Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: for Vol 5
The residual youki of the thousand dead pushes at him, now, he could sense it, now, they speak to him, now.
Leave, they scream.
The bodies are piled around him, demons, demon prince, and.
Leave. The sentiment flows from the mouths of their open wounds; his own hisses up at him from his belly. His hand presses down, to stem the words, and they stutter.
Something stings at him.
Oh, his claws.
Some instinct of his youkai-body tells him, in the silence, how to leave.
And, somehow, rain hits his body as his body hits the floor and the floor is not stone.
It’s the muddy compacted dirt of a road.
He lies there, in the rain, no he’s not lying there he’s standing and he hasn’t lost his glasses and a man (man?) is standing before him who shines and. Who is this? Static person (person?) put into motion, he--
Knows this glowing one. Young, for one so old. Innocent, for one in the middle of such corruption. This one shines, and not with the slime of rot.
In many ways, his (his?) duty is to protect this brilliance from taint.
And for that he needs more control than this body has.
One steel band, made of will, snaps on.
He thinks, with a choke of air, that he must be dreaming, delusional; he does not know who he thinks of, he does not know whose thoughts these are, he does not have a duty to anyone (not any more), he does not know who--
This child, moving like he knows the ground will always be there because he creates it because he’s part of it because as long as he knows where the sky is (where the sun is) he will be able to stand.
(Ten-chan, where are you?)
A second steel band, like a smile curling open, appears.
His wound burns, and he makes it burn more, clawing at himself to regain what there is of him because he does not know who he is anymore, this beast filling his head with thoughts (memories) that he does not (should not) know, what is this--
Hand, seeping up his side, liquid, languorous. It is a question and a request (will you stay here?) and he arches into the body, spooned behind him, in reply. There is a smell of cherry wood (stay?) and something alive (please?).
A third steel band, like laughter, comes home.
And he is human again.
The rain hits him and he thinks in the wide-open space of his mind, almost warily, that he might be alone in his thoughts once more. He thinks he knows who he is again. He thinks he might go to sleep now, it’s getting warm.
Mud squishes beside him and he knows he did not move, so it must be someone else.
He opens his eyes and red that is like blood greets him (stay?).
Is this death? Red-that-is-like-blood reminds him of the dead and the death that he gave.
If this red is death, he welcomes it.