#Guardian of mercy and men | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mahowaga · 1 month ago

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THE SONG OF A THOUSAND CRANES | G.S.

SUMMARY: forged from sin and lilies, you are the curse suguru is destined to destroy. yet beneath his blade blooms a tenderness more dangerous than death.

PAIRING: samurai!geto suguru x curse!fem!reader CONTAINS: angst, doomed romance, myth and folklore inspired, edo period japan, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff??, slow burn, forbidden love, paper cranes, a forest that acts as a guardian, samurai suguru supremacy WC: 16.6k WARNINGS: implied abuse/violence, depictions of grief and loss, character death, emotional manipulation

–THE MYTH

PROLOGUE: THE CURSE WAS SLAIN BENEATH THE FULL MOON And the forest fell silent ever after.

In ancient days, beneath the watchful gaze of distant gods, there lay a village cradled between towering mountains and dark forests–a village prosperous and proud, guarded by traditions as old as the mist that lingered between the trees. It was a village that knew tranquility only as intimately as it knew fear, for peace is ever fleeting, fragile as petals shaken loose by a storm.

A storm indeed had come–but one fashioned not of wind nor thunder, but sorrow. Born from shadow, born from grief, from the wicked whispers and the unspoken crimes of those who walked in daylight and wore masks of virtue, the curse emerged like a bloom opening under moonlight. In the darkness of a forgotten temple, where broken bells hung rusted and voiceless, she took her breath and opened ruinous eyes that reflected only the bitter sins of the living.

They called her a curse, a wraith formed from their collective suffering. A spirit wrought from sins too grave to name and sorrows too deep to bury. Some whispered she had been born when a child was left to perish, crying beneath silent, uncaring stars. Others murmured darker things–tales of violence done in shadows, of innocent blood spilled onto soil that yielded nothing but lilies, pale and ghostly under the moon’s watch.

She rose each night like mist from the temple grounds, a shadow among shadows, a silhouette outlined in moonlight, her robes billowing soft as spider silk, carrying the fragrance of lilies–sweet and heavy, intoxicating, suffocating. Her hair flowed like water, never quite touched by the moon’s silver glow, eyes cold and unfathomable as the bottomless lakes hidden deep within the mountain’s embrace. Her skin, though no one had clearly seen it, was said to be as soft and supple as fallen petals on frost, as smooth and deadly as polished jade.

The curse spoke no words to the villagers, but she sang. And when she did so, the villagers trembled. Her voice was not loud nor shrill–it was soft as mourning doves at dawn, sorrowful as an abandoned lover, sweet as poisoned honey dripping from a comb. Her song was beautiful, terribly beautiful. It stole the breath from the chests of men and women alike, filling their lungs with fragrant despair, until they wept tears of madness and joy intertwined, choking upon her tragic melody. Those who heard her song were found in the morning–faces pale and twisted, eyes frozen open, lips parted, breathless and beautiful in their deathly repose.

When the villagers tried to fight, their weapons rusted and rotted. When they ran, their paths twisted and turned back toward her shadowed temple. Always, when she took her victims, the bells of the abandoned temple would toll–hollow, mournful echoes filling air that stood still as though bound by unseen chains. No wind ever stirred the ancient chimes, yet their tolling marked death with relentless certainty.

Thus, the village languished beneath her reign, helpless, praying to deaf gods for relief, until the lord shogun himself took pity upon them. A messenger arrived with scroll and seal, proclaiming that the shogun, wise and merciful ruler, had sent one of his most loyal samurai–a warrior with a blade blessed by the priests and tempered under the watchful eyes of the gods–to slay the curse and restore peace.

The samurai’s name was Geto. His hair was long and dark as raven feathers, bound tightly back to reveal a face calm and stern, eyes clear as polished obsidian, devoid of fear. Geto was not merely brave–he was fearless, steadfast. He had faced countless foes upon countless battlefields, his katana a whispering judgement that had never faltered, never failed.

He entered the village upon a pale horse, its hooves silent as death upon mossy paths, and asked no comfort from the fearful people who cowered behind closed doors. With only his katana, wrapped carefully in fine silk, he made his way to the temple in the heart of the forest.

At the threshold of her cursed sanctuary, Geto paused only briefly, sensing neither dread nor hesitation. He stepped forward, fearless as he was honor-bound, into the shadows where lilies grew wild upon stones that bore forgotten names. The ghostly flowers parted like subjects before a king, bowing beneath the weight of his righteousness.

She came to him, then–silent as mist, beautiful as midnight, terrible as love betrayed. Her gaze was ice and poison, disastrous eyes seeking to entrance, to ensnare. Her voice rose, as soft and sad as a mourning wind, rich with longing meant to break a heart and steal a soul. Her hair floated as though submerged in water, her hands lifted gently, beckoning him forward to certain death.

But Geto was unmoved. Her voice could not stir his heart, her beauty could not dim his resolve. The samurai stood firm, katana unsheathed and shining with moonlight, pure silver against her shadows. She reached toward him with fingers lithe and lovely, her touch deathly soft, whispering sweet temptations to let go, to rest, to stay with her in the darkness forever. Yet he resisted, strong as a stone beneath storm, unwavering as the mountains that loomed above.

And when she saw that he could not be swayed, the curse screamed–not in song, but in fury. Her lovely face twisted, lilies scattering like broken promises under her wrath. She lunged, ethereal form shifting like smoke, hands becoming claws tipped with sorrow and despair. But the samurai was swifter than her rage, blade slicing clean and true through shadows that bled moonlight instead of blood.

The curse fell, defeated, vanishing like mist burned away by dawn. Her final cry echoed through the forest, ringing through the silent temple, drowning beneath the solemn tolling of bells. And as the last echo faded into silence, Geto sheathed his katana and turned away, never once glancing back at the emptiness left behind.

When the villagers awoke, they knew peace once more. Flowers grew again without pain, the wind sang softly through trees no longer haunted. The temple, though empty, was quiet. The bells ceased their tolling, finally silenced by the samurai’s divine justice.

Thus was peace returned by Geto, whose name lived in whispers and prayers, revered for courage that could not falter and honor that could not tarnish. And the curse, who had bloomed only to wither beneath a righteous blade, was forgotten–nothing more than a shadow in stories told to warn children, a whisper of danger that no longer dwelt among the living.

Yet some still wondered, quietly under the silence of stars, why the forest lilies remained so pale, so fragrant, so unbearably sad. And though the bells were still, why on certain nights, beneath the full moon’s sorrowful gaze, one might hear the ghostly strains of a beautiful voice–soft, mournful, forever singing of a love never born and a peace that was never truly found.

–THE TRUTH

PART I: SHE ROSE FROM ASH AND SORROW Born of grief, she fed on sin and silence.

You did not remember your birth, for you were never truly born. You were made–woven together, strand by strand, breath by breath, from the bitter threads of grief, betrayal, and despair. In a forgotten corner of a land tormented by hunger and shadow, your spirit was conjured from a darkness the villagers feared yet refused to name. They whispered of demons, specters, and curses, yet never spoke of the hands that shaped your existence, the sins they buried beneath the cold soil, watered by tears shed only in secret.

The village, beautiful in the daylight, thriving beneath the summer sun, masked unspeakable horrors in the privacy of its night. It was a village of silence, where children learned early never to cry loudly enough to draw attention, where mothers hushed weeping newborns by forceful hands, suffocating innocent breaths out of fear. It was a place where fathers gambled away their daughters underneath the flickering lanterns, where the starving stole scraps and paid for their desperate courage in fire. In those dark alleys, hidden among tangled pathways, bodies vanished, sins bloomed, and souls were traded like worthless coins.

It was from these atrocities that you rose–woven from sorrow and wrath, from despair and fury. From the woman who hung herself in the old stone well after listening helplessly to her child’s cries, until silence overtook them both. From the young girl whose pleading eyes did nothing to halt the flames that consumed her alive, a punishment for taking what she needed simply to survive. From the man whose greed devoured all his love, who sold his wife to wealthy travelers for riches that turned to ashes in his trembling hands. You were born of broken promises whispered by betrayers, of mutilated bodies abandoned without rites, of screams drowned beneath laughter and festivity.

When at last you drew your first breath–if breath it could be called–it filled your lungs not with air but with choking grief. You rose, neither alive nor dead, neither flesh nor wholly spirit, but something in between: a shadow wrapped in twilight, carrying sorrow in every unseen pore. Beneath your form lilies bloomed, pale and ghostly, feeding off bones long dissolved under fertile soil, their fragrance heavy and mournful as the scent of fresh graves. They clustered around your ankles, winding softly upwards like gentle chains, whispering reminders of sins that could not be forgiven, nor forgotten.

When you first opened your eyes, you stood upon the crumbling stones of a temple abandoned by gods who had long ceased to listen. The villagers had forsaken this place, left it to rot with moss and neglect, believing it would bury their crimes beneath creeping vines and fallen leaves. But the temple remembered everything, the earth hissed of deeds unspeakable, and from that sorrowful memory, you rose–silent, wondering, confused.

At first, you understood nothing. You wandered the crumbling shrine, floating quietly among rusted bells that had long lost their voices, touching worn stone carvings depicting gods whose names were erased by wind and rain. You did not know who you were, nor why you felt such pain, such overwhelming grief, as if mourning lives you had never known, hearts you had never touched.

Then came your song.

It emerged from your lips the way lilies unfurled beneath the moon: slowly, achingly, beautiful and deadly. Soft as silk, woeful as a widow’s lamentation, your voice carried melodies older than memory, dripping melancholy like honey. You sang because your sorrow demanded release, because silence was unbearable, because your soul overflowed with pain not truly yours but that you felt with cruel intimacy. You sang because it was all you knew, unaware of the death your song carried on its gentle notes.

The first time your melody drifted beyond the trees, it reached a man lurking at the edge of the woods–one whose hands were stained with the blood of those he betrayed. You did not see him. You did not know him. Yet your voice wrapped around him softly, quietly, inescapably. His lungs filled not with air but with flowers, delicate blue lotuses blooming invisibly beneath his skin, bursting with silent agony as he fell, choking, staring upward at the moon with desperate eyes. When he drew his final, anguished breath, the rusted bells in your temple tolled forlornly, without wind or hand.

You wept in confusion at your unintended cruelty, your tears vanishing into the earth, nourishing lilies that grew thicker, brighter, heavier with sweet sorrow. You hid within the temple’s shadows, ashamed of your very existence, yearning for understanding yet afraid of yourself.

It was not long before others came, drawn not by curiosity, but by their sins–by lust, greed, ferocity. Your forest, older than their crimes, took them before your voice could reach them, vines and thorns piercing flesh, roots rising hungrily from soil fed by innocent blood. The bells tolled, steady and solemn, as the earth reclaimed what it had lost, burying their bodies quietly underneath lilies and moss.

The villagers, terrified, spoke of a curse who sang and slew, blaming you rather than acknowledging their deeds. They cast stones upon your temple’s steps, whispered hateful prayers beneath frightened breaths, condemned your name without ever knowing it. No innocent, however, ever stumbled onto your grounds. It was as though purity itself shielded the good from your presence, and you soon understood why: you had been made to punish, crafted to reflect their sins back upon them, a mirror of their own cruelty and despair.

Slowly, painfully, you accepted this truth. If you could not control your song, nor tame the forest that guarded you fiercely, you would at least embrace the purpose forced upon you. You no longer wept when your melody brought death, nor mourned when the bells rang through quiet nights. Those who came seeking destruction would find only their own. You learned solitude, learned silence when possible, learned acceptance of a duty no spirit ever asked for.

You lived alone, cloaked in shadows, hidden from stars that watched you woefully, their silence deep as the universe. Days and nights became meaningless as you drifted through the ruined temple, brushing fingers over lilies that curled affectionately around your touch. You were neither evil nor righteous–only a vessel of justice born of tragedy. A ghost fashioned from living sin.

But in quiet moments, beneath moonlight filtering gently through tangled branches, you wondered if perhaps, had the villagers been kinder, had they not spilled innocent blood, had their cruelty never awakened you… perhaps you might have been something else. Something kinder, softer–a guardian rather than an executioner.

Yet they had shaped you in cruelty, in bloodshed, in unspeakable horrors. They had given you voice only to lament, hands only to claim souls. The forest was your ally and your jailer; it protected and imprisoned, loved and smothered you. You belonged to the lilies and the shadows, to songs and silence.

One night, beneath a moon heavy and full, you stood at the heart of your temple and raised your eyes to the stars. Your voice rose gently, without command or wish, flowing like silk upon the air. A new song, mourning all you had become, all you could never be.

And in distant homes, behind barred doors, villagers trembled, whispering prayers to gods who would never answer, hiding their sins underneath desperate pleas. For in your voice lay judgement woven delicately through sorrow, inevitable as the lilies that blossomed beautifully, mercilessly, beneath the silver moon.

PART II: THE WARRIOR CARRIED THE GODS IN HIS BLADE His sword did not tremble. His heart did not yield.

Geto Suguru hears of the curse long before the messenger arrives. Rumors drift through the shogun’s capital like smoke through silk curtains–soft whispers behind paper screens, murmured exchanges among retainers in dimly lit halls. Tales grow like weeds in the courtyards: villagers found with faces twisted in agony and beauty, lungs flowering from within, temples overtaken by lilies and ghosts. Some speak of a siren song that kills softly, of bells tolling where no hand pulls the rope. The stories twist with each telling, painted thickly with superstition, dread, and awe.

He sits silently at the edge of the shogun’s hall, eyes half-lidded, listening to the voices ripple across the room, soft like rain on rooftops. In his mind, Suguru separates truth from embellishment, filtering superstition from reality, leaving only bones and blood and logic. He understands well enough what these whispers mean: another monster born from the rot of men, another slaughter he must carry out in the name of peace.

He watches from the corner of his vision as the messenger is ushered into the hall, head bowed, trembling hands gripping a sealed scroll. This village–one that supplies the shogunate with rice, lumber and silk–is too important to lose. Its suffering cannot be allowed to continue. Too many have died, and too few shipments have reached the capital in recent months. The shogun, compassionate only when it suits his reputation, will not tolerate disruptions to his precious order.

When the summons comes, Suguru rises fluidly from his kneeling position, his movements precise, practised. He crosses polished floors, feeling countless eyes follow his steps, their gazes heavy with reverence and envy. They see him as fearless, incorruptible–like iron tempered beneath priestly chants, immune to rust or doubt.

In truth, Suguru is merely weary, resigned to duties performed again and again, tasks grown repetitive and meaningless. But he carries his weariness like a badge under layers of silk and steel, hidden deeply, unreachable to the eyes that watch him so closely. His hair, dark and neatly bound, marks his rank, his face unreadable, flawless in its practiced stillness.

“Geto Suguru,” the shogun addresses him, voice authoritative yet detached, “you have heard the whispers, I presume?”

“Yes, my lord,” Suguru answers, lowering his head respectfully.

The shogun gestures for the messenger to speak. The man stumbles forward, pale and sweating, proffering the scroll as if holding fire in his shaking palms.

“My lord,” he begins, voice quivering, “the curse has killed many. We find our people dead each dawn, faces marked with strange blossoms, their lungs filled with flowers. No weapon can harm it, no prayer drives it away. It haunts the old forest temple–”

Suguru takes the scroll, unfurls it slowly, methodically. Elegant calligraphy stretches across ivory paper, detailing the village’s plight with more drama than truth. He scans quickly, folding it again with careful precision.

“What exactly have you seen?” Suguru asks calmly, eyes pinning the messenger’s fearful gaze. “Describe the curse.”

The messenger swallows hard, wiping his forehead with a trembling sleeve.

“It is a woman, they say, though no one sees her clearly. She sings, sir–sings softly, beautifully, yet whoever hears her dies choking, flowers sprouting from within. Lilies bloom everywhere, sir, even atop graves. Bells toll when she kills, though no one touches them. They say she guards the temple and takes vengeance on all who enter.”

“Vengeance,” Suguru echoes quietly, thoughtfully.

The shogun interrupts, impatient. “This curse must be felled. Take your blade, Geto. End it swiftly.”

“As you command, my lord,” Suguru replies smoothly, bowing once more, obedience etched clearly in every disciplined movement. He steps backward gracefully, turning to leave the hall, feeling the weight of countless eyes following his path.

Outside, servants await him with his horse, saddled and ready, the pale animal standing motionless as a statue beneath the sunlit sky. He approaches quietly, patting the steed’s neck in silent greeting, fingers tracing familiar patterns through its silvery mane.

His katana rests at his hip, wrapped lovingly in silk, the hilt familiar and reassuring beneath his palm. This blade is indeed special, though not because it carries any blessing from gods or priests. Its strength comes from steel alone–folded, tempered, sharpened by human hands skilled in the art of destruction. No divinity resides within its polished edge, no heavenly voice guides its strikes. Only Suguru’s steady grip and honed instincts give it power.

He mounts swiftly, guiding the horse toward the city gates without looking back. As he rides, the bustle of the capital fades gradually behind him, replaced by quiet fields stretching under wide, empty skies. With each step, the rumors settle deeper within his chest, taking shape, whispering questions he cannot answer, doubts he will not entertain. He feels neither brave nor cowardly–only numb, resigned, driven forward by a duty that has become mechanical, detached from meaning.

Something about this particular tale, however, lingers just beneath his thoughts–an unease stirred by words like lilies, bells, and song. Perhaps it is merely exhaustion whispering uncertainty, or perhaps it is intuition–a quiet warning that this task might differ from countless others he has executed without hesitation.

He allows himself no further contemplation, burying doubt underneath resolve, silencing uncertainty with practiced discipline. Yet the whispers persist softly in the quiet spaces of his mind, following him as he moves steadily toward the village’s darkened horizon, toward a forest said to be cursed, toward a temple haunted by a song he has never heard, but already knows will plague him.

His blade, untouched by gods, unblessed by priests, rests silently at his side, promising only steel, judgement, and finality.

In truth, Geto Suguru feels neither valor nor fear–only a distant weariness, like the first breath of winter frost, chilling and familiar.

Suguru reaches the outskirts of the village at dusk. The sky is bruised in shades of violet and ochre, like old wounds fading beneath gentle skin. He pauses at the village’s edge, breathing deeply the scent of smoke and decay that lingers even here, thinly veiled by aromas of cooked rice and burnt incense.

