood, and withered away in the same instant.
His screams died out.
.
.
.
For a long time, Nishiki just laid on the floor. It was filthy and disgusting, but its saving grace was that it was cold and helped him sweat out a fever he surely had. And he remained on that surface, completely still unless it was to flinch at the bright light that invaded the room whenever the door opened. Sometimes, he recoiled at the harsh touch of Vilra or another torturer, but otherwise he made no outright movements himself.
His voice was once honey and lilac, but it reduced down to gravel and weeds without his permission. The sound of it grated his ears, so he kept his mouth shut except to inhale sharply every now and then. As he continued to stay on the floor, he found himself unable to do anything but suppress quiet whimpers that escaped his chapped lips.
His head had too many thoughts yet nothing at all. He felt broken and empty, but full of hatred and resignation. Whenever despair filled his heart, a tiny sliver of hope followed after it. Energy surged through him at lightning speed, and fell out just as quickly.
Everything and nothing—all or none—circulated through him. At some point he even started hallucinating, and these feverish visions showed him the smiling faces of his family and friends back home: Hanabi, Kaneko, Nozomi, Hibiki, just to name a few. These visions gave him the dream of seeing their bright visages, of returning to windy paths and leaf-strewn valleys, of running through streams and resting in the shade again. All he saw were his fellow foxes surrounding him, showering him in sweet love and adoration.
The same visions showed him gruesome sights of the other soldiers in Kamui's army—Orochi, Pieri, Takumi, Kagerou, Leon, Elise, Sakura, and the others—dying or dead at the hands of some unknown force. He saw their lifeless eyes, unmoving bodies, and still breaths all at once. He saw broken bones, torn flesh, and spilled blood staining everything in sight. He saw gleaming fangs, heard whimpering sobs, and felt ice-cold metal against warm, soft skin. All saw were his allies and friends around him, sitting in their own death and filth, looking up at him with pleading expressions as if to ask him how he could let this happen to them.
Nothing felt right. Nothing felt real.
He grew weary of trying to sort it all out in his mind. He would pull at his hair if it were not awkwardly cut and ruined the way it was. Accepting defeat (yet denying it all the same), Nishiki just collapsed into himself, and let the world continue around him. He didn't want to take part in its revolutions, anymore.
For a long, long, long time, Nishiki laid on the floor. The planet kept spinning ahead of him.
.
.
.
Resplendent light spilled into the room again, casting guiding rays in the deepest corners of the void. It was a bright but unobtrusive light, one that comforted him and healed him all the same. As Nishiki gazed into the glowing sight, he vaguely wondered when he managed to die along this rugged path. He wondered why he couldn't hear Vilra's evil laughter or the clink of metal waiting to lash out at him.
He wanted to move, utter, scream—anything that would show he was still alive. Maybe his eyes remained vivacious, but he sincerely doubted it because his eyes lost their gleam a long time ago. Surely the amber color had dulled into muddy brown by now, perfectly reflecting the state of Nishiki's soul as he felt like he had been submerged underwater for long periods of time, only to emerge from the murky depths cut-and-dried—a fish caught in a net. The earthen, fiery stare he once had must have been subdued, as well. He was no longer earth and fire, because what remained were remnants of dirt and smoke, all of which mixed into one terribly dull and ugly shade.
He was so, so, so ugly. He lost his beauty long ago, back when they took everything from him. Back when they tortured him into silence and into noise, where they had cut away at his identity piece-by-piece, until he was nothing but the shards of the mosaic he once was.
That metaphor sounds oddly familiar. Didn't someone promise to break him, before?
Any thought he had lived and died on his tongue, which shriveled up along with his wishes. His mouth forgot how to move, because it had been so long since he'd done anything with it. There were no more songs, stories, sweet-nothings, lies, secrets, and promises to be had. There was nothing in there except for a gaping hole that didn't matter. He wasn't even sure if his tongue was still there. Maybe it dried out into an empty husk like him. Maybe it scrunched up and escaped his body, like his soul did.
Maybe.
Occasionally, his chest rose up-and-down to signify breathing. But that was the base of his existence, right? A breath meant life and life meant hope and hope meant anything that was not this situation right now. Or maybe this situation was hope, staring Nishiki down with a vulnerable gaze unlike any other. Yet if this discomfort and pain was hope, Nishiki preferred drowning in his despair, instead.