He steps down from his pale horse, guiding it quietly along paths overgrown with weeds. He notices the unnatural silence, how the crickets hesitate in their chorus, how even the wind holds its breath as though afraid to disturb the hush of the land. Lanterns flicker ahead, casting a weak, uncertain glow over the clustered homes–each one crouching low, hunched under the weight of invisible guilt.

Word spreads fast of his arrival. Doors creak open cautiously, releasing villagers who pour forth like shadows into fading twilight. Faces hollow and pale peer at him anxiously, eyes glittering with a mix of reverence and fear. Voices murmur and hiss excitedly, clawing at the air with whispered accusations and desperate prayers.

They surround him quickly, reaching hands extended to touch the sleeves of his kimono as though grasping at a fragment of salvation itself. Their voices clash and overlap, incoherent, pleading, ugly in their desperation.

“Samurai-sama,” a withered woman calls hoarsely, grabbing at his wrist, her fingers thin as dried reeds, nails caked in dirt, “you have come to slay the demon at last!”

“The curse has stolen another child!” another voice shrieks, wavering with hysteria, shoving forward to meet his gaze, teeth rotted and blackened. “It sings, it sings–and flowers bloom in their throats. It mocks us, even as it kills us!”

Suguru’s eyes move slowly among the gathered crowd, observing their faces carefully, neutrally. He sees twisted grief, sour anger, but beneath it something darker–fear tempered by guilt, suspicion grown from sin. They seem repulsive to him in this moment, grotesque in their eagerness to place blame on something unseen, rather than confronting the rot within their own hearts.

He is no stranger to curses. Nor is he ignorant of their nature: that they are not truly born but rather shaped, molded, nurtured by darkness within human souls. He has felled many, yet none so hauntingly described, none cloaked in lilies and song, none heralded by mournful bells. These signs trouble him, the quiet beauty wrapped delicately around the death they bring. They speak less of malice, more of sorrow–something that silently demands understanding, not blind violence.

The villagers continue their bombardment, oblivious to his hesitation. An old man pushes forward, his back bent double, eyes rheumy, voice crackling with age and venom. “She is a seductress of souls, Samurai-sama! A demoness who wears beauty like silk and sings to ensnare good men. She has bewitched the forest itself, summoning vines and thorns to tear flesh from bones!”

Beside him, a woman hisses, “She rose from the grave of a woman drowned for her sins–a wicked harlot punished by the gods themselves!”

“She lures the innocent–”

“No,” Suguru interrupts quietly, gently lifting a hand to halt their tangled voices. “Innocent?” He scans their faces once more, thoroughly. “Has she taken the innocent?”

A silence heavier than guilt settles thickly upon them. Eyes shift nervously downward, fingers clutch sleeves, feet shuffle anxiously. They avoid his gaze, haunted by something deeper than mere fear–something like shame.

Then the bells ring, softly at first, clear yet impossibly distant. They ripple outward gently, mournfully, filling the empty spaces between breaths, weaving through silence like silver threads of melancholy. The villagers gasp collectively, shuddering, turning frightened eyes toward the forest shrouded in darkness.

Suguru stands still, listening intently. Another soul claimed, yet he cannot help but wonder at the gentleness of these chimes. They ring with sorrow, not triumph. They toll with regret, not joy.

He shifts his katana into its saya slowly, deliberately, the soft metallic whisper silencing the villagers once more. He tucks the silk away. “Enough,” he speaks evenly, authority tempered by weariness. “Show me where I am to rest. I ride at moonrise.”

They lead him to a home more spacious than the rest, its floor mats worn, faded, yet carefully swept. He is seated respectfully, offered rice and fish and tea, which he accepts without enthusiasm, tasting emptiness behind each bite. They chatter endlessly, recounting each incident, embellishing deaths into horror stories filled with seductive spirits and clawed demons.

He eats mechanically, listening without interest. Their tales bore him, their voices scratch at his patience, their desperate lies and half-truths growing thin. Yet he remains quiet, passive, allowing their fears and suspicions to drain into him, absorbing without agreeing, observing without judgement. He has no taste for the way they blame their suffering upon phantoms when their own shadows bleed sin into the soil beneath their homes.

Outside, the bells have stopped tolling. The villagers have retreated, leaving him alone in fragile silence, moonlight filtering through paper screens and painting patterns of light and darkness across his folded hands. He sits still, empty plates before him, gaze trained on shadows dancing softly upon the floorboards.

He knows curses too well. He has seen too many shaped by human cruelty, bound tightly in bitterness and blood. Yet lilies–pure and pale beneath moonlight, their fragrance heavy yet sweet–have no malice. Bells, solemn and soft, speak grief rather than rage. And songs… Songs are never weapons in the hands of monsters, but laments of souls wounded beyond healing.

Perhaps, Suguru thinks slowly, thoughtfully, it is not the villagers who need protection from this curse. Perhaps it is the curse who needs protection from them.

He rises, straightening his garments, adjusting his katana at his side. He steps into the courtyard, looking skyward to see the moon climb steadily into place–full and pale and watching solemnly, impartially, as though it already knows the truths he has yet to uncover.

Suguru mounts his horse quietly, hands steady, heart uncertain but disciplined into silence. He looks toward the forest now silhouetted against moonlit clouds, dark and mysterious, awaiting his approach.

He knows what is expected of him. He will ride into the forest. He will find the curse.

But his thoughts remain unsettled, unsure, drifting toward lilies blooming from sorrowful soil, toward songs trembling in grief, toward bells ringing softly without cruelty.

He nudges his horse forward, hooves moving soundlessly across moss and dirt. And as the village disappears behind him, Suguru carries within him only the questions he cannot answer, the doubts he cannot quiet, and the faintest glimmer of curiosity–something he has not felt in a very long time.

Tonight, beneath the watching moon, he rides toward death or revelation–perhaps both. But he knows now, in his bones and blood, that the truth he seeks lies far deeper than steel alone can reach.

PART III: HER SONG LURED MEN AND WOMEN TO DEATH Soft as snowfall, sweet as rot.

The forest greets him like an old enemy–coldly, silently, awaiting his misstep with patient cruelty. As Suguru steps away from the moonlit clearing where his horse stands tethered, he pauses, breathing deeply. The air here is thick, heavy with moisture, dense with the fragrance of lilies and the deeper, cloying scent of decay hidden beneath the sweetness.

He proceeds carefully, each step precise, thoughtful, moving through shadows cast by trees whose branches weave together like hands clasped in desperate prayer. Moonlight becomes a rarity underneath this living canopy; starlight is but memory here, consumed by ancient foliage. The trees crowd closer, whispering softly in a language older than any human tongue–warning, mocking, testing him with every heedful advance.

Branches reach gently at first, brushing him like the hands of uncertain lovers–tentative, mild. Gradually, they grasp tighter, pressing, scraping, dragging against his garments. He winces silently when thorns graze his cheek, his sleeves torn as he pushes onward, deeper into this labyrinthine heart. Vines snake hungrily around his ankles, yet he pulls forward, determination quiet, relentless. He knows the taste of violence intimately, wears atrocity like a hidden scar beneath his clothes; the forest recognizes this scent of bloodshed and sins unredeemed.

He steps over roots swollen like veins atop dark soil, ducking under moss-laden boughs thick as burial shrouds, until he stands breathless yet unyielding before a path carved reluctantly into shadow. Lilies bloom here, luminous and ghostly in their beauty, crowding the narrow path as though eager to bar his entry or welcome him intimately–he cannot yet discern which.

Beyond the lilies rises the temple: ancient, broken, hauntingly serene despite the rot eating away at its beams and foundations. Its doors hang crookedly open, vines climbing desperately over splintered wood, as if trying to heal wounds of abandonment with their gentle embrace. Bells rusted and tarnished hang solemnly above, motionless yet watching carefully, silent sentinels waiting for their cue to toll once more.

Suguru crosses the threshold, blade sheathed at his side. He takes measured breaths, eyes adjusting to shadowed depths that whisper sorrowfully, greeting him not with malice but melancholy. Inside, the air is cooler, almost comforting, scented faintly with incense long extinguished and forgotten prayers. Shadows drape themselves gracefully over ruined altars, old statues shattered yet dignified in their brokenness, faces worn smooth, voiceless yet eloquent in their muted despair.

He touches nothing, simply observes with eyes darkened by shadows of his own deeds, feeling strangely out of place, as though his very presence here is an intrusion upon a sacred grief that does not belong to him.

Then he hears it–a voice rising gently, softly, like mist unfurling over a still lake. His breath halts sharply in his chest, caught suddenly by that fragile melody, each note trembling, achingly beautiful, profoundly sorrowful. The song drifts toward him like an offering carried by delicate hands, wrapping tenderly around his heart in ribbons woven of regret and longing.

It is the sweetest agony he has ever known.

His chest tightens painfully, lungs fluttering beneath the pressure of that melody, as though petals are blooming within him, flowering steadily, suffocatingly, winsomely. Suguru remains standing, firm despite shaking breath, defiant against the seduction of surrender. He listens carefully, absorbing each note like precious silk unraveling around his resolve.

He wonders quietly, almost breathlessly, how something capable of killing so softly can hold within its voice so much tenderness, so much pain–nothing of cruelty, nothing malicious. It is mourning set to music, grief distilled purely into sound, its lethality an afterthought rather than intention.

Slowly, his eyes lift, searching through shadows for the singer whose voice haunts him now so beautifully. He sees only darkness, the fluttering of moths that drift lazily around lanterns long extinguished. The voice pauses briefly, hesitating–aware of him, perhaps cautious of this intruder who carries steel but wields no weapon.

Suguru’s lips part, breathless words escaping before he can halt their flow:

“Is it you who kills?”

He hears no response, only silence stretching gently between them like silk threads spun in darkness, yet he feels eyes upon him, observing, quiet and watchful, uncertain of his purpose as he is unsure of his own.

The voice returns warily, flowing toward him once more, slightly softer now, vulnerable in its honesty, fragile but inexorable. He listens, heart aching beneath the weight of emotions he does not understand, emotions he had long believed he had buried under discipline and bloodshed.

“Do you sing to mourn or kill?” he murmurs softly, again.

No words come in reply–only song, tender as morning rain, heartbreaking as a child’s plea for mercy. His chest tightens further, his eyes grow warm with a sorrow he has never permitted himself to feel until now. Tears prick painfully yet remain unfallen, withheld stubbornly behind eyes trained to never reveal weakness or doubt.

He breathes deeply, forcing control into limbs that quake softly, hands that ache to find something solid upon which to anchor himself. He has felled curses before–monsters, spirits, nightmares shaped by human cruelty–yet he has never faced something so clement, so terribly, tragically beautiful, whose lethality is accidental, whose presence seems rooted in woe rather than malevolence.

And so, though he should draw steel and sever song from sorrow, he remains passive, blade untouched at his side. He stands still under the temple’s broken roof, moonlight filtering through cracks like silver threads woven among shadows, breathing softly, deeply, letting the song touch him with kind fingers that promise nothing but sadness, nothing but truth.

You watch from the shadows unseen, cautious, wary, prepared for violence yet curious about the silence of his weapon. You have killed many, though never by choice, never with joy–always mourning those your voice claims gently, relentlessly. But this one stands calmly, his heart troubled yet quiet, weapon sheathed, as though awaiting something other than death.

You wait, hidden and watchful, feeling neither safety nor threat, but rather a strange, brittle interest. For the first time since your unholy birth, a human hears your voice clearly and remains alive, unbroken, unharmed.

He does not raise his katana, and hope stirs tentatively, dangerously in your wounded heart, as frail as moth-wings brushing moonlit air.

Your song fades like the ending of a dream, leaving behind an aching stillness heavier than any melody. The temple becomes a tomb once more, shadows reclaiming their hold, moonlight slicing through broken rafters in sharp ribbons, illuminating dust and memory. The silence hits Suguru with the force of a blade, a sudden, violent cessation of something he had not realized he depended upon for breath.

And suddenly he collapses, knees striking cold stone as his hands claw at his chest. His lungs burn with a strange, exquisite agony–as though flower buds, tender and merciless, had begun blooming inside him, unfurling petals that now wither into dust as your song vanishes. He gasps, heart stumbling erratically, vision clouding as though caught between drowning and awakening.

From the shadows you emerge like mist pulled forth by moonlight–form vague yet captivating, features softly defined in pale glow and ink-dark shade. Your robes drift like silk upon water, cascading around your ankles in ripples of silver. You gaze at him warily, lips parted slightly, unsure how to address a man who still breathes after your voice has touched him.

“How?” you murmur at last, your voice devoid of song but heavy with disbelief. “How did you come so far?”

Suguru meets your eyes, lungs raw as he draws careful, unsteady breaths. He tastes lotuses, feels ghostly petals wilt upon his tongue. His voice is low, rough with lingering pain. “I do not know.”

“None survive my song,” you reply, a note of distant regret threading through your words. “No one reaches this shrine without punishment.”

“The forest tried,” he whispers, standing with slow determination, hands trembling slightly as he steadies himself. “But it seems I am difficult to kill.”

You narrow your eyes, studying him with cautious curiosity. “The forest claims only the guilty,” you say, your voice softening almost imperceptibly. “It kills without mercy, punishing the sins brought into its domain.”

He nods, understanding you without admission. “Yet here I am.”

“Yes,” you agree, neither accusation nor judgement in your voice–only confusion, perhaps awe. “And I do not know why.”

He regards you with quiet scrutiny, taking in the softness of your form, the sadness haunting your expression. Nothing in you resembles the malevolence whispered by the villagers, the wickedness described with shaking tongues and fearful hearts. He sees only melancholy wrapped in moonlight, sorrow clothed in silk. Your eyes reflect neither malice nor cruelty, only a weariness too profound for words.

“I’ve slain curses before,” Suguru finally says, “but none like you.”

You tilt your head to the side, cautious still. “What makes me different?”

“You have no claws,” he answers, quiet yet firm. “No teeth that rend flesh. Only a voice. Only flowers and bells.” He pauses, eyes dark with contemplation. “Only death that comes unbidden.”

Your gaze falters slightly, voice lowering, nearly breaking beneath the burden it carries. “I do not choose to kill. I would halt it, if only I knew how. But this curse–my curse–is beyond me. My song rises without permission, my forest guards me fiercely, punishing only those whose crimes stain deeply.”

He exhales slowly, understanding settling upon him with undeniable clarity. “The villagers speak as though innocent blood marks your hands. Yet I see no innocence in them.”

You regard him solemnly, lips pressed into a delicate, sorrowful line. “Innocence does not stray here,” you murmur, gaze distant, haunted. “Those who enter carry darkness heavier than their bones. The forest senses it, devours them whole. My voice finishes what their deeds began.”

“They blame you,” Suguru says, bitterness coloring his voice. “Rather than face their own shadows.”

“Of course,” you reply, voice tinged with gentle resignation. “It’s easier to fear a monster than confront oneself.”

Silence spreads between you once more, weighted by understanding and sorrow unspoken yet deeply felt. You watch him warily, recognizing in him a complexity you’ve never witnessed before–a strength tempered by weariness, a darkness unwilling yet unmistakable. He is dangerous, yes–but you sense he is not dangerous to you.

“You should leave,” you tell him finally, softly insistent. “You’ve seen enough.”

He stands motionless, observing you intently. “Are you not afraid I’ll return to end your existence?”

“If that were your intent,” you reply quietly, eyes steady, unflinching, “you’d already have tried. But your weapon remains sheathed, your hands empty.”

He almost smiles–almost. “You assume I am stronger than I am.”

“Are you not?” you ask, neither skeptical nor challenging–simply curious.

He shakes his head slightly, eyes shadowed with something unreadable, fragile beneath layers of practiced discipline. “No,” he whispers. “I am not strong at all.”

You say nothing more, respecting the quiet truth behind his words, acknowledging a sorrow he does not give freely but which radiates from him nonetheless. The silence deepens, heavy yet peaceful, a frail truce binding two being accustomed only to solitude and suffering.

Slowly, you step backward into shadow, withdrawing carefully from the delicate intimacy born of shared pain. “Do not return here, Samurai,” you murmur gently. “I cannot guarantee your safety again.”

“You will not harm me,” he replies, soft certainty coloring his words.

“It is not I who would harm you,” you remind him quietly. “My curse is beyond control. It does not spare those it finds.”

He nods slowly, understanding yet unwilling to give promise. You vanish wordlessly, like smoke dissolving into darkness, leaving behind only moonlight and silence and lilies that bloom eternally upon stained earth.

Suguru stands for several moments more, breathing deeply the air still fragrant with lilies and loss. Eventually he turns, stepping back into the forest, passing once more through branches and vines that no longer grasp hungrily but hang motionless, subdued, respectful of something unspoken yet understood between curse and samurai.

He reaches his horse at dawn, the sun bleeding gently across the horizon, banishing shadows yet unable to erase memory. He rides back to the village, meeting the villagers with careful, practiced deception.

“The curse is stronger than anticipated,” he lies smoothly, voice authoritative yet hollow. “I must prepare differently. Stay indoors, avoid the forest. Wait for my return.”

He does not stay to witness their fearful nods or whispered thanks. He retreats to the quiet house prepared for him, isolating himself carefully, thoughts haunted by your presence, your voice, the quiet sorrow that cloaks you.

That night, beneath lamplight softened by paper screens, Suguru sits alone, folding paper with meticulous fingers, transforming blank sheets into delicate cranes, each fold precise, intentional, filled with silent wishes he does not yet dare to speak aloud. He does not fully understand why he begins this quiet ritual–only that each crane eases slightly the ache lodged deep within his chest.

Outside, the forest waits silently, guarding secrets gently, lovingly, until night descends once more, and your voice rises again softly–woeful and beautiful, calling to darkness, mournful yet mercifully unheard by human ears tonight.

PART IV: HE WITHSTOOD HER SEDUCTION Even when she wept in moonlight.

The next night, the moon ascends with reluctant grace, slipping silently through clouds heavy with hidden rain. Its pale, half-veiled face casts a hesitant glow over the forest path, painting trees and roots in silver melancholy. Suguru moves deliberately, breath steady, heart uncertain, though he hides doubt behind careful silence. He carries no lantern, drawing guidance from memory, senses sharpened by years of following darkness toward unknown ends.

The forest welcomes him less kindly this time, its vines snaking aggressively toward his ankles, roots grasping fiercely beneath his sandals. Branches rake at his face, leaving thin, stinging cuts along cheek and brow, reminders of countless sins etched invisibly into his skin. His robes snag on thorn-covered bushes, cloth tearing quietly in protest as he moves forward, determined despite whispered warnings carried by rustling leaves.

Suguru understands the forest’s anger, its fierce desire to punish what he represents–bloodshed ordered in hushed councils, the wordless crimes committed under a banner of justice. He bears the forest’s punishment without resentment, enduring sharp thorns, bleeding in silence, knowing well the price exacted for the truths he has buried deeply. He pushes onward however, unyielding beneath the weight of guilt, guided by something he cannot name just yet–something drawn forth by sorrowful songs and lilies blooming from sadness.

As he breaches the tree-line and stands once more before your crumbling temple, your voice rises instinctively, lifting into the night as delicate as the scent of lilies carried on an evening breeze. The first notes waver like whispers upon water, mournful, sweetly tragic, before abruptly fading–choked, halted suddenly by recognition. Your voice fails you, notes dissolving like mist caught by sunrise, leaving behind startled silence.

You emerge from the shadows swiftly, robes rippling gently around you, eyes bright with disbelief and frustration.

“You returned?” Your voice shatters the quiet sharply, incredulity tangible in your breathless words.

Suguru regards you calmly, ignoring the scratches on his skin, the torn edges of his clothing. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“You are going to get yourself killed,” you snap, exasperation mingling with worry, emotions unfamiliar and uncomfortable. “The forest will not allow you passage again. Why have you come back?”

He does not answer immediately, only watches you closely, quietly, something unreadable lingering in his dark gaze. You sense a softness behind the disciplined mask he wears, though he offers no words to reveal it.

“I know you were sent to kill me,” you press softly, eyes narrowing, voice low with tension. “Yet your blade remained sheathed yesterday. Why?”

“Perhaps,” Suguru replies carefully, “I found no need to draw it.”

“That’s absurd,” you retort, anger tinged with confusion, a strange heat rising beneath your calm facade. “You felt my power. You felt the death woven into my song. Do you think you can resist it again?”

He tilts his head slightly, a faint smile ghosting his lips, gentle yet stubborn. “Your song did not kill me last night. Nor tonight. Perhaps it won’t try again.”

You stare at him incredulously, fingers curling tightly into your sleeves. “You risk your life on assumptions.”

“Not assumptions,” he replies, meeting your gaze steadily. “Instinct.”

You fall silent, unable to fathom such obstinate behavior. He is different from any human you’ve encountered–unyielding, resolute, calm beneath the harshness of your warnings. You realize suddenly he carries something in his hands–a small wooden box, carefully wrapped in silk.

He notices your gaze, steps closer carefully, offering the box with outstretched hands. “For you.”

You hesitate, wary, uncertain how to respond. Never before has a gift been presented to you, never before has a human shown such gentle persistence. Your fingers tremble faintly as you accept the box, lifting away the silk cover to reveal glistening candied plums, sweet and fragrant, something delicate and lovely you’ve never imagined tasting.

“What is this?” you ask quietly, eyes flickering toward him in curious wonder.

“An offering,” Suguru answers simply, “to prove I mean no harm.”

You pick up one of the plums, cautiously tasting sweetness upon your tongue–strange, intoxicating, beautiful. Your guarded expression softens lightly, unable to fully hide your astonishment or delight.

“Why?” you whisper, eyes lifting to his, questioning his intentions but no longer angry.

Suguru’s expression gentles further, a subtle warmth entering his dark eyes. “You don’t seem accustomed to kindness.”

“I’ve had no reason to be,” you reply, the truth feeling fragile in your mouth.

He reaches slowly into his sleeve, pulling forth a stack of flimsy sheets of paper, pale as moonlight, thin as breath. Carefully, deliberately, he sits upon the stone steps leading into the temple, smoothing the paper upon his knee, his long fingers moving in practiced precision.

You watch him closely, fascinated despite yourself. “What are you doing?”

“Folding cranes,” he murmurs without raising his eyes, fingers moving gracefully as each fold transforms the paper into something delicate, elegant, alluring.

“What purpose does it serve?” you ask cautiously, drawn closer by interest, kneeling prudently beside him.

He pauses briefly, eyes flicking toward you with quiet contemplation. “They are a tradition. They represent hope and desire.”

“For what?”

He does not answer, only continues folding with care, face calm and unreadable. You observe in silence, memorizing his motions, learning this gentle ritual from him. He finishes the crane, placing it delicately upon the ground between you both, wordless invitation in his action.

Slowly, you reach forward, fingertips brushing over paper shaped like wings, marveling quietly at its beauty. “Will you teach me?” you ask, voice barely audible, hesitant, yet oddly hopeful.

He nods, passing a fresh sheet of paper to your hand. “Watch closely.”

You follow his movements, mimicking his folds precisely, each crease becoming the bones of something beautiful and intricate, until a second crane rests in your palm.

“Do you fold these often?” you inquire softly, turning the paper bird in your fingers like it’s made of glass.

“Not until last night,” he answers quietly.

“Why?”

His eyes drift toward you, hesitant yet unwilling to speak his reasons aloud. He simply says, “Because it calms me. Because I wish to.”

You sense there is more hidden behind his words, yet do not press further. Silence settles over you both comfortably, punctuated only by rustling paper, soft breaths mingling between you, cranes forming one after another upon the stone steps.

After several more cranes, you pause again, holding one carefully in your hand, regarding him thoughtfully. “You truly intend no harm?”

He meets your gaze steadily, eyes filled with sincerity. “None. You believed I was stronger than I was. Perhaps you were correct.”

You nod once, unsure but choosing to trust him despite the uncertainty. “Then stay, if you wish,” you whisper. “But only briefly.”

“Understood,” he murmurs, continuing his folding.

You remain quietly beside him, watching moonlight reflect upon folded paper, lilies blooming faintly around you both, the fragrance filling night air with sweetness born of melancholy. Your heart beats gently, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting, your thoughts lingering upon the warmth of his presence.

You do not fully understand why he returned, nor why he chooses this companionship, but you ask nothing more, content to share this moment between shadows and sorrow. With someone who does not want you slain.

Later, after he departs into darkness, you gather the folded cranes he left behind, cupping them in your palms with utmost care like precious treasures. You wonder about their hidden meaning, suspecting the depths of intention he has not revealed.

And in your chest, fragile hope blooms delicately once more, like paper wings taking shape beneath careful hands, waiting to discover what wish these silent cranes might one day grant.

Every night, as stars climb solemnly into the darkened sky, he returns. And every night, the forest wages its familiar war against him. Branches scratch and snag his robes, thorns bite into his skin, roots grasp hungrily at his ankles, yet never deter his resolve. He pushes forward, relentless yet calm, enduring the forest’s fury with silent patience, until he stands again at your temple, moonlight illuminating his quiet determination.

Your voice no longer rises to meet him. Your curse has learned him, memorized the gentle rhythm of his footsteps, the muted purpose that carries him through your defenses. Instead, you await him at the shrine steps, fingertips brushing the wood of the doorframe, your expression cautious but welcoming. You watch him approach with restrained curiosity, wondering what new offering he brings tonight.

Some evenings it is candied fruits or delicate pastries wrapped in thin silk, others a carved wooden comb or a polished stone shaped like a crescent moon. Each gift he places carefully into your hands, eyes holding yours as if the offering itself is secondary to the simple act of giving. Tonight, he offers a single silver bell tied with red thread–a small thing that rings with clarity and sweetness as it settles into your palm.

“For protection,” he murmurs, eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight.

You run your fingers across the smooth metal surface, listening to its voice resonate softly. “Do you believe I need protecting?”

His lips curve into something gentle yet unreadable. “Perhaps.”

You smile then–a hesitant, shy thing blooming upon your lips like a flower uncertain of its right to exist. It is the first smile you’ve allowed yourself since your existence began, tentative and luminous as dawn breaking slowly through clouds. He watches this transformation, eyes widening briefly, astonishment flickering in his otherwise guarded expression.

“You smile,” he notes softly, wonder threading through his voice.

“Should I not?” you ask, eyes searching his face for disapproval.

“No,” he replies, “you should smile often.”

An unfamiliar warmth settles within you, comforting and strange, as you turn and lead him inside the temple. The interior is gradually coming alive again, each night enriched by the folded cranes he leaves behind. They dangle like ornaments from ancient rafters, paper wings suspended in still air, breathing life back into this forsaken shrine. He notices their careful placement, recognizing your silent gratitude in each crane positioned lovingly about the temple.

As always, you fold together, seated on worn cushions by flickering lantern light. Tonight, your fingers pause, your gaze filled with interest as he quietly counts each crane before departure, his voice barely more than a whisper as he numbers them.

“Two hundred sixty-seven,” he murmurs.

Your eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Why do you count them each night? Is there a certain number you seek?”

He glances upward, hands poised gracefully on another fold. “Perhaps there is.”

“You never tell me,” you remark with mild accusation.

“One day,” he answers, eyes meeting yours with an intensity that startles you, “you will understand.”

You tilt your head, thoughtful but willing to trust him, even in mystery. Your gaze returns to the crane forming in your hands, movements becoming practiced and graceful under his careful instruction.

“Do the villagers not scorn you for your hesitance?” you ask, folding another wing neatly. “Surely they demand proof of your deeds.”

“They do,” he admits, expression darkening slightly. “But I sin in that regard. I deceive them instead.”

You consider this quietly, your eyes fixed on the crane. “Do you not fear their anger?”

His voice is heavy. “Their anger is rooted in their shame. They fear themselves far more than any curse.”

You nod, understanding him clearly. “Perhaps their fear is justified.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees softly.

One evening, beneath the moon’s watchful gaze, you gather lilies blooming near the shrine steps, their petals radiant and luminous. Sitting beside him, your fingers weave blossoms into the silken cascade of your hair, fragrance drifting around you. He watches, his gaze filled with an unspoken admiration you do not fully comprehend but feel deeply.

“You adorn yourself,” he murmurs appreciatively.

You glance away, warmth spreading across your cheeks. “Does it please you?”

“It suits you perfectly,” he replies gently.

A small silence settles comfortably, before you find the courage to speak again. “Would you teach me a human song?”

He hesitates for a moment, then nods. His voice rises slowly, carefully teaching you words to a melody that speaks of springtime, new beginnings, warmth born from winter’s ending. Your voice joins uncertainly at first, gradually finding harmony alongside his deeper tones. The temple fills with your interwoven sounds–untrained, yet beautifully matched, alive with joy neither has fully known.

When the last notes fade, you glance toward him, your expression open, vulnerable. “Tell me of yourself,” you ask. “Why do you come here each night? You are unlike others–unlike any I’ve met.”

He exhales, eyes shadowed with memories long repressed. “I once believed myself righteous–a warrior serving justice. But I saw the truth beneath the shogun’s commands: cruelty disguised as honor, bloodshed masked as righteousness. Monsters are rarely monstrous, only broken souls twisted by pain.”

“And now?” you whisper.

“Now,” he replies, meeting your gaze steadily, “I serve neither justice nor cruelty. I follow only what my heart recognizes as truth.”

He lifts his hand slowly, carefully, touching fingertips gently to your cheek, as if testing whether this fragile moment might fracture beneath his touch. Your breath catches slightly, yet your skin remains smooth, unmarred. His palm does not wither, his fingertips do not blacken; there is no decay between you.

Your voice trembles slightly. “You still have not answered my question clearly. Why do you not kill me? You were sent for that purpose.”

His gaze remains fixed upon yours, hand lingering against your skin. “If harm were my intent,” he echoes your words from the first night you met, “I would already have tried.”

“You told me then,” you whisper, repeating the words etched deeply in memory, “that I assumed you stronger than you truly are. Is that still so?”

He shakes his head slowly, a faint smile curving his lips, resigned yet sincere. “I am weaker now, I think. Each night I return, my resolve weakens further.”

“Why, then?” you press, desperate for truth. “Why return if your purpose falters?”

He draws a slow breath, eyes serious and unwavering, hand lowering from your face, fingers brushing your fleetingly before withdrawing fully. “Perhaps because, for the first time, weakness is not shameful–but something worth surrendering to.”

You do not fully understand his meaning, yet warmth spreads through your chest, comfort mingling strangely with confusion. You look away quickly, shyly, heart unsure yet beating steadily.

He stands finally, preparing to depart into night’s embrace once more. Before stepping into shadow, he counts cranes again, softly murmuring their total. “Three hundred twenty-two.”

He leaves silently, your gaze following until darkness swallows him. Alone once more, you cradle a crane in your palm, considering its precise folds, wondering about his wish, his purpose. A faint smile returns, tender and hopeful, born of uncertainty yet unafraid.

You begin to hum quietly, the melody he taught you rising into the night air, tentative but growing in strength. It carries toward the forest, toward darkness now familiar, reaching gently toward the man who walks back to his village cloaked in silence and regrets.

And beneath the temple’s watch, you hang one more crane among the others, each paper bird a promise, a wish unspoken, waiting patiently for fulfillment.

PART V: THE BELLS RANG TO MARK HER KILLINGS They tolled with no wind, in mourning or mockery.

Almost a month passes, and the village seethes like a cauldron simmering over low flames, murmurs boiling into restless accusations. Suguru’s nightly departures into the woods have etched a narrative in blood and bruises upon his skin–his clothing torn, features darkened by fatigue–and the villagers nod knowingly, whispering sagely among themselves. In their eyes, the samurai battles fiercely against the sinister force in the forest, locked in unending combat with the curse they fear so profoundly.

Suguru does not correct their beliefs. Instead, he wears their mistaken reverence as a mask, a thin veil of falsehood draped across his truth. He allows them to think him noble, tireless, though the cuts and scratches speak only of the forest’s bitter attempts to bar him from you. Each dawn he returns, breathing laboriously, stepping through their clustered gazes without comment. Each dawn he speaks gravely, somber voice declaring the curse too powerful, too elusive for one man alone.

He watches resentment bloom like weeds among them. They once revered him as a hero, their respect glistening like fresh lacquer, polished and bright–but now impatience corrodes that shine, turning admiration into suspicion, gratitude into irritation.

Then one evening, as Suguru readies himself at the village’s edge, he sees torches ignite like stars beyond the fields. Villagers approach–men armed clumsily with pitchforks and old swords, their bodies tight with reckless bravado. They march toward him, resolve distorted by anger, fueled by ignorance.

A man steps forward, eyes bright with defiance. “We tire of waiting, Samurai-sama. Tonight, we join you. We will defeat this curse ourselves.”

Suguru straightens, folding his arms within the sleeves of his kimono, stern composure etched across his features. “Do not be foolish,” he warns them, his voice heavy with the gravity of experience. “This curse is not so easily subdued. Return home.”

Another villager thrusts forward, clutching a rusted blade. “If you cannot defeat it alone, then together we shall. We cannot endure another night of waiting while death hovers at our doorsteps!”

Their desperation paints their faces starkly in torchlight–each man bearing his own hidden guilt, each soul weighted by fear and shame. Suguru senses their stubbornness rooted deep in fear’s fertile soil, and he knows his words fall on deaf ears. He shakes his head once, sharply, but steps aside.

“You go toward your deaths,” he tells them sternly. “The curse will not spare you.”

They pass by him, their torches flickering and shadows stretching long as though attempting to hold them back. He watches until their forms are swallowed by the forest, torches dimmed into distant sparks consumed by darkness. He waits, heart tightening within his chest, for the inevitable.

The bells toll suddenly–piercingly clear, mournful, ringing in slow procession. Each strike resonates like iron upon stone, echoing through the village. One, two, three–each chime another life lost. Suguru closes his eyes, bowing his head slightly as the villagers behind him cry out sharply, wails rising into the night.

Women burst from homes, children cling to skirts as frantic voices cry names into the empty air. The ringing bells do not cease their count, do not soften their judgement. Seven tolls in all, each more devastating than the last.

The villagers rush forward, grasping Suguru’s clothing desperately, sobbing openly, knuckles white as they claw at silk sleeves. “Why?” a mother shrieks, grief shattering her voice like porcelain upon stone. “Why did you not protect them? How could you let them go?”

Suguru’s expression grows harder, colder, forcing their hands away with controlled strength. “You accuse me of failing to protect those who refuse to heed my warnings?” he retorts icily. “I warned you clearly–why rush blindly into darkness I myself have yet to conquer?”

They flinch, recoiling from his reproach, their grief momentarily silenced by the sting of truth. His words hand between them like heavy smoke, and they step back slowly, eyes downcast, mouths trembling, unable to challenge his accusation.

But news travels swiftly as misery itself, carried upon winds to the distant capital. The shogun’s message arrives days later–a scroll sealed in crimson wax, delivered by a stern-faced messenger who regards Suguru coldly. The message is curt, starkly written, each character a dagger plunged into Suguru’s resolve.

“You have failed thus far, Samurai,” the messenger declares with impassive contempt. “The shogun grants you one final moon to eradicate the curse. Should you fail or refuse, your family will bear your dishonor. Should you perish, another shall take your place until success is achieved.”

Suguru holds the scroll tightly, its edges crumpling slightly within his grasp. He acknowledges the decree with a nod, voice steady yet heavy with suppressed bitterness. “Tell your lord the curse shall be dealt with. He has my word.”

The messenger departs immediately, leaving Suguru alone in silence that bears down upon him oppressively. He retreats into the home provided by the villagers, sliding the door shut with weary finality. Seated beneath flickering candlelight, he reaches for sheets of delicate paper stacked carefully nearby, fingers moving with rapid intensity, folding cranes without pause, without rest.

The night deepens, candle flame guttering uncertainly as each crane emerges crisply formed from skilled fingers. He folds one after another, determination etching lines of strain into his features. His heart pounds insistently, whispering desperate hopes and hidden fears, counting silently the paper birds that scatter across tatami mats like fallen blossoms.