Whoever let the light into the room saw this—all of this—and there was a hitch in a breath that was not his own. They sounded scared, somehow. Like the person inside the room was a monster waiting to pounce, or a mindless zombie that existed without living. Like they had stumbled across a dirty secret that should have never been unearthed, and there was no going back to the ignorant bliss they once had before.
Whoever it was, they were shocked to see Nishiki in such a state. And surely Nishiki would share their sentiments, if he still understood what it meant to feel anything, anyway.
The long nights of torture and the endless days of beatings desensitized him in the worst way. His fingers lacked the twitch of life and the curl of muscles that indicate strength or the desire to live on anymore. His body lacked the energy to start up, and do anything that was not completely lying down and giving up without protest. His mind lacked the capacity to think beyond the haunting visions and the pained delusions. His heart lacked the vivacity to beat faster—to cling onto the emotions of a moment that existed beyond his bloody rib cage.
His soul lacked the power to do anything more than lie down, and be reduced to wisps of its former glory.
The stranger took a step forward, and Nishiki didn't even blink. He merely stared ahead of himself and watched the world from a sideways view, lying down on his side for so long that his body felt numb.
But what else is new?
The stranger, a thought randomly assaulted him. The stranger is new. This stranger muttered words under their breath, but of course, Nishiki didn't think to listen. All he heard was the endless screams of his loved ones, coupled with his own sorrowful cries and self-destruction. Even when the stranger reached out to touch him, Nishiki didn't stir in the least. The only things his body knew how to feel were harmful contacts: fists, nails, knives, daggers, fangs, shoes, arrows, fire, poison, lightning, all which left behind bruises and blood, but nothing beyond that obstinate violence.
The stranger did everything to revive him, but Nishiki remained dead. His death wasn't physical, but it was everything else possible. His death was spiritual, mental, and emotional. He wasn't sure of what monstrosity laid there in his place, but he knew that he was a bad copy of his former self. His real self wasn't even alive right now, and some ghosts had taken his place instead. No, not even that! Nishiki—the all-powerful chief of the fox tribe—had died long ago.
His body stayed behind, however, and suffered the consequences of dealing with whatever was happening right now. Who was that stranger, really? Then again, who cares? Friend or foe, ally or enemy, it didn't matter anymore.
Nothing did.
The stranger's voice was clearer now. Nishiki listened, but only because he was physically listening and not actually hearing what they had to say. His ears twitched, probably from being out of commission for so long since all the noises he heard up to this point were produced inside of his head, rather than outside. To hear anything beyond his own body and shell was strange and foreign, and every fiber of his being strained to make some semblance of understanding within him.
The stranger talked again. Their voice was oddly familiar.
"Nishiki," they muttered. "Nishiki, it's me."
"...M...e..." he echoed the word pitifully. He was a broken mirror that could only reflect shards of other people back onto themselves. His voice was sand and paper, scratching against his throat and burning his lungs.
He whimpered.
"Gods, I...I'm so sorry, Nishiki. Please, please, please forgive me. This is all my fault. Everything is my fault."
"...Every...thing..." His body shivered at the syllables spoken, scolding their painstaking slowness and incoherency. It was a sign that the mirror was too cracked to function properly. He stopped talking.
The other person did not stop talking, however. Their tone shifted quickly, and the change was fast enough to give him whiplash. "Look what they've done to you! This is awful! Gods, this, t-this is..."
His eyes were dead but they moved as if alive. They flickered to look at the person before him, but found nothing except a monochromatic expanse that hurt to look at. His chest seized up, his breath halted in his lungs, and his fingers twitched sporadically. All in response to the singular view in his eyes, someone that shouldn't have meant anything to him, yet if the reactions were anything to go by, he was definitely something to Nishiki.
He was something, something, something. And the death that left his lips and tongue tried to live once more, but it failed to become anything more than pathetic murmurs and lifeless wheezes. Nishiki shivered again.
No more, he thought to himself. I don't want this anymore.
"I'm gonna take care of you from now on, and I won't let this ever happen again, okay...?"
"...O...kay..."
"Good, good. And, um, this is gonna sound weird, but I'm not fake." There was a pause, and for a moment no noise followed. Some part of Nishiki feared that they left him, but a quiet inhale signified that they were still there. "I'm real, okay? Nishiki, this is real. I'm here to save you. I'm real."