His eyes blur with fatigue, shoulders tightening with tension. He folds relentlessly, the sound of creasing paper loud in the room’s suffocating stillness. Each crane is a plea, a prayer formed from desperation–a quiet rebellion against fate and duty.

At last, he pauses, breath heavy, fingers trembling faintly as he surveys his creations spread around him. His voice, worn yet resolute, whispers the count into emptiness:

“Seven hundred and fifty-two.”

Outside, the wind stirs trees into restless murmurs, moonlight cold and unyielding. Suguru knows that time runs thin like candle wax melting into nothingness. His chest aches, not merely from exhaustion but from knowledge–knowledge that soon he must face a choice impossible to avoid.

He gathers the cranes into his palms, placing them alongside the others carefully stored, each crane delicate yet resilient, a silent testament to his resolve and the unspoken wish he holds secret.

Tomorrow he will return to the temple, to lilies and songs he now longs for more fiercely than he can admit even to himself. Tomorrow he must tell you of the decree handed down, of the cruel demands made upon him.

But tonight, Suguru sits alone, wrapped in shadows cast by flickering flame, surrounded by cranes born of desperation and quiet defiance.

He does not sleep. He simply waits–heart clenched tight, breath measured precisely–as the night deepens further, as the moon watches impassively, counting silently with him.

PART VI: SHE TRIED TO STEAL HIS SOUL With hands like silk and breath of lilies.

The temple air bristles with tension, heavy like storm clouds threatening lightning. You await him near the crumbling pillars, fingers restless, twisting lily petals into tight spirals that bruise their velvet softness. Night has stretched its shadows thick across your shrine, its depths filling with the murmurs from trees and rustling vines–a forest alert, uneasy.

When he finally steps into view, you rise sharply. Your chest tightens, your voice brittle, sharp as flint. “You didn’t come last night,” you accuse him immediately, words breaking from you like shards of porcelain. “Seven villagers died in your absence.”

Suguru pauses mid-step, his expression clouding with weary regret, shoulders weighted by the accusation. “I tried to stop them,” he answers, voice low, worn like river stones polished by relentless currents. “They would not listen. Their stubbornness drove them to ruin.”

You step forward abruptly, frustration radiating off you, eyes blazing fiercely. “You believe I am responsible?” you demand, bitterness coloring each word. “I swear upon whatever gods may still listen–I did not take their lives. My voice was silent; my hands untouched.”

He meets your wild stare without wavering, speaking deliberately, each syllable laden with conviction. “I believe you,” he says simply. “I know your truth already. It was not your doing. The forest guards you jealously.”

Your shoulders slump, anger seeping out, replaced by weariness more potent than rage. You move closer, hesitantly reaching forward, your fingers brushing lightly over the torn fabric of his kimono. The touch, your first initiated, startles both of you–intimacy without consequence, contact without destruction. His body remains steady, unmarked, whole. Relief blooms faintly in your chest.

“I wish you had come,” you whisper, anger now supplanted by something softer, more painful. “Perhaps then, those men would not have ventured here seeking me.”

Suguru regards you thoughtfully, his eyes revealing deep conflict, a weight he bears silently. “Do you think,” he asks carefully, voice edged with cautious hope, “it might help if I spoke your truth to the villagers? If they understood your innocence?”

You shake your head instantly, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “No. They are blinded by fear and hatred, deafened by superstition. Even if they believed you, my curse remains. My song would eventually claim them, or the forest would strike without mercy. It protects, it punishes–it does not listen to reason.”

He exhales sharply, frustration evident, tension woven deeply into the lines of his jaw. Slowly, he withdraws a scroll from within his kimono, handing it to you reluctantly. You unfold it gingerly, reading the inked characters that command his hand, that threaten his lineage. Each word sends a chill twisting through your veins.

You lift your eyes to his, hands shaking faintly with dread. “Will you kill me now?” you ask plainly, steady despite the vulnerability threading your question. “The shogun commands it. Spare your family the shame.”

His expression hardens, eyes darkening with quiet defiance. “If I fail or refuse, my family suffers dishonor. If I die in the attempt, another takes my place–but my kin remain untouched.”

You study him closely, apprehension curling tightly within your chest. “Well, I will not harm you,” you whisper forcefully, your voice cracking beneath the weight of honesty. “You must believe this.”

A charged silence fills the air, heavier than any spoken word. Suguru stands tense, the struggle within him tangible, his fists clenched tight enough to strain knuckles white. “I believe you,” he says finally, his voice taut with controlled anger–not at you, but at fate itself, at the cruelty of commands he despises but cannot ignore.

You turn suddenly, moving toward a corner where moonlight spills through cracks in broken timbers, illuminating a scattered array of small, folded shapes. “I have been folding,” you announce quietly, kneeling to collect leaf cranes you’ve crafted with painstaking care. They are not as neat as his paper creations, yet beautiful in their imperfect sincerity. “Nearly one hundred, fashioned from leaves.”

Suguru joins you, taking one into his palm, examining its form closely. His fingers brush yours briefly in the exchange, warmth mingling between skin. He counts each crane methodically, adding your leaf-bound offerings to his ever-growing tally.

“You still won’t tell me their purpose,” you murmur, your voice edged with faint accusation and gentle curiosity.

He shakes his head slowly, a wistful smile flickering across his lips. “Not yet. In time.”

You accept his silence, though frustration lingers stubbornly. Carefully, you set aside the leaf cranes, arranging them lovingly alongside their paper counterparts that adorn the shrine like relics of devotion.

Turning back toward him, you sense turmoil twisting through his being, emotions barely restrained beneath a surface smoothed by practiced discipline. Without conscious thought, you reach again, your hand resting lightly against his sleeve, tracing the pattern of fabric thoughtfully.

“Why do you hesitate so strongly?” you whisper earnestly. “Your honor compels you, your duty demands it–yet still, you spare my life. Why?”

Suguru studies you for a moment, the silence pregnant with unsaid truths, his eyes betraying secrets even he dares not speak. Finally, his voice emerges, low and strained with sincerity. “Because I see no monster in you. Only pain sculpted into a form misunderstood. Because the shogun sends me to strike down beasts, yet I find only souls lost and wounded.”

Your fingers tighten upon his sleeve, desperation surfacing in your words. “Yet still–your family, your honor–these must come first.”

“My honor is worthless if it demands cruelty,” he answers bitterly. “I have learned that now. And my family would grieve more deeply if I betrayed myself.”

You exhale unsteadily, your fingers reluctantly releasing him. “Then we both stand condemned by forces beyond us.”

He does not answer immediately, but the subtle incline of his head acknowledges the truth in your words. He watches the cranes thoughtfully, then murmurs softly, “Eight hundred and forty-seven.”

You nod solemnly, the number carrying quiet weight–a promise, a hope still hidden. He rises, preparing to depart, tension lingering between you both, unresolved yet deeply felt.

At the threshold, Suguru pauses, turning back slightly. “Will you continue to fold?” he asks, voice strangely hopeful.

“Yes,” you promise. “Though I wish I understood why.”

He offers no answer, only inclines his head gently in farewell, stepping into darkness that swallows him swiftly, completely. You remain within your temple, fingers tracing leaf cranes with reverent touch, uncertain but resolute.

Your heart breaths a rhythm unfamiliar yet welcome–longing tempered by cautious hope, intimacy born from understanding, not theft. The cranes, woven from leaves and dreams alike, guard secrets you cannot yet decipher.

Outside, the bells rest silent, trees hold their breath, and the land itself mourns quietly for what may soon be lost or gained, awaiting the outcome neither of you yet dares predict.

PART VII: THE CURSE BEGGED FOR MERCY AND WAS DENIED Even monsters may kneel. Even demons may cry.

Two days remain until the moon swells full and pale, poised in the heavens to bear witness. The forest has grown restless, the air dense with expectation, leaves whispering secrets among branches bent like supplicants. You await Suguru at the temple’s entrance, feet planted on the steps worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, the stone cool against your soles. Lily blossoms cluster close, petals luminous in moonlight, releasing perfume heavy with memories.

When he appears at the forest’s edge, you step forward, meeting him in the clearing. The night’s pale glow etches harsh lines upon his face, tracing shadows beneath his eyes, revealing a fatigue he no longer tries to mask. Your hand lifts instinctively, brushing tenderly over the fresh scratches and bruises marring his skin. His eyes close briefly under your touch, relief softening the tension buried deep within him.

“You are hurt again,” you murmur, your voice thick with worry.

He breathes deeply, leaning slightly into your touch. “I have endured worse. The forest resents me more fiercely with each passing night.”

You withdraw your hand, fingers curling uncertainly at your side. “Two nights remain. Have you decided your course?”

He hesitates, eyes flickering toward the direction of the distant village. “I have thought endlessly about your origin,” he says finally, voice heavy as a winter storm. “I see clearly now–how their darkness created you. Their cruelty, their betrayals, their sins–they shaped you, formed you into something they could hate. They are the true monsters, not you.”

His confession strikes you, painful yet freeing, your chest tightening with recognition. “Yet they are blind to their faults,” you respond bitterly. “They cast blame outward, refusing to acknowledge their own ugliness.”

Suguru nods gravely, regret shadowing his features. “I too have been blind–blind to my own complicity. I have walked among monsters, serving their whims without question. Perhaps the greatest beast is myself.”

“You are no monster,” you whisper sharply, voice trembling with sudden conviction.

His hand rises, fingertips gently brushing strands of hair from your face, his touch lingering tenderly. “You are too forgiving. You know nothing of the blood on my hands, the innocent lives taken in the shogun’s name. Every atrocity I committed was masked by duty and honor, yet honor is no justification for cruelty.”

You reach up, capturing his hand between both of yours, holding it reverently against your chest. “I see clearly,” you say firmly, your heartbeat thrumming steadily beneath his palm. “I know you carry guilt, and pain, yet a true monster would not feel remorse. A true monster would not return here night after night, risking everything simply to share my company.”

His expression softens, eyes reflecting emotions rarely permitted. He lifts your joined hands, pressing a fleeting, tender kiss to your knuckles. A simple gesture, yet rich with vulnerability and restrained longing. “You honor me far more than I deserve.”

You stand close, moonlight enfolding you in silver warmth, intimacy deepening gently. “Tell me of the cranes,” you ask quietly once more, hope and curiosity weaving through your tone. “Will you finally speak their meaning tonight?”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, mysterious yet affectionate. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “Patience a little longer, please.”

Frustration flickers briefly in your chest, but you yield gracefully, trusting despite the doubt. “You torment me,” you complain playfully, warmth coloring your voice.

He laughs–rare and transient, surprising even himself. “Never intentionally,” he replies, eyes filled with tenderness. “I swear to you, soon enough the cranes’ meaning will be revealed.”

You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder, savoring the comfort and strength radiating from his presence. The night settles around you, sounds of rustling leaves and distant wildlife providing harmony to your shared moment.

Eventually, Suguru speaks again, voice solemn yet determined. “I promise you this–I will find a way to free you of this curse. I don’t know how yet, but I will search every path, challenge every god if I must.”

You lift your head, expression guarded, hope tempered by ambivalence. “The curse binds tightly. My songs, my forest–they follow their own laws, beyond human influence.”

His eyes darken with resolve, fingers tightening around yours reassuringly. “Then I will defy those laws,” he states fiercely. “I will rewrite fate itself if it means your freedom.”

Your chest aches painfully, heart struggling against the walls of caution you’ve constructed carefully around your hope. “Why risk so much for me?” you whisper.

“Because,” he replies quietly, a rare vulnerability surfacing in his voice, “for the first time, I see clearly what is worth fighting for. You have shown me gentleness amid cruelty, grace amid brutality. You taught me compassion where I believed only violence existed.”

His words sink deeply, resonating powerfully within your chest. Your hand lifts again, cupping his cheek affectionately, savoring the warmth beneath your fingertips, marveling at how this man–marked by violence, burdened by guilt–has become something precious to you.

But even as you savor this intimacy, dread curls bitterly in your stomach. “But your family, your honor–the shogun’s demand–”

“My family would understand,” he interrupts gently, certainty coloring his voice. “They would want me to uphold honor by following my heart. And the shogun’s demands no longer control me–not when their price is your life.”

Your chest tightens, words tangled within your throat, heart swelling painfully with emotion too profound for speech. Instead, you cling to him, your embrace intense, protective, desperate.

For a moment, he holds you, his heart beating strongly against yours, heat shared dearly. Finally, reluctantly, you pull away, moonlight illuminating regret upon both your faces.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs heavily, “is the last night before the full moon.”

You nod, sorrow etched into your eyes. “Then I will see you tomorrow.”

He steps back slowly, lingering gaze upon your face, memorizing this moment with quiet reverence. “Until then,” he whispers softly.

He disappears into darkness, leaving you alone with your thoughts and cranes scattered across temple steps. You sit, gathering your folded leaf cranes lovingly into your lap, counting each creation quietly.

“Nine hundred and three,” you whisper to yourself.

As night deepens, your hands continue folding, turning leaves carefully into wings, hearts, dreams–each crane a silent plea, a wish for freedom, for truth, for hope still unspoken but deeply felt.

Nightfall brings no relief, the air taut as bowstrings drawn and held, tension vibrating through the temple stones and flowering vines alike. The moon, almost perfectly round, rises imperious in the darkening sky, bathing everything in a luminescent glow, silver and severe. You await Suguru at the threshold of your sanctuary, anticipation tightening your chest, breath thin as mist upon glass.

When he finally appears from the shadows, his expression carries exhaustion, deepened by restless conflict etched starkly upon his features. You move forward swiftly, your fingers reaching instinctively for his, your grip firm yet tender. He exhales in relief at your touch, body sagging slightly under unseen burdens.

“You have come late tonight,” you murmur softly, guiding him toward your collection of folded cranes, arrayed lovingly upon the steps like offerings before forgotten gods.

He sighs, nodding wearily. “The villagers held me back, their fears boiling into demands. They demand reassurance, proof that tomorrow night the curse will finally be lifted–or that I perish by your hand.”

A faint tremble threads through your fingers. “I am sorry they burden you so.”

He squeezes your hand gently, a faint warmth suffusing the motion. “It matters little now. We have more pressing concerns.”

You kneel beside the cranes, your fingers brushing reverently over the crafted wings, each bird a testament to patience, trust, and dreams yet unfulfilled. “We have nearly reached one thousand,” you whisper, voice edged with awe. “Yet tonight, you bring none.”

“I had no opportunity,” he admits quietly, regret shadowing his tone. “They accosted me and would not relent.”

Your fingertips pause, hesitation coiling in your throat. Finally, you voice the question burning insistently within your chest. “Will you finally tell me the meaning of these cranes? Is there a certain number to be reached, or do we fold forever?”

Suguru remains still, his eyes lifting slowly to meet yours, profound emotion shimmering behind them. He breathes deeply, gathering resolve, before speaking at last. “A thousand cranes,” he begins carefully, voice low and steady, “crafted in earnestness and sincerity, is said to compel the gods themselves. They grant a wish–one wish, spoken from the deepest truths of one’s heart.”

Your breath stills abruptly in your chest, understanding settling heavily upon your shoulders, realization dawning like sunrise–slowly, inexorably, flooding your heart with clarity and anguish intertwined. You stare at him wordlessly, your lips parting as comprehension reshapes your entire perception.

“All this time,” you whisper, voice shaking with restrained emotion, “you have folded them to change my fate.”

His expression betrays quiet acceptance, his posture humble yet resolute. “I had hoped to spare you the burden of knowledge until certainty could follow. I wished not to raise false hope.”

You pause, then lean toward him, your eyes intent, searching his face for truth and reassurance. “Are you a man of your word, Suguru? Would you honor a wish if I ever asked it of you?”

He nods without hesitation, sincerity illuminating his face vividly. “Always. If it were within my power, there is nothing I would not grant you.”

Your pulse quickens wildly, your words quavering slightly in vulnerability. “Do you truly believe the gods will listen? Or do you intend to carve your own path, defiant of divine decree?”

His hand rises to cup your cheek, his palm warm and comforting against your skin. “I have spent my life serving the will of men who play at gods,” he replies earnestly. “I find little comfort in hoping divine beings might listen now. Yet still, I fold these cranes, hoping desperately their promise is real. And if not–then yes, I shall forge my own path, gods or no.”

Your hand covers his tenderly, leaning subtly into the embrace of his palm, eyes closing for a moment in contemplation. “Such defiance carries heavy consequences. Do you not fear the cost?”

“Fear has held me hostage long enough,” he answers firmly, thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone. “If I must pay a price, it will be one I choose willingly. You are worth any consequence.”

A gentle ache fills your chest, sweet and painful in equal measure. Without conscious thought, you press your forehead lightly against his, sharing breath, heat, the rhythm of hearts beating closely in tandem. His other hand finds your shoulder, sliding carefully down your arm, grasping your fingers with unwavering tenderness.

Doubt, however, clings to your spirit, persistent as shadow, whispering bitter truths of duty and sacrifice. “Tomorrow night brings judgement,” you murmur sorrowfully, heart heavy beneath the weight of the unknown. “Either you suffer for sparing me, or I perish to free you. Is this balance fair, Suguru?”

He exhales deeply, resolve mingling with regret. “Nothing in our circumstances is fair, yet fairness matters less to me now than truth–than the certainty of my heart’s convictions.”

You lift your head, your eyes meeting his with intensity, emotion raw and vibrant within your chest. “Should you truly suffer for allowing me to live?”

His answer is immediate, voice low and unyielding. “If living freely, truthfully, costs me suffering and strife, I embrace it. You deserve life, happiness–not punishment for crimes that never belonged to you.”

A faint smile curves your lips, bittersweet yet deeply grateful. “You are a rare creature, Suguru–one who sees beauty within darkness, hope amid despair.”

He returns your gentle smile, expression warm with quiet affection. “And you, a being who shows compassion where none was ever granted you. Perhaps we were destined to find one another, to forge a path toward truth beyond suffering.”

You lean close again, savoring the intimacy of proximity, your heart whispering of hopes and fears still unspoken. Tomorrow’s confrontation looms darkly ahead, yet tonight you hold tightly to the warmth and strength Suguru offers unconditionally, allowing yourself the sweetness of shared affection, even as dread coils persistently within you.

Finally, and reluctantly, Suguru rises, gently releasing your fingers. He surveys the cranes, counting once more, a soft exhale marking their number. “Nine hundred and eighty-seven,” he whispers.

“Nearly complete,” you murmur, heart twisting at implications unsaid yet profoundly understood.

He nods, lingering briefly at the temple’s entrance, eyes soft with longing. “Rest well,” he bids you quietly, voice tender yet tinged faintly with sadness.

“You as well,” you reply softly, watching until darkness swallows him fully.

Alone once more, you kneel before the cranes, fingers deliberately shaping the final folds needed to reach completion. Your thoughts linger on Suguru’s whispered promise, the uncertain hope of divine intervention or determined defiance guiding his actions.

A decision weighs heavily upon you, quiet yet inexorable–your own resolve sharpening steadily as the last crane emerges from your fingers. Tomorrow night, beneath the full moon’s cold stare, a choice will be made–one of sacrifice or salvation, suffering or freedom.

The cranes rest quietly before you, their folded wings poised gracefully, each bird bearing the weight of silent wishes and dreams unsaid. You lift one, heart aching at the fragility of hopes now entrusted to your care.

And as the moon climbs higher into midnight sky, you wonder–heart heavy yet undeniably clear–if perhaps his suffering need not continue, if perhaps your fate has always been to grant mercy by surrendering your own.

PART VIII: HIS BLADE STRUCK THROUGH HER SHADOW Steel meeting sorrow, moonlight meeting mist.

The moon hangs vast and luminous above the temple, a silver orb so full it seems swollen with unspoken promises. Its pale fingers brush across the forest, illuminating pathways tangled in shadow, touching lilies that lift their blossoms in reverent surrender. The night is impossibly still, suspended as if caught between breaths, waiting with the patience of ancient spirits.

Suguru approaches with measured steps, his presence etched sharply in moonlight. He appears weary, a man worn thin by obligations and decisions too heavy to carry alone. You await him on the temple steps, your kimono pale in the moon’s glow, hair cascading freely down your shoulders, lilies woven delicately among its strands. Your eyes meet across the distance, speaking truths that words have yet to express.

When he reaches you, you move instinctively toward him, your fingers rising to rest upon his cheek. His exhaustion reflects back at you from dark eyes shadowed by sleepless nights and restless contemplation. “You are tired,” you murmur, a quiet ache resonating through your voice.

He inclines his head slightly, leaning into your touch with weary relief.

“What of the village?” you ask, concern threaded in your voice. “Have they relented their demands?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes filled with regret and resignation. “They await either victory or my end. Their patience has frayed entirely. Tonight, they anticipate resolution–one way or another.”

Your heart clenches sharply, dread and guilt molded together within your chest. You lean slightly against him, seeking comfort from the warmth radiating through his robes. “And the shogun?”

Suguru exhales heavily, frustration clear in the set of his shoulders, the tension carved along his jaw. “His command stands unchanged. If dawn rises and you remain alive, my family bears disgrace. Another warrior will be sent swiftly in my stead.”

Your fingertips trace gently along the tired lines of his face, memorizing each contour as though you might soon lose the right to touch him. “Have you made your decision?” you ask, voice steady despite the tremor beneath its surface.

His eyes lift, holding yours, unwavering in his resolve. “I will not harm you,” he answers firmly, conviction unshaken by doubt or hesitation. “I refuse to be their executioner. I would rather face whatever consequence awaits me.”

Your heart tightens painfully at his sincerity, knowing the cost his words carry. You take his hand, guiding him toward the shrine’s interior, where one thousand cranes rest proudly–paper and leaf intertwined into silent prayers. Moonlight dances across their carefully shaped wings, illuminating their fragile beauty.

“I finished folding,” you tell him, pride mingling with bittersweet awareness. “One thousand.”

He draws a single folded crane from within his kimono, the final offering cradled reverently in his palm. You gather your collection, arranging them carefully before him. Together, you count softly, voices mingling like gentle currents in a stream. Your hearts thrum with expectation and uncertainty, whispers blending until they fall silent at the final tally.

“One thousand,” he murmurs, voice hushed with hope. Then he lifts the crane held in his hand, eyes solemn. “And one.”

Your eyes flicker toward the final crane, curiosity stirred deeply. “How does it work, exactly?” you ask quietly, apprehension threading your tone.

Suguru regards the crane thoughtfully. “I believe,” he begins softly, unsure yet hopeful, “one holds the crane, speaks their wish aloud clearly, sincerely–and prays the gods listen.”

You nod, looking at the cranes, heart pounding insistently within your chest, the weight of your decision pressing down heavily upon your spirit. Your fingers brush tenderly across their wings, absorbing the earnestness in each fold, every careful crease imbued with hope.

Suguru prepares himself, drawing breath deeply, shoulders squared against the weight of his wish. Just before he speaks, you reach out, touching his wrist, voice tenderly imploring.

“May I see it first?” you ask innocently, carefully masking your true intention.

He hesitates only briefly before handing it to you, trusting without reservation. You cradle it lovingly within your palms, fingertips tracing carefully over words once commanding violence, now transformed into something poignant and beautiful.

A silence settles between you, expectation heavy in the air. Suguru waits, his patience quiet yet palpable, unaware of the decision already solidified inside your heart.

Before he can comprehend your purpose, before understanding can fully dawn, you lift your eyes to his face, tears shimmering faintly in their depths, moonlight refracting gently upon your lashes, and your lips part suddenly, voice quavering with quiet intensity as you speak your wish–one meticulously concealed until now, its revelation shattering peace, quietude, hope itself.

“I wish,” you whisper, your voice breaking, words carrying heartbreaking clarity, “that by your hand, Suguru, my life and curse shall find their peaceful end.”

The air cracks sharply around you both, the temple trembling faintly beneath your words. Horror flashes sharply across his handsome features, realization striking violently. He lunges forward instantly, hands grasping your shoulders firmly yet gently, desperation threading tightly through his voice. “Stop–please, you must not–”

Yet your words have already fled into the still air, each syllable ringing with finality, sealing fate irrevocably. The crane shakes within your fingers, paper softening beneath falling tears.

“Do not ask this of me,” he pleads urgently, eyes searching your face for reprieve. “Not this.”

Your fingers lift tenderly to his cheek, thumb brushing across his skin, tracing paths already familiar. Tears spill from your eyes, silver trails glistening upon your skin, your heart aching deeply with quiet certainty.

“It must be so,” you whisper, voice breaking under the weight of finality. “Your suffering ends only if mine does first. Your family, your honor–I cannot allow you to lose everything because of me.”

He grasps your hand tightly, anguish burning in his gaze. “No, there must be another way. Please, do not leave me alone with this burden.”

You lean forward, forehead resting lightly against his, warmth shared intimately, breath mingling softly between you. “You promised me,” you murmur, voice steady despite tears. “You vowed you would grant any wish within your power.”

“It is cruel,” Suguru chokes out, voice hoarse with despair, fingers shaking where they now clutch your hand, “to force my hand against the only truth I’ve ever known.”

His breathing comes unevenly, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm, pain vivid in his eyes like storm clouds ready to rupture. He pulls you closer in desperation, as if proximity alone could shield you from fate already decided.

“You promised me,” you whisper, your voice gentle yet firm, holding his grief with tender reverence. “You vowed that if the gods would not listen, if fate refused to yield, you would grant me any wish within your mortal power.”

He shakes violently, teeth clenched tightly, sorrow battling rage within his heart. “Not this wish–never this,” he snarls, anger splintering through his voice like shattered porcelain. “You are no monster; you carry no guilt deserving death. The villagers should atone–their lives, not yours. They crafted your curse from their own wretched sins, shaped you from cruelty and betrayal. They bear responsibility. Not you.”

His body trembles fiercely, the usually steadfast samurai now stripped bare by grief and fury alike, heart openly bleeding beneath the pale moon’s cold judgement. You reach up, your hands cupping his anguished face with infinite care, fingertips tracing the tension locked within his jaw, soothing the pain etched deeply upon his features.

“Do not speak such dark thoughts,” you implore softly, voice steady despite heartbreak pulsing sharply in your chest. “Vengeance only breeds further strife. We both know this truth.”

His eyes close tightly, breath shuddering between parted lips, shoulders shaking beneath an unseen weight he can no longer bear. “How can this be justice?” he whispers brokenly, voice cracking like brittle ice under unbearable strain. “How can I harm the only soul who has ever shown me true compassion? Why must I wield my blade against innocence?”

“Because it must be done,” you murmur carefully, your thumb brushing tears tenderly from his skin. “Your honor, your family–your life deserves freedom from suffering. Mine was forfeit the moment I became this curse. Let me bear this ending willingly, with dignity.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dark irises glistening wetly, gaze haunted yet resigned. “It is not fair,” he whispers weakly, heart aching beneath his confession. “Nothing about this is fair.”

“Fairness is irrelevant now,” you reply, moving closer to embrace him fiercely, your warmth enveloping him completely, binding you both together in shared grief and quiet resolve. “We found each other despite impossibility, shaped peace from turmoil. Such joy outweighs tragedy. Let that memory endure.”

He wraps his arms tightly around you, breathing deeply your scent, imprinting forever upon his memory your heat, your touch, your essence. “I fear life without you,” he whispers hoarsely into your hair, his voice trembling with vulnerability laid bare. “I dread the emptiness left by your absence.”

“Yet you will live,” you remind him not unkindly, pulling back to meet his gaze lovingly. “You will remember me kindly, honoring my memory by living fully and freely. This, too, you promised me.”

His fingers trail reverently across your cheek, his forehead pressing firmly against yours, breath mingling intimately in shared warmth and pain. “You ask the impossible,” he whispers painfully, eyes dark with devastation.

“I ask only what must be,” you answer, tears falling freely down your face, tracing silver pathways upon your skin. Carefully, your hands reach for his katana, fingers quivering faintly yet resolute, drawing forth the blade from its sheath.

His breath catches sharply, body stiffening beneath the weight of impending loss, yet he does not resist, hands shaking as you guide his fingers gently around the hilt, your touch steering him unwaveringly, determination mixed with infinite sorrow. The blade glimmers coldly under the moonlight, steel sharp yet beautiful in deadly grace.

“Forgive me,” he whispers desperately, voice choked by anguish, tears spilling unrestrainedly down his face. “Forgive me for failing to save you.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” you answer softly, gaze holding his with profound compassion. “You gave me purpose, love, dignity. You gave me life, Suguru–even if fleeting. For this, gratitude remains eternal.”

His tears fall faster, grief wracking his body with an anger, but you remain steady, guiding his trembling hand until the blade rests lightly against your heart, steel cool yet not unwelcome.

“Know this,” you whisper, your voice steady despite imminent finality. “You will carry no blame nor guilt. Only memories cherished deeply.”

He nods faintly, whispered response broken yet sincere. “I shall remember you always, honor your memory until death reunites us once more.”

With endless tenderness, he leans forward, lips brushing gently upon your forehead, a final gesture of reverent affection, whispering softly against your skin, “May peace welcome you warmly, beloved. May lilies bloom perpetually where your spirit rests.”

Your breath stills, heart stuttering under final words exchanged sweetly between you. “May your life blossom freely, Suguru. May you forgive yourself as fully as I forgive you.”

Then, resolutely yet with infinite gentleness, you guide his hand forward decisively, steel piercing carefully through flesh, your breath catching, eyes widening briefly in quiet acceptance. Pain comes quickly, sharply–then fades softly into warmth, peacefulness blooming deeply within your chest.

Suguru cries out softly, blade falling softly from numb fingers, grief flooding forth uncontrollably as he cradles your body tenderly against him, heart breaking irrevocably beneath the weight of unbearable loss. “Forgive me,” he sobs desperately, pressing kisses softly upon your forehead, your cheek, whispering brokenly between sobs. “Forgive me, forgive me–please, forgive me.”

Your fingers lift faintly, brushing weakly across his wet cheeks, breathing final words into night’s quiet embrace. “I forgive you wholly, eternally. Farewell, Suguru.”

Your form shimmers under the moonlight, edges softening into countless lily petals, drifting gently upon night breezes, fragrance filling air sweetly yet mournfully. Suguru watches helplessly as petals scatter around him, tears falling silently, heart aching with irrevocable loss.

Above, the bells begin tolling mournfully, their voices solemn, resonant, grieving openly beneath night’s watchful gaze. The forest itself weeps, leaves trembling softly, vines twisting woefully, sorrow resonating deeply throughout nature itself.

Suguru kneels numbly, misery overwhelming yet cleansing, heart opened fully to pain and love intertwined. He gathers scattered petals within shaking fingers, pressing them softly against lips quivering with anguish and tenderness.

“Rest now,” he whispers brokenly into night air thickened by the scent of lilies and sorrow. “Rest gently, beloved.”

And the moon watches above, silver tears hidden beneath distant surface, bearing silent witness eternally to love found unexpectedly yet treasured infinitely, lost tragically yet remembered beautifully.

Forevermore, lilies bloom endlessly where your spirit rests gently–memory enduring faithfully, bittersweet but cherished deeply, long after final echoes fade into silence profound and eternal.

EPILOGUE: THE FOREST KNOWS ONLY PEACE NOW But the lilies still bloom pale, and the bells toll for one.

They say the samurai returned triumphant, sword cleansed in moonlight and righteousness, the village freed forever from shadow’s grasp. They speak of Geto Suguru as a hero, a slayer of nightmares, whose courage dispelled darkness like sunlight piercing through winter’s fog. The villagers celebrate openly, torches lifted high, sake cups raised joyously, laughter echoing brightly through streets no longer clouded by dread. They fashion songs in his honor, paint scrolls detailing bravery forged from steel and heart, their gratitude inscribed permanently within carefully folded legends.

Yet Suguru himself never sings these songs, nor does he linger to taste the bittersweet sake poured generously in his honor. He does not join their revelry nor share their jubilant laughter, though they implore him fervently to remain. Instead, he departs at dawn, a solitary figure cloaked heavily in grief and memory, his shadow lengthening solemnly beneath the rising sun’s tender gaze.

The villagers rebuild swiftly, eager to erase lingering memories of horror now banished by heroism. They scrub carefully every bloodstain, dismantle shrines dedicated to darker forces, constructing new temples filled with sunlight, prosperity, hope. Their memories, selective and convenient, reframe their tale into something palatable, digestible, righteous.

The forest, however, remembers clearly, unwilling or unable to forget truths carved deeply into ancient bark, whispered persistently by leaves shivering restlessly in gentle winds. Lilies bloom continuously, luminous petals whispering quietly of love lost tragically yet cherished deeply. Their fragrance, sweet yet mournful, drifts faintly into village streets during twilight hours, unnoticed by villagers celebrating obliviously beneath starlight’s forgiving embrace.

At the forest’s heart, your temple remains untouched, vines claiming every stone, wood slowly crumbling beneath patient hands of decay. Paper cranes still adorn rafters, countless delicate wings suspended patiently, each bearing whispered wishes forever unanswered. Moonlight bathes the shrine reverently, illuminating quiet beauty born from loss and devotion intertwined inseparably.

Each full moon, bells ring softly through forest depths, their voices solemn yet tender, resonant yet respectful, marking passage of time felt keenly yet invisible to mortal eyes. The villagers claim ignorance of their meaning, dismissing gently ringing chimes as mere echoes or tricks of imagination. But deep within their hearts, unease stirs persistently, memories suppressed yet lingering, truth pressing against fragile walls of denial.

Suguru returns frequently to your temple, stepping across moss-covered stones, fingers brushing against lily petals trembling faintly in greeting. He kneels within the moonlit sanctuary, folding fresh cranes lovingly, adding carefully to the endless collection, each bird a whispered promise, a confession, an apology carried silently within soft creases.

He speaks aloud sometimes, voice almost inaudible yet clear, recounting memories painstakingly guarded within a heart aching under the weight of irrevocable loss. He recalls warmth shared intimately beneath the silver moon’s watchful gaze, laughter blending with hushed truths, fingertips tracing along skin warmed with stolen moments.

He tells you often how the world feels emptier, colors more muted, sounds softened slightly since your absence, yet how memories of you sustain him, guiding his steps forward despite the grief interlaced inseparably with love. He describes vividly lilies and lotuses blooming persistently within his dreams, fragrance sweetly recalling your presence lucidly, comforting him quietly within sleep’s gentle embrace.

Over years, villagers forget carefully constructed myths, names of heroes fading slowly into obscurity, tales reshaped by time’s hands. Yet the forest retains memories clearly, truths whispered by rustling leaves, petals trembling beneath moonlight’s tender caress.

And Suguru remembers eternally, carrying within a heart broken yet profoundly grateful for love found unexpectedly and treasured infinitely, pain accepted willingly for the brief moments shared under the moonlight.

Eventually, his visits cease, footprints fading slowly from temple paths, paper cranes yellowing beneath the patient eyes of passing years. The forest continues to hold every truth, the lilies blooming perpetually, fragrance drifting faintly, and memory sustained within the timeless embrace of nature’s arms.

Legends shift, evolve gently, village tales reformed into distant folklore, yet the truth remains woven deeply into earth, stone, lily petals blooming in the night.

The myth proclaims victory, finality carefully constructed from convenient lies, but within the forest’s depths, bells continue tolling softly, petals trembling gently, memory persisting eternally, truth remembered profoundly and lovingly.

For the forest never forgets.

And neither, quietly and endlessly, does he.

A/N: thank you so much for reading! and thank you @gojover for proofreading. (sorry i made you sob) i was inspired by the senbazuru tradition, and this was birthed. i feel like i lost the plot midway, but i think we made it back toward the end (art by mitsimeow_ on X)

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familyaya5 · 2 months ago

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raccoon-in-the-danger-room · 8 months ago

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Sometimes I see reviews about D&W where people think Worst Wolverine's backstory is super lacking. That they expected something epic like how Mysterio tricked Logan to slaughter everyone in the Old Man comic run.

But that plot, at least to me, doesn't make The Worst Wolverine. It probably makes the Most Tortured Wolverine -- the story of a man slaughtering his own family with his bare hands because he was mind controlled. Which inevitably created a power vacuum so gigantic that the world basically collapsed as supervillains take over the world.