The mirror broke. Splinters ran down the glass, shattering it and dislodging shards in brilliant sprays. The reflection was broken, unyielding, and distracting. Yet it still held itself there, as if to challenge the conventions that a broken mirror was worthless. Truthfully, cracked glass was meaningless, but some people in the world cherished things that were meaningless, weird, or trashed.
Some people would still treasure things that were long-forgotten and gone.
He treasures you, the thoughts insisted. He cares about you.
You are still worth something.
Tears appeared, somehow. They collected at the corners of his eyes, welled up, and spilled over in bright streams. He felt the dirt slide down his face along with the water. He felt the tears slide off of his body, and stain the ground below him in hollow thuds. His chest seized up again.
A hand reached out to comfort him, but the touch was so gentle and feather-light that Nishiki could not suppress the whine that escaped his lips. He forgot that hands could be so kind and sweet. He was so used to them bearing down on his body with fervent force, to the point where he would splinter and break beneath his touch. He was so used to fingers concealing knives that he forgot there was supposed to be empty space between the digits. The stranger reaching out to him had faltered, as Nishiki's own hand shot up from his side and clung onto it for dear life.
More tears fell.
And for once, the shattered mirror that was his soul stopped reflecting baseless truths to the outside world. No, he did not merely show this person another glimpse of his fractured heart. Instead, he projected something new and bold—something bright and full of the life he felt so devoid of up until now.
A single word escaped his lips, in the most wretched and pleading way possible. Every letter, syllable, and sound that rolled off his tongue clattered to the floor, and skidded before the other like a fallen offering at a shrine. Dead eyes promised a future full of liveliness, and they fluttered upward to gaze at that light that had invaded the room.
The black and white entity was an angel, now, with a halo of golden light surrounding their head. They were deserving of a word that Nishiki had not said in so long. They were deserving of that old, unused sound that had remained hidden in the ashes of Nishiki's heart, buried in the ruins of his mind. An angel was an angel, and so they deserve a prayer sung in their name.
(Their name their name their name)
"Nishiki—"
"Flannel," he echoed a new word back at him. It was not the same word that the other had said, but hearing Nishiki's own name prompted a second name to follow it. Just as people put together the words salt and pepper, day and night, sun and moon, light and dark, east and west, north and south, love and hate—the broken mirror of a being had paired his own name with someone else's, the familiarity lingering like a bad taste in his mouth. It was an automatic and natural response. It was innate and fatalistic all at once.
"Flannel," he repeated himself, voice turning to crushed dirt and shattered glass beneath laborious breaths. "Flannel," he said again, eyes consumed by tears and sadness overflowing.
"Flannel," Nishiki said, with a near fraction of the longing he used to have. It was minute, tiny, but still noticeable. If Flannel could just peel back the layers of unending agony from Nishiki's being, then he could see the old Nishiki again, smiling and laughing at the newfound revelation of being saved.
Of being forgiven.
.
.
.
"Pieri told you we'd find him! She told you!"
"And I told you that your necklace was good for something. Not only was it charmed to protect you, but it even shone a light to guide you in the right direction. You can be grateful for once in your life, Flannel."
"Shut up, you two. That's not important right now. Nishiki is—"
"He looks bad. Let's take him back to camp and we can care for him there."
"Do you need help, Flannel?"
"No. For once, I'm gonna be the one that helps him out."
"What do you mean?"
"N-Never mind! It's embarrassing to say it aloud as it is, and you want me to repeat myself, while I'm at it?! J-Just forget it."
"Fine, weirdo."
"We'll leave you be. Take the carriage on the way home, alright?"
"Alright."
"..."
"Nishiki...I know you're sleeping right now. It's weird that I'm talking to, uh, myself, since, y'know, you're not conscious."
"..."
"I'm sorry. All those things I said, all those stupid fights...I'm sorry about everything."
"..."
"I never stopped looking for you. It took a long time, but then my medallion actually started glowing, and, well the rest is history."
"..."
"You suffered a lot, didn't you? You definitely hate me now. I get it, I'd be pretty pissed off if it was me."
"..."
"But I swear I don't hate you, okay? And I'm real and this is real and—ah, why am I the one that has to say all this embarrassing stuff?!"
"..."
"When we get back, let's heal together, okay? Take your time. I lo—I care about you, Nishiki. Let's start over if we get the chance."
"..."
"It's late. Not that you would know that, since you passed out and stuff, but it's like, three in the morning."
"..."
"Good night, Nishiki."
Good night, Flannel.