But the title of Worst Wolverine should belong to the Logan that completely abandons his most important moral value: to be the protector.

Sure, he tends to be nomadic and at times self-isolates, but at his core he truly knows what it means to be a pack animal: to be a part of a cohesive family unit, rely on others, be a guardian for the weak.

In a literal sense, a common backstory for him was that he just fucked off from human society after he mutated to live with a pack of wolves. He turned feral, but they also taught him about the importance of community.

Even if you aren't a fan of the wolf background (which I AM because I think it's funny and dramatic as hell), there's other stories where he got taken care of by the Blackfoot Tribe and Lord Ogun before somehow winding up in the Weapon-X Program. Then, the Hudson family rescued him and helped him gain his humanity back after the adamantium experiments. He joined Department H, and sometime after, he found his place with the X-Men.

My point being that past or present, Logan has always belonged to a family. He needs it -- his human AND animal side both need it. He's not meant to be a creature of solitude. When he is, it's a form of punishment that he inflicts upon himself because he doesn't feel worthy to be around the people he loves or he's worried about hurting them. Or it's something inflicted upon him -- aka he's been captured and is being experimented on.

So what does all this tell us about Logan's moral code? He cares deeply for others because it's in his nature to be a part of a pack and he will do anything to protect them.

He's very caring towards animals (ex. looking after wolves that took care of him, mercy killing a bear in The Wolverine, and saving the horses in Logan). He tried to save Silver Fox's life when Sabretooth attacked her. When his wife Itsu was murdered, he relied on the advice of Lord Ogun to get vengeance for her with the Muramasa Blade. He joined Department H and Alpha Flight because he owed the Hudsons so much after re-acclimating him to society. He stayed with the X-Men because Charles gave him a home, family, and purpose outside of being a weapon. He enabled him to be the good man that he is by not only using his powers for the good fight but also being a teacher for the students.

As a character, Logan was created to reflect the archetype of the cowboy/samurai with the morals of honor, integrity, and justice. He's also not afraid to be judge, jury, and executioner for the people he loves. He's a man of action.

So what is the antithetical? A man who dishonors himself by not taking his job seriously. A man of inaction who abandons those he loves. A man who doesn't seek justice but wallows in regret and guilt.

And what did the Worst Wolverine do?

He let his fondness for drinking harm his work. While he was drinking at a bar, a group of humans invaded the X-Mansion and killed a large part of the staff, students, and X-Men. He entered a berserker rage where he murdered the invaders AND innocent people. He tarnished the legacy of the X-Men.

The title of Worst Wolverine doesn't go to the man who got brainwashed and killed without knowing. The title goes to the Logan who killed indescriminantly and didn’t want to stop.

He chose to walk away when they called out for him. He went into a beast state that made the public completely turn against the X-Men in just one night. Instead of making up for his sins, he just went back to the bar -- the very thing that killed his family. He did everything he could to go against his morals of honor, integrity, and justice.

He was a man who failed his family.

THAT'S what makes him The Worst Wolverine.

#my post #wolverine #logan howlett #deadpool and wolverine #i went insane with this one #i just hate when people are like 'hur dur his backstory wasnt cool enough'#SHUT UP #HES NOT SUPPOSED TO BE COOL #HES SUPPOSED TO BE A PATHETIC COWARD!!!! THATS WHY EVERYONE HATES HIM!!!!!!!!!!!#HES THE VILLAIN OF HIS UNIVERSE YOU BUFFOONS!!!!!!#character essay

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podcastenthusiast · 2 months ago

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Little KCD1 fic set right before the Talmberg Night Raid (which as we all know goes to shit and then Henry runs around asking everyone how they're doing and no one bothers to ask him the same but he is Not Well.)

Just friends era hansry but full of tension.

The sun is setting over Talmberg. Soon it will be time to attempt their hostsge liberation.

"So," Hans says. "Ready to storm the castle? Rescue the dear Lady Stephanie? It's mad, but you're good at that."

"When were you going to tell me?"

"What have I done now?"

Henry turns, and there's a fire in his eyes Hans hasn't seen since before Vranik, maybe since he had nothing to his name but his grief and a sword he used to take down those Cuman bastards in the woods during their fateful hunt gone awry.

"About Sir R--fuck, about my father!"

"You think I knew? Really?"

"Oh, stop it. Hanush knew, Sir Divish knew, Istvan fucking Toth knew! Why not you as well?!"

"Good question! Maybe they thought I'd get drunk and run my mouth to half of Rattay. Or did you miss the part about my uncle not trusting me with my own damn affairs, let alone Radzig's? Use your head before you bite off mine. Christ."

Henry looks away, and without the burst of anger he seems suddenly so lost, defeated.

"You didn't know either, then," he says slowly, blinking as if waking from a dream.

"No. You told me your late father was a blacksmith--a respectable trade. I had no reason to suspect otherwise."

"He was. A good man."

"I don't doubt it."

"How could Ma do that to him?"

Hans doesn't know what to say.

"Perhaps he knew?"

"Sure." Henry laughs, bitter and low.

"Henry--"

"It doesn't matter now," he continues. "Knowing the mercy of that monster. I'll be an orphan again soon."

"Don't say that."

"Why? It's true. I'm failing him, just like I failed Ma and Pa. No wonder he didn't tell me himself. He'll die ashamed to have ever called me his son! They're all gonna die and it's my fault! I--"

He only stops speaking because he's run out of air and can't seem to figure out how to take a breath.

"Henry! For God's sake, breathe!"

Hands on his shoulders. Keep him steady, keep him breathing, keep him here. He doesn't think Henry would run or lash out at him, but he's going somewhere in his mind Hans can't follow. It's terrifying.

"I can't watch another village burn. I can't," Henry whispers after a while, like it's shameful, like Hans is a priest hearing his confession.

"Look at me, Hal."

Henry hasn't slept more than a handful of hours since he escaped Vranik. The exhaustion, the injuries, the battle, the fear--just one of those things would be enough to break most men. He isn't broken, but he isn't well either. The young lord thinks maybe he hasn't been since he first stumbled into Rattay, clashing swords and barbed words against Hans like he was unafraid to die. It's an absolute injustice that even more will be demanded of him before this is all done.

"None of this is your fault," Hans says firmly. "People owe their lives to you. Like that Skalitz girl. The one with visions of Our Lady."

"Johanka? They sent her to a convent."

"And we both know heresy is a serious charge. She could have fared much worse without you there to defend her."

"I don't know... If I hadn't let it go on so long maybe she'd still be here, with Matthias."

"Fine. What about me, then? Not only am I breathing after you saved me twice over, but my life is overall richer for your presence in it, you dolt."

"Hans..."

"Hear me when I say that if anyone can do this, it's you. I'd take that wager any day."

Probably ought to step back now. Hans is suddenly very aware of how close they are, of his hands still upon Henry's shoulders.

"Okay," Henry says.

"Yes?"

"Toth will pay. I swear it."

Hans pats his shoulder, then withdraws.

"There he is! That's my blacksmith's boy. Or, well, you know." Fierce as a hound chasing the scent of blood, his own personal guardian angel; if only Henry could be anything he wanted. But that isn't the way of war. "We will see Toth hang for what he did."

"We?"

"Of course! You didn't think I would let you go alone, did you? Better here than waiting for the bastards to take Rattay. Besides, I'm something of an expert at sneaking in and out of castles undetected."

"Thank you, my lord. Can't imagine Sir Hanush is pleased."

"Livid!" Hans beams.

Henry smiles a little, although nothing is really any more okay than it was before. Hans cherishes the victory. He doesn't know it yet, but it will be the only one they have tonight.

#kingdom come deliverance #kcd1 #hansry #hans capon #henry of skalitz #i just think it was sweet of him to come take back talmberg with me

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speaknow-sw · 6 months ago

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THE POET AND THE ROSE

Content : mdni, smut, pussy eating, PiV.

A/N : erm…8.2k words guys ??? Is this too long ? Idk but this chapter is very Shakespearean I reckon…anyway here’s your smut @anisangeldust try not to cheer too loud, you’re gonna wake the kids up.

꧁ Chapter 4 : Letters in the Dark ꧂

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

The ink whispers secrets the tongue cannot bare,

A fragile bridge between despair and care.

In shadows, hearts awaken to yearn,

Letters ignite what words cannot discern.

The mist clung to the rolling hills, softening the edges of the battlefield that had been marked by blood and valor. Anakin Skywalker stood at the crest of a hill, his dark cloak brushing against his boots, a sharp contrast to the pale light of dawn. The air was still, thick with the aftermath of war and the unspoken tension of what was to come. He waited, hands resting loosely on his belt, his sharp gaze scanning the horizon.

A lone figure emerged from the fog, his steps deliberate and his broad frame unmistakable. William Wallace, the Guardian of Scotland, approached with the bearing of a man who carried the weight of his people’s dreams on his shoulders. He wore no armor, only a simple cloak, the fabric frayed but dignified. His weathered face bore the scars of countless battles, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding.

When they met, there were no guards, no banners, no intermediaries—only two men who had come to speak plainly in the fragile quiet of dawn.

"You came alone," Wallace said, his voice rough but not unfriendly.

"As did you," Anakin replied. "It’s the least we could do, given the blood that’s already been spilled."

Wallace nodded, his gaze sweeping the hills. "Aye, too much blood. And for what? Kings with greed in their hearts and chains for their people."

Anakin’s jaw tightened. "I didn’t come here to defend my king, nor to apologize for the crown I serve. But I agree—wars are seldom fought for noble reasons, even when noble men die in them."

Wallace turned to face him fully, his towering presence unyielding but calm. "Then why do you fight, Skywalker? You’re no tyrant’s lapdog—I can see that much. So why march under his banner?"

Anakin hesitated, the weight of the question settling on him. His hand brushed against the hilt of his sword, not out of threat but as if seeking an anchor. "I fight for the men who follow me. For the farmers turned soldiers who trust me to bring them home. For the people who want nothing more than to live without fear."

"And yet, you march into Scotland, where those same people bleed for their land," Wallace countered, his voice steady but laced with quiet fury. "Do you see the irony in that, General?"

Anakin met his gaze, unflinching. "I do. But if I laid down my sword, another would take my place—one who cares nothing for mercy or reason. At least I can temper the madness."

Wallace studied him for a long moment, the silence between them heavy with understanding. "You’re a good man caught in a bad war," he said finally. "But no amount of tempering will change the truth—Scotland will never bow to England. We’ll fight until there’s nothing left of us, because freedom is worth more than our lives."

Anakin’s voice softened, a trace of respect in his tone. "You fight for freedom. I fight for peace. And yet, here we are, enemies on the same field."

"A cruel jest by the gods," Wallace said with a bitter chuckle.

They stood in silence for a moment, two warriors bound by the same honor, the same burden of leading men into battle.

"Do you ever wonder," Anakin said quietly, "if all of this will be remembered? If the men who die for us, the families torn apart—if any of it will matter in the end?"

Wallace’s expression hardened, but his voice was tinged with sorrow. "Aye, I wonder. But I’d rather die fighting for something than live on my knees for nothing."

Anakin nodded slowly, his respect for the man before him deepening. "I wish we’d met under different circumstances, Wallace. Perhaps in another life, we’d have fought side by side instead of against each other."

Wallace smiled faintly, the expression fleeting but genuine. "Aye, perhaps. But in this life, we fight. And if I fall, I’ll fall knowing I stood for what mattered."

The sun began to rise, its light breaking through the mist and casting long shadows across the hills. The moment of fragile peace between them passed, the inevitability of their roles pulling them back into their separate paths.

"Until the next battle," Wallace said, turning to leave.

"Until then," Anakin replied, watching as the Scottish leader disappeared into the mist.

As the first rays of sunlight warmed the earth, Anakin stood alone on the hill, the words of their conversation echoing in his mind. A good man caught in a bad war. And for the first time in years, he felt the weight of those words press against his soul.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

Chains may bind the flesh, but not the fire,

A dream that climbs, relentless, higher.

Through blood and stone, through ash and pain,

Freedom is the breath we fight to regain.

Anakin sat at a rough-hewn table in his tent, the candle’s weak flame flickering against the soft night breeze that crept through the seams of the fabric. The clamor of the camp had begun to fade, soldiers retreating to their bedrolls after another day of skirmishes and hard marches. Yet for Anakin, rest remained elusive.

His armor lay discarded in the corner, the dented metal a testament to the brutality of recent battles. Dirt and blood clung to his hands, faint smudges smearing across the blank parchment before him. He hadn’t written a letter in years—not since his mother passed. Words weren’t his craft; they never had been.

And yet, here he sat, quill in hand, staring down at the blank page as though it were an adversary.

The faintest image of you surfaced in his mind—the way your fingers had moved over your canvas as if weaving life into color, the soft arch of your brow as you’d stolen glances at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. He shook his head, willing the memory away. But it clung stubbornly to him, just as your presence had lingered in the halls of the castle long after he’d left.

With a sigh, he pressed the quill to the page. The first words came haltingly, their formality feeling both a shield and a chain.

“My rose, I trust this letter reaches you swiftly and in good health.”

He stared at the words, his jaw tightening. Too cold, too distant. But wasn’t that safer? Still, something inside him rebelled against leaving it there.

“The days here are long and unforgiving, but it is the nights that weigh heaviest. When the fires die and silence falls over the camp, my thoughts stray to the castle—to you. It is a strange thing, for I have spent my life carving paths through stone and steel, yet now I find myself wondering what might lie beyond them.”

Anakin paused, his brow furrowing. He had always been a man of action, not introspection. But the words seemed to pour from a place within him he didn’t fully understand.

“I am no poet, nor a man given to sentiment. Yet, as the days pass, I find myself curious. You are not what I expected. Your quiet strength is a balm I did not know I needed, though I lacked the grace to see it before I left.”

The quill hovered over the page, its tip trembling as he fought against the vulnerability clawing its way into his chest. He thought of the way your eyes had flickered with defiance during the wedding reception when Count Aulbry had dared to slight him. The memory stirred something deep within him—a flicker of admiration and something else he dared not name.

“Perhaps you see me as a hard man. I would not blame you for it. The battlefield has no room for softness, and I have worn that truth like armor for many years. But in the quiet moments, I begin to wonder—what might a life beyond war look like? What might it be to know peace? To know you?”

Anakin leaned back, running a hand through his disheveled hair. The words felt foreign, almost too raw, but there was no taking them back now.

“When the fires die and silence falls over the camp, my thoughts stray to the castle—to you. It is a strange thing, for I have spent my life carving paths through stone and steel, yet now I find myself wondering what might lie beyond them.”

He glanced at the folded leather notebook lying on the edge of the table, the same one he had taken to scribbling in after long days of battle. It was filled with fragments—half-formed thoughts, lines of poetry he would never dare to share. He briefly considered copying a verse into the letter but shook his head. That would be too much.

Instead, he signed the letter with practiced precision.

“Yours sincerely, General Anakin Skywalker”

He folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with his family’s insignia. As he handed it to his most trusted messenger, his voice was low and firm. “This is for Lady Skywalker. Ensure it reaches her swiftly and safely. Do not linger.”

The messenger saluted and disappeared into the darkness. Anakin stood alone in the dim glow of the tent, staring at the candle’s flame as it danced and sputtered.

Why had he written to you? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was guilt for the way he’d left, or perhaps it was the way your painting had lingered in his mind’s eye, haunting him with its quiet beauty. Whatever the reason, the act of putting his thoughts to paper felt like loosening a knot in his chest.

He reached for the notebook and opened it to the last page, where a half-finished poem lay scrawled in his uneven hand. The words seemed to taunt him, unfinished and raw, but they felt truer than anything he had spoken aloud.

“Beneath the armor, beneath the steel, Lies a yearning I dare not reveal. For peace, for light, for a hand to hold, In her gaze, I find my soul.”

Anakin snapped the notebook shut, tossing it onto the table. His gaze lingered on the shadows dancing across the walls, his thoughts torn between the battlefield before him and the woman he had left behind.

The letter arrived two days later, just as the sun was setting, its light spilling through the tall, narrow windows of your chamber. You sat at your desk, your brush poised above the unfinished painting of Anakin, the colors of his armor muted and incomplete. The messenger bowed as he handed you the parchment, sealed with the unmistakable insignia of House Skywalker.

Your heart stumbled. Anakin had never written to you before.

The wax seal broke easily under your trembling fingers. You unfolded the letter, your eyes scanning the elegant but reserved handwriting. The first words were formal, distant even, but as you read on, the tone shifted. Subtle hints of longing emerged between the lines, soft admissions cloaked in restraint.

A breath caught in your throat. You reread the words, each line piercing through the defenses you had built around your heart. There was something unspoken here—something fragile.

The letter ended simply: “Yours sincerely, General Anakin Skywalker.”

The parchment fluttered slightly in your hands as you set it down, the weight of his words pressing against the knowledge you carried. Your father’s betrayal.

The intercepted letter was still hidden in the bottom of a chest in the corner of your room. Its contents had unraveled the delicate threads of trust you had begun to weave with Anakin. Your father had plotted to manipulate both sides, using your marriage as a pawn in his schemes. If Anakin knew, would he believe you complicit?

You rose from the desk and began to pace, your gown brushing softly against the stone floor. The walls of your chamber seemed to close in around you as the dilemma clawed at your mind.

Anakin’s words lingered. “I begin to wonder—what might a life beyond war look like? What might it be to know peace? To know you?”

Could you risk breaking this fragile connection by telling him the truth? Would he see you as a spy for your father, as another piece in a game of politics and power? The thought of losing whatever tenuous bond was forming between you left a hollow ache in your chest.

But silence, too, was its own betrayal.

You moved back to your desk, reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment. The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the room as you dipped your quill into the inkwell.

“Dear Husband,” you began, the words coming slowly, each one weighed with care.

“Your letter reached me as the sun was setting, casting the castle in hues of gold and crimson. I find it fitting, for your words carried a similar light—unexpected and strangely warming.”

You hesitated, your quill hovering above the page. How much could you reveal without unraveling everything? How much of your heart could you show?

“You speak of carving paths through stone and steel, of wondering what might lie beyond them. I, too, have wondered. Perhaps we are not so different in this—both searching for something that feels just out of reach.”

The quill paused again. You closed your eyes, picturing Anakin as you had last seen him: the determined set of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the unspoken weight he carried.

“I hope this letter brings you some measure of comfort, as yours has brought me. Though we are apart, know that my thoughts are with you. May the stars guide you safely home.”

You signed the letter with a simple “Yours,” leaving the rest unspoken.

As you sealed the parchment, the weight of the intercepted letter still loomed in the back of your mind. The decision to remain silent gnawed at your conscience, but for now, you pushed it aside.

The messenger was summoned again, his footsteps echoing through the corridor as he carried your words back to the man who haunted your thoughts.

You returned to your desk, your gaze falling on the unfinished painting. The armor was only half-complete, the strokes hesitant, as if you feared finishing it would solidify the distance between you. You reached for your brush, but your hands trembled too much to paint.

Instead, you turned to the window, staring out into the growing darkness. Somewhere out there, Anakin was reading your words, just as you had read his. And somewhere within that exchange, a fragile thread of connection began to form, even as shadows of doubt lingered on the edges.

The first letter had been cautious, a measured exchange of pleasantries cloaked in formality. But as weeks turned into months, and the battles stretched endlessly across the rugged Scottish terrain, the tone of the letters began to change.

“Lady Skywalker,

The campaign against Wallace progresses steadily. Though victory is within reach, the cost has been high. I trust the castle remains secure and that you are well.

Yours,

Anakin Skywalker”

The letter had been brief, almost impersonal, yet it was the first time he had reached out since departing. It stirred something in you, a faint flicker of hope. You responded in kind, careful not to reveal too much of yourself.

“General,

The castle remains quiet, though I must admit its halls feel emptier in your absence. I hope the tides of battle turn in your favor soon. Yours, Your Wife”

The next letter came weeks later, its tone slightly warmer. His words hinted at exhaustion but carried a thread of something more personal.

“My Lady,

The battles are fierce, and the Scots fight with the desperation of men who have nothing left to lose. There is an honesty to their resistance that I cannot help but respect, though it makes victory no less bitter. In the quiet moments, I think of the castle—of its stillness and the sanctuary it must offer. I hope you find peace within its walls, even as I find none here.”

His words lingered in your mind long after you read them. You wrote back that night, pouring a small piece of yourself into the ink.

“My Dear Husband,

The castle is peaceful, though it is a hollow peace. The roses have begun to bloom again, their petals bright against the gray walls. They remind me of you—unyielding, even amidst hardship. I hope you return soon to see them for yourself.”

The letters became a lifeline, weaving an intimacy neither of you had anticipated. Anakin began writing more frequently, his words shedding their rigid armor. Each letter revealed a man wrestling with the weight of his role, his responsibilities, and the yearning for something he could not name.

“My Rose,

The days are long, the nights longer still. In the quiet hours, I find myself thinking not of the battles but of the life I might have had—one without swords or blood. It is foolish, perhaps, but I wonder what such a life would have looked like, and whether you might have been part of it.”

You read his letters with trembling hands, your heart caught between longing and fear. His vulnerability was disarming, his words a window into the man hidden beneath the hardened general.

Your responses grew bolder, though you still held back the secret of your father’s betrayal. That knowledge weighed heavily on you, a dark cloud over your growing bond with Anakin. Yet in your letters, you allowed yourself to dream, to share pieces of a future you knew might never come.

“Anakin,

Your words are not foolish. I, too, wonder what our lives might have been if the world were kinder. I see glimpses of that life in your letters—in the tenderness you try to hide, in the dreams you dare to share. Perhaps there is a part of us that can still claim it, even amidst the chaos.”

In the heart of the Scottish highlands, Anakin read your letter beneath the dim light of a lantern in his tent. He traced your words with calloused fingers, his chest tightening. For years, he had buried his softer inclinations beneath layers of duty and discipline. Yet your letters stirred something he had thought long dead: hope.

One evening, his letter arrived with a small addition—a fragment of poetry hastily scrawled at the bottom of the page.

“I do not know if these words are worthy of your eyes, But they carry the echoes of nights I cannot sleep. In their frailty, they whisper of the stars, And of a face I see in every dream.”

You read those lines over and over, your heart pounding. His words were unpolished but raw, a glimpse into a side of him he had kept hidden even from himself.

Anakin’s words grew softer, more unguarded, like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. Each letter carried with it the weight of exhaustion and longing, but also a vulnerability he hadn’t shown before.

"The days blur into one another—steel clashing, men falling, the air thick with smoke. Yet amidst it all, your image anchors me. Your words remind me there is a world beyond this chaos, a reason to hope."

You read his letters in the quiet of your chambers, clutching the parchment like it was a lifeline. Each line drew you closer to the man you had once seen only as a distant, stoic general. In his words, you found a soul searching for meaning amidst the violence, a man yearning for something gentler, even if he didn’t know how to name it.

Your own responses began to mirror his, shedding the formality that had first marked them. Where his letters spoke of the horrors of war, you offered solace, painting images of the castle’s gardens in bloom, of the birds nesting in the eaves outside your window, of the peaceful moments you dreamed of sharing with him.

“I wish you could see the roses this spring—they climb higher than ever, their petals like drops of blood against the gray stone. I think of you when I walk among them, wondering if you are safe, if you feel the warmth of the sun through the armor you wear.”

Anakin's next letter arrived on a rain-soaked evening, its ink slightly smudged but his words unmistakably clear.

"You write of roses, and I think of the ones that grow wild near the fields we fight on. They are stubborn things, surviving against all odds. I wonder if that is why I thought of you, unyielding in your strength, even in a place where others might falter."

You traced the words with your fingers, your heart tightening at his unexpected tenderness. Each exchange stripped away another layer of distance between you, revealing the raw humanity beneath.

As the weeks wore on, the letters grew bolder. Anakin began sharing fragments of the poetry he wrote in his leather notebook, words he had once kept hidden from everyone, even himself.

"I do not know if these words are worthy of your eyes, but they have been my solace on nights when sleep refuses to come. Perhaps you will find in them some small measure of the man I wish to be, rather than the one I am."

His poetry spoke of the stars, of fleeting dreams, of longing that burned like a fire too fierce to contain.

"You haunt me in sleep—your eyes in a thousand forms, your voice a melody that slips through my grasp. I am a fool to cling to such visions, yet they are the only peace I know."

Your letters in return began to echo his vulnerability, though always with a touch of guardedness. You had not yet told him of your father’s betrayal, the weight of that knowledge still pressing against your chest.

One evening, you sat by the fire, Anakin’s latest letter spread before you. The castle was quiet, the servants retired for the night. You dipped your quill into ink and wrote with a courage you hadn’t known you possessed.

“There is a line in your last letter that has stayed with me: ‘Perhaps you will find in them some small measure of the man I wish to be.’ I want you to know that I do. In your words, I see someone who yearns for more than war and bloodshed, someone who carries the weight of others' burdens yet still dreams of a gentler world. That man is already worthy, though he may not yet believe it.”

You hesitated, then added a final line: “I, too, dream of that world, though I am not sure I will ever know it.”

As you sealed the letter, you felt the sting of unshed tears. For the first time, you wondered if you and Anakin might have been different people, had the world been kinder.

The letters continued, carrying your words back and forth like a bridge over an unspoken chasm. Though you remained separated by miles, the distance between your hearts began to shrink. In the ink-stained pages, you found something you had both longed for, though neither dared to name it yet: connection.

The castle was bathed in the faint hues of dawn when the sound of hooves echoed through the courtyard. The guards rushed to the gates, startled by the unannounced arrival of riders cloaked in frost and exhaustion. At their head was Anakin Skywalker, his armor dulled by battle and travel, his features shadowed by fatigue.

The news of his return spread quickly through the castle. You were still in your chamber, seated at your easel, a brush poised over the canvas. The unfinished painting of Anakin stood before you, a labor of longing and frustration. You had been adding the slightest details to his eyes, trying to capture the sharpness and sorrow you remembered, when the knock came at your door.

"My lady," a servant announced, "the general has returned."

The brush slipped from your fingers, leaving a streak of paint across the edge of the canvas. Your heart leapt and then sank. You hadn’t expected him back—not yet, not like this. A thousand emotions surged through you: relief, excitement, fear. How would he look at you after all these months? Would the intimacy of your letters translate into the flesh, or would the distance you had felt before his departure return?

You stood, smoothing your gown and composing yourself as best you could. When you descended to the great hall, Anakin was already there, speaking in low tones with his second-in-command. His presence was magnetic, as always, drawing every eye in the room.

For a moment, you hesitated at the edge of the hall, watching him. His face was sharper, leaner than when he had left, and there was a new weight in his gaze. Yet when his eyes found yours across the room, something shifted. His stern expression softened, just for an instant, before he turned back to his conversation.

When he finally approached you, he gave a slight bow. “My lady,” he said, his voice formal but warm.

“General,” you replied, feeling the strange distance of titles again.

“I trust you have been well?” he asked, searching your face.

You nodded, unsure what to say. His presence was overwhelming, and you couldn’t reconcile the man standing before you with the one whose tender words had filled your letters.

"I must speak with the king," he said after a pause, his tone turning serious. "There are matters of unrest in the kingdom. Whispers among the courtiers, rumors spreading like fire. I sense that something is brewing in the shadows. It is not just the threat of external enemies; it's the court itself that is beginning to fracture."

His words sent a chill through you, and the weight of them lingered. Anakin’s sharp instincts had always been his strength. He was never one to ignore the subtle stirrings of danger.

“I will find out what is happening, my lady,” he continued, his gaze hardening. “But for now, I must meet with the king. I trust you will be well while I’m away?”

You nodded again, though your mind was already swirling with thoughts. What did this unrest mean? Could your father’s machinations already be coming to a head?

Anakin hesitated, then stepped closer. “Later, we will talk,” he said quietly. “I’ve missed you.”

He turned and walked briskly toward the king’s chambers, leaving you standing in the hall, torn between the need to understand his sudden tension and the fear that you might already be too late to prevent the kingdom’s ruin.

Later that evening, after he had met with the king and addressed the court, Anakin wandered through the castle, finding himself drawn to the tower where your chambers were. He had meant to wait, to give you time to adjust to his return, but something pulled him forward.

The door to your chamber was slightly ajar, and he hesitated before stepping inside. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

The room was filled with paintings—of landscapes, of still lifes—but most prominently, of him. There were sketches of his profile, studies of his hands, and in the center of it all, the large, unfinished portrait.

It was him as you remembered him, clad in his armor, his expression resolute yet touched by something softer. The details were painstaking: the curve of his jaw, the strands of his hair, the sharp focus in his eyes. But it wasn’t complete. His gauntlets were left as rough outlines, and the background faded into blank canvas.

Anakin moved closer, his breath caught in his chest. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the painted surface as if afraid to disturb it.

Behind him, you entered the room quietly, startled to find him there. “Anakin?” you said softly.

He turned, his eyes meeting yours. “You painted these,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, stepping closer. “I... I wanted to keep you close, even when you were far away.”

He looked back at the painting, his expression unreadable. “You see me differently than I see myself,” he said after a long pause. “In your eyes, I am... more than I feel I am.”

“You are more,” you replied without hesitation. “You’ve carried so much, fought so hard. I see it in every line of you.”

His gaze flickered to you, and for a moment, the stoic mask he wore fell away. “Your letters kept me alive,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “And now this... I don’t know if I deserve it.”

You stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “You do.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, as if breaking from a trance, Anakin straightened. “I should let you rest,” he said, his voice once again guarded. “Thank you, my lady.”

He left before you could stop him, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Yet as he walked away, you saw him glance back, his eyes lingering on the painting one last time.

The weight of the day’s events hung heavily between you, the silence stretching longer than either of you was comfortable with. Anakin had returned to the castle, but the shadow of the kingdom’s unrest still loomed over him, and the tension in the air was palpable. He had been gone for so long, and now, with the sharp edges of his absence still fresh, it was difficult to reconcile the man before you with the man who had filled the pages of your letters.

You watched him from across the room, his back to you as he examined a map of the kingdom, his fingers tracing the contours of the land, drawing lines of strategy and war. There was a distance between you now—one that you both seemed to carry, unspoken but undeniable.

You couldn't bear it anymore. Not the cold, not the distance, not the gnawing feeling in your chest that kept you awake at night. You couldn’t stand to watch him walk out again, leaving your heart behind. Without thinking, you pushed yourself off the chair and crossed the room, stopping just behind him. Your breath caught in your throat, but you forced yourself to speak.

“Anakin,” you said softly, the name slipping from your lips like a plea. His head turned slightly, eyes narrowing as he saw the resolve in your face. It was as if he had already known what was coming, and yet he was unwilling to acknowledge it.

“I cannot let you leave again,” you continued, voice trembling with something you could not name. “Not like this. I… I have missed you. Every day, every moment you were gone, I felt it.”

He took a step closer to you, his eyes searching your face, his expression unreadable. “I know you have, my lady. But there is much that must be done—there is unrest in the kingdom, and there are threats that must be confronted.”

“I understand that,” you whispered, “But I—” You hesitated, unable to say what you truly felt. Your heart felt torn between the loyalty to your father, who you still feared, and the love that had slowly, painfully, bloomed in the cracks of your isolation. You had learned so much during his absence, and yet you felt as though your trust was slipping through your fingers like sand.

He reached for your hand, his touch sending a jolt of warmth through you. “You don’t have to explain,” he murmured. “I know. It’s never easy, being torn between duty and love.”

“I can’t,” you said quickly, almost pleading with him. “I can’t lose you, Anakin. Not now, not after everything that has happened. But I—I don’t know if I can trust anyone anymore. Not even my own blood.” You let out a shaky breath, the confession more difficult than you had imagined.

Anakin stepped closer, his hand lifting to gently cradle your cheek. “Trust is fragile,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your skin. “But love… love is built on it. And I want you to know, whatever happens, I am here. I will stand by you. But you must be honest with me, Aurelia. All of it. No more hiding.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and you closed your eyes, unable to hold it back. “I don’t know how to tell you,” you whispered, “What if you look at me like I’m just another pawn in this cruel game? What if you—”

He placed his fingers against your lips, silencing your fears. His voice was low, filled with a raw tenderness that cut through the tension. “You’re not a pawn. You’re the woman I’ve come to love. And nothing will change that.”

For a moment, you stood there in the silence, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket, warm and secure. And then, as if the storm inside your chest had finally subsided, you closed the distance between you. Your hands reached up to pull him close, your lips finding his in a kiss that was both desperate and tender.

Anakin's eyes widened in surprise for a moment before he melted into the kiss, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him. He held you tightly, his fingers splaying across your back as he deepened the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to claim you with a hunger that stole your breath away.

You clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you lost yourself in the sensation of his lips on yours, his body pressed against your own. The world fell away, the weight of the day's revelations and fears momentarily forgotten as you lost yourself in the taste and feel of him.

Anakin's hands roamed over your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on the swell of your hips. He pulled you impossibly closer, his hips rocking against your own in a slow, sensual rhythm that sent molten heat coursing through your veins.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathless, your chests heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. Anakin's eyes were dark, filled with a desire that made your heart race and your skin flush with heat.

"My rose…" he murmured, his voice rough with want.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that clung to your cheeks. "I know the path ahead will not be an easy one. But I swear to you, here and now, that I will stand by your side. Through whatever trials and tribulations may come, I will be your constant companion and your fiercest protector."

His gaze bored into yours, intense and unwavering. "And I need you to trust me, my love. To be honest with me, always. Hold nothing back, no matter how painful or frightening it may be. We can withstand anything - but only if we face it together."

You nodded, your voice thick with emotion as you spoke. "I trust you, Anakin. With my life, with my heart... with everything I have. I know the road ahead is uncertain and fraught with peril, but I choose to walk it with you. Always."

Anakin's hands roamed your curves, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your gown to caress the smooth skin beneath. He tugged at the fastenings of his armor, impatiently loosening the straps and buckles until the heavy plates fell away, clattering to the floor.

His lips trailed down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point as he nipped and sucked at the sensitive flesh. You arched into him, your head falling back to grant him better access as a breathy moan escaped your lips.

Anakin's hands slid lower, his fingers splaying across your lower back before gripping the globes of your rear. He lifted you effortlessly, his strength evident in the way he positioned you on the edge of the strategy table, the maps and parchment crinkling beneath you.

He stepped between your parted thighs, his hips nestling against your core as he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue delved deep, tangling with your own in a dance of passion and desperation.

Your husband’s hands roamed your body with reverent fervor, his touch a balm to your weary soul. He traced the delicate lines of your face, marveling at the beauty he found there. "My rose," he whispered, "a bloom of purest grace, your beauty far outshines the fairest flower's face."

His fingers trailed down your neck, skimming over the delicate curve of your collarbone. "These hands, once stained with battle's crimson hue, now tremble to unbind the silken threads that cloak your tender form. A sacred trust, a privilege I've earned by love's own code."

Anakin's gaze smoldered with adoration and unspoken promises as he slowly peeled away the layers of your gown, revealing the creamy skin beneath. "As I lay bare your flesh, I swear to lay bare my heart, to open wide the chamber where it beats for you alone."

He leaned in to press fervent kisses along your shoulder, his lips a brand of branding love upon your skin. "Behold, I am the thorn entwined within your stem, the guard and shield that shall defend you evermore. My life, my honor, my eternal troth, I pledge in this moment to love's eternal shore."

Anakin's hands cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks. "These buds of beauty, tender and unrivaled, shall be my constant stars, my north and south in life's vast sea. I'll cherish them, as I shall cherish you, until the end of days, our hearts entwined as one eternity."

As he lowered his head to worship at the altar of your flesh, his voice rumbled with solemn vows. "Fair lady, my sweet rose, I am your loyal knight, your champion, your eternal friend. With every breath, with every beat of this heart that beats for you, I vow to love you, honor you, and stand by you, forevermore. Let no foe, no fate, no force on heaven or earth sunder the bond that joins us now and evermore."

His hand pressed gently on your stomach lowering you on the table as he send sweeping all his strategy papers off. “Wait…your plans…” you whispered trying to stop him.

Anakin paused, his hands stilling on your waist as he sensed your gentle protest. He looked up at you, his gaze intense and filled with a fierce, burning love. A slow, sensual smile curved his lips as he took in your flushed cheeks and heaving chest.

"My rose," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion, "No strategy, no plan, no matter how carefully crafted or vital to the kingdom's fate, could ever be as precious or as worth the sight of my beloved wife laid out before me like a feast for the senses."

Anakin's hands slid up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the last remnants of your tears. "I would gladly burn my maps and scatter my plans to the wind, if it meant I could hold you like this for eternity. You are my everything, my reason for living, my love."

He leaned in to capture your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all his ardor and desire into the caress. "Let the world wait, let the kingdoms crumble, let the wars rage on," he declared fervently. "For in this moment, with your sweet body beneath me and your loving heart entwined with my own, I have found paradise. And I will cherish it, and you, above all else."

Anakin knelt between your parted thighs, his gaze locked onto your glistening sex. The flickering candlelight cast a dance of shadows across your curves, illuminating the way your chest heaved with each ragged breath.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "I could spend a lifetime exploring every inch of you."

Slowly, reverently, he leaned forward, his breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh. The first touch of his tongue was electric, a bolt of lightning that shot straight through you.

"Anakin!" you gasped, your fingers fisting in his hair.

He hummed against you, the vibrations adding to the pleasure that already threatened to overwhelm you. His tongue delved deeper, stroking along your slit, teasing your entrance.

"What do you want, my rose?" he asked, his voice low and intimate. "Tell me what you need."

His fingers teased your thighs, his thumbs brushing against the tender skin of your inner thighs. He could feel your muscles quivering, your body coiled tight with anticipation.

"Please," you whimpered, your hips rocking slightly as you sought more of his touch. "Please, Anakin..."

He smiled against your flesh, the action sending a new wave of sensation crashing over you. "Please what, my love? I need you to tell me."

His fingers slid higher, brushing against your sensitive clit. The touch was fleeting, a promise of more to come.

"I want...I want you to make me come," you gasped out, your cheeks flushing hotly at your own boldness. "I want to feel your mouth on me, your tongue inside me, your fingers filling me...please, Anakin, make me come."

Anakin licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, savoring your essence on his tongue. At the top, he found your sensitive clit, swollen and throbbing with need. He flicked his tongue over the tender bud, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

"Anakin!" you cried out, your fingers tightening in his hair as pleasure sparked through you.

Emboldened by your response, Anakin sucked your clit between his lips, his tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh. He could feel you trembling beneath him, your body winding tighter and tighter.

As he pleasured you with his mouth, Anakin tugged down his trousers, freeing his aching cock. It sprang forth, long and hard, the thick length pulsing with each beat of his heart. The sight of his manhood, so powerful and ready, sent a fresh surge of arousal coursing through your veins.

Anakin's hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking himself as he continued his ministrations between your thighs. His tongue delved deeper, thrusting into your entrance, fucking you with his mouth.

The dual sensations of his lips and tongue on your most sensitive spots, combined with the erotic sight of him pleasuring himself, pushed you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

"Anakin, I'm...I'm going to..." you panted, your body tensing as your climax approached.

He could feel your walls fluttering around his invading tongue, your body desperate for release. With a low groan, he suckled your clit harder, determined to bring you to your peak.

"Come for me, my love," he growled against your sex. "Let me feel you come undone."

He thrust two fingers deep inside you, pumping in and out, as his tongue and lips worked in tandem to drive you wild. The combined stimulation was too much, and with a scream of his name, you shattered in his arms.

Anakin held you close as you rode out the waves of your intense climax, your body trembling and quaking against his. He gentled you through it, his strong arms wrapped around you like a protective cocoon.

"Shh, I have you," he murmured, his voice a soothing rumble in your ear. "You're safe with me."

As your trembling subsided, Anakin pressed soft kisses along your neck and collarbone, his touch reverent and tender. He could feel the pounding of your heart, the way your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat.

"Beautiful," he breathed, his eyes shining with admiration and desire. "You're exquisite when you let go."

His hand slid up your side, cupping the curve of your breast. He could feel the soft weight of it in his palm, the way your nipple pebbled beneath his touch.

"Tell me, my rose," he asked softly, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. "Did that feel good?"

He knew the answer, of course. He could feel the way your body had responded, the way you'd cried out his name in ecstasy. But he wanted to hear it from your own lips, wanted to cement the connection that had begun to blossom between you.

Anakin's own need was a throbbing ache, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh. But he held himself back, determined to focus on your pleasure first. This moment was about you, about the trust and intimacy you were building.

He waited, his heart pounding in his chest, for your response. Whatever you said, whatever you chose, Anakin knew he would follow. This was your journey now, as much as his own.

“Anakin….please…take me…”You whispered, clinging to his strong back. You probably left crescent marks in his shoulder but he didn’t care. He wanted you to brand him with every single part of your body.

“Anakin, ”you cried out his name, your voice resembling a divine plea in his ears “Don’t stop…” you gasped.

Anakin's heart swelled at the desperate, needy sound of his name falling from your lips. With a primal growl, he redoubled his efforts, his hips slamming against yours with increasing force and speed.

"Never, my love," he rasped, his voice strained with exertion and desire. "I'll never stop. I'll take you again and again until you're fully satisfied."

His fingers continued their relentless assault on your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud in tight, rapid circles. The combination of his thick cock driving into you and his fingers stroking your most sensitive spot pushed you closer and closer to the brink of another shattering climax.

Anakin could feel your walls starting to flutter around his plunging length, your body tensing as your peak approached. He leaned down to capture your nipple between his teeth, biting and sucking the hardened peak as he fucked you with abandon.

"That's it, my rose," he urged, his hot breath washing over your skin. "Come for me. Scream my name as you shatter. Let all the world hear who you belong to."

His words, rough and raw with passion, sent a fresh surge of arousal coursing through you. You could feel your orgasm building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

"Anakin!" you cried out, your voice echoing off the stone walls of the chamber. "Oh God, Anakin!"

Your body convulsed beneath his, your inner muscles clenching and rippling around his pistoning cock. The sensation was exquisite, your silken heat gripping him like a velvet vise.

"Yes, my love!" Anakin roared, his own release fast approaching. "Milk my cock. Take every last drop of my seed."

With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. His cock jerked and throbbed as he spilled his hot, thick essence deep within your spasming channel. He continued to grind against you, working you through the aftershocks of your shared climax.

Anakin collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the table as he struggled to catch his breath. His heart pounded in his chest, his skin slick with sweat from the exertion of their lovemaking.

He could feel your nails raking down his back, the slight pain only heightening his pleasure. The marks you left on his skin would be a badge of honor, a reminder of your passion and desire.

"My love," he murmured, his voice rough and sated. "That was...transcendent."

He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at you with a satisfied smile. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes glazed with post-coital bliss. The sight of you, disheveled and glowing, filled him with a profound sense of masculine pride.

Anakin leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. It was a kiss of thanks, of gratitude, of deepening affection. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking entrance, and you granted it willingly.

As they kissed, Anakin's hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your hip, the flare of your waist. He marveled at the softness of your skin, the way you yielded beneath his touch.

"You're exquisite," he whispered against your lips. "A goddess, made of flesh."

He knew he was being overly sentimental, but he couldn't help himself. In your arms, he felt a sense of peace, of belonging, that he had never known before. It was a feeling he wanted to hold onto, to nurture, to let grow.

Anakin's hand slid lower, cupping the rounded globe of your buttock. He squeezed gently, pulling your hip forward to grind against his own. Even in the aftermath of their lovemaking, he could feel his spent cock beginning to stir, to harden once more.

"Again?" you asked, your voice breathless with surprise and a hint of trepidation.

Anakin smiled, a wicked glint in his eye. "Is that a challenge, my rose?" he teased, his voice low and intimate. "Because I assure you, I'm up for it."

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

In your eyes, the heavens rest,

A goddess clothed in love’s caress.

You walk the earth with light divine,

And in your heart, the stars align.

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin smut #anakin x reader #evie writes

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farsight-the-char · 4 months ago

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++ THE IRON WALL ++

- Art by Artem Demura

.. They said: “O Dhu al-Qarnayn! Lo! Gog and Magog are spoiling the land. So may we pay thee tribute on condition that thou set a barrier between us and them?” He said: “That wherein my Lord hath established me is better than your tribute. Do but help me with the strength of men, I will set between you and them a bank. “Give me pieces of iron” - till, when he had levelled up the gap between the cliffs, he said: “Blow!” - till, when he had made it a fire, he said: “Bring me molten copper to pour thereon.” “And Gog and Magog were not able to surmount, nor could they pierce it.” He said: “This is a mercy from my Lord; but when the promise of my Lord cometh to pass, He will lay it low, for the promise of my Lord is true.” - Surah Al-Kahf

...

More lore under the cut

Anchored by the Taurus Mountains to the North and Zagros Mountains in the East, the two horns of the crescent moon, the Invincible Iron Wall of Dhu al-Qarnayn is both the symbol of the Sultanate and the very reason for its existence. Beyond it lies the last and the greatest realm of Those Who Believe. Easily eclipsing all other known Wonders of the World, none who have seen the Iron Wall can ever forget it. Despite centuries of artillery bombardment by Heretic cannons, its surface is untarnished, glittering like a newly-cast steel plating in the morning sun, and at night the manyfold gemstones embedded into its very structure light up in a wondrous show of colour and artistry. Neither the Wall itself nor its gates have ever been brought down, and while some enemies have made it across the Wall to spread death and terror deep into the Sultanate proper, they have always been thrown back.

At regular intervals stand towers and bulwarks erected by the sultans of both past and present, specifically constructed to support the long-range artillery of the Imperial School of Military Engineering. The great spires act as both lookouts as well as minarets for calling the believers to salah five times a day. These constructions, mighty as they may be, are not nearly as durable as the Invincible Iron Wall. They are often under repairs or being rebuilt due to the horrendous damage Heretic artillery and long-range bombers inflict upon them. There are four Great Gates (as well as many lesser ones) roughly corresponding to the four cardinal directions. Each holds a great garrison commanded by a sanjaq-bey (‘Lord of the Standard’) responsible for the security and protection of the trade routes beyond. Despite their formidable constructions, the Sultan’s Pashas know that if one of the Four Gates was ever taken, the Sultanate would be in mortal peril. Thus it is not just Janissaries and a host of Azebs and Sappers that guard the Great Gates, but instead each entrance is also guarded by two takwin creatures of truly colossal proportions: winged beasts with eyes keener than those of any hawk and claws that can tear a Heretic tank in half with a single swipe. Their form was chosen in honour of the legendary buraq that once carried the Prophet. They are not only there to protect the Gates with physical force but also with their wit.

Created with keen intellect, the buraq takwin tests the travellers to the Sultanate with subtle but deeply sagacious perspicacious questions and riddles, exposing Heretic infiltrators and weeding out those who would bring harm to the Believers. Due to their intelligence, the takwin guardians are well-aware of the artificial nature of their being, suffering from the knowledge of their unnatural existence. It is said that they are created as pairs not only for their might but also that they could give solace to each other with deep philosophical discussion and sophisticated poetry, alleviating the pain of their existential horror - for they were created by a man and not by God, and thus can hold no hope of salvation. When there are no passersby travelling through the Gate, their low, rumbling voices echo across the wall as they debate the meaning of the ninety-nine names of Allah, the nature of love or past battles they have engaged in the many years of their existence. Creation and maintenance of even one of these mighty beasts costs the Sultan the yearly income of an entire nāḥiyah, and occupies the finest cadre of the Alchemists of the House of Wisdom for a better part of seven years. It is a price the Sultan is glad to pay for the protection of his people. The bountiful blessings of the Iron Wall are not limited to mere physical protection from the forces of Shaytan: the scholars of the House of Wisdom have laboured for decades to create machines to help maintain and regulate the precipitation within the lands of the Believers, as well as making Sultanate air space exceedingly hard for Heretic aerial forces to harry, due to the high winds that often whip above the spires of the Iron Wall. Here, wondrous devices trap the passing gales and storms, using them to guard their air space against Hell-bombers and long range reconnaissance planes.

#trench crusade #the iron sultanate

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vxlkirayaxo · 11 months ago

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Thinking about hoyoverse men who meet your parent(s) for the first time

•They don't know if they should take their shoes off or not and if they do where to put them

•They practically clingy to you in fear of touching or bumping something and offending your guardian

•at supper time they sit next to you immediately and copy all your movements so he knows if he has to pray or not

•after dinner when the baby photos come out they can almost feel the embarrassment coming off of you and don't look unless someone points

•when your guardian wants to talk to them alone silent pleas of mercy come out of his mouth even if he isn't religious

•The sigh of relief they let out is almost loud enough to be heard in a different country once you two go into the car after saying goodbyes

ART BLOCK AND WRITERS BLOCK HIT ME AHHHGUIAHHAH

#fanfic #fanfiction #genshin fanfic #hoyoverse #wanderer x reader #childe x reader #dan heng x reader #boothill x reader #itto x reader #your favorite character #hoyoverse fanfic

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snootlestheangel · 2 years ago

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I wanna write but I'm tired and physically incapable of stringing together a coherent thought

But I'm feeding y'all with more Bryn x Price stuffs cause I love them

Bryn is a cat person, and there's one cat in particular I'm gonna talk about. Price met Bryn back when the cat was only a few years old, but it's now an old ass cat that refuses to die or show any signs of dying.

The cat is a very fluffy, fat orange cat named Bifford. Cause it's like Clifford the Big Red Dog except its Bifford the Fat Orange Cat

I think this is hilarious and so does Bryn. This cat is like the first cat she got as an adult. Her was her little baby, she cherished him (still does but she's of the mindset he'll be gone by morning cause of how old he is).

Price and this cat got beef.

No one's really sure why, or what happened between them that may have caused this, but the two don't get along. Bifford, a normally docile, lazy cat, will lunge at Price every time he walks by. Price doesn't even do anything! He's actually good with cats for someone who doesn't have cats of his own/never had.

But Bifford? God this cat pisses him off

It's honestly not even justified for Price to still glare at Bifford when they see each other again cause it's been literally years but no! No they take one look at each other and Bifford is all hisses and growls and airplane ears and Price is all crossed arms and huffs as he complains about a damn cat.

Meanwhile, I give also the pleasant mental image of Ghost just holding Bifford like the baby he is and the thing is just purring so loud.

I just really want Price to have beef with a fat, fluffy, lazy orange cat named Bifford.

@stuffireadandenjoy @deeptrashwitch @midnight193

#Bifford a hundred percent hates Price cause “that's my mom! >:(”#and Price just wants to be loved #captain john price #john price #cod oc bryn #bryn x price #price x oc #price x oc bryn #guardian of mercy and men

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palestinegenocide · 1 year ago

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The flour massacre...

families lost their beloved members.

people killed with no mercy

Some put the death toll around 112

280

injured

This is what the iof said when confronted:

The Israeli version of events changed over the course of the day. The first account given by the Israeli military was that the victims had died in a stampede in which people had been “killed and injured from pushing, trampling and being run over by the trucks”. Later, Israeli military officials briefed the Guardian and other news outlets to say that their forces had only opened fire on a crowd that threatened them after the aid convoy had moved on, and that most of the casualties were caused earlier by the stampede or people being knocked down. Israeli officials also questioned the death toll from Palestinian authorities.

We all know by now that the only thing israel knows how to do is lie

THEY OPEN FIRED ON A HUNGRY CROWD.

They have been purposely starving all the people stuck, and as soon as aid arrives, they kill all of them with no mercy.

I swear this is some dystopian hunger games kinda shit.

MEN WHO SAID GOODBYE TO THEIR FAMILIES PROMISING TO COME BACK WITH FOOD WILL COME BACK NO MORE 💔

We will never forgive you israel, we hope your downfall will be as painful as the pain you have caused every single Palestinian.

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lilu787788 · 3 months ago

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One of the things I love most about Aleksander is… his name. It’s not only beautiful and proud, but also carries a deep essence. Derived from the Greek Alexandros, meaning “defender of the people,” it’s not simply a label, but a destiny for Sasha. In my Slavic culture, names are deeply significant, and Aleksander is no exception. His name alone is a testament to who he is, a leader who stands against the tides of violence from Fjerda and Shu, protecting his people and Ravka from those who would destroy them. Like his historical namesake, Alexander the Great, Aleksander is a brilliant strategist and visionary. Just as the ancient conqueror carved out an empire in the belief of unification, Aleksander dreams of a Ravka where Grisha are no longer hunted, where they are not slaves or weapons, but a people with dignity and strength. I see how these parallels run deep, because both men are conquerors, not for the sake of conquest, but for something greater. Aleksander’s battles are not fought out of arrogance or blind ambition, but out of necessity. In his world, fighting means survival, and command means protection. Although history remembers Alexander the Great for the empire he built, what truly made him great was his ability to inspire unwavering loyalty, to make those who followed him believe in something greater than themselves. Aleksander inspires such devotion, too, not through fear, but through his relentless pursuit of a world where Grisha no longer has to live in the shadows, where he is no longer at the mercy of kings and tyrants who see him as nothing more than a subhuman. His name, his legacy, is not that of a tyrant, but of a guardian, someone who bears the burden of impossible choices so that his people can have a future. And the most beautiful thing is that he fights not for himself, but for those who have no one to fight for them. For me, the name Aleksander is more than a collection of letters. For me, it will always be associated with Aleksander Morozova the eternal warrior, the eternal defender, the eternal shadow who protects his people from the storm.

#shadow and bone #shadow and bone tv #aleksander morozova #pro darkling #darkling #alina starkov #the darkling #ben barnes #darklina #sun summoner #shadow summoner #anti antis #darkling deserves better #shadow and bone netflix #morally grey characters #morally grey men

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dualityvn · 11 months ago

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UT!Ten, I am indeed mad...ly smitten hehehehe (⁠｡⁠ﾉ⁠ω⁠＼⁠｡⁠) Of course there are still human men, but I'm very interested in you!!

Your forest seems equally as beautiful as it's guardian... If you'd so graciously allow it, I'd love to visit and walk around for a day. I promise to behave myself as a guest should 👉👈

- 🍀✨

*grumble* "You may wander around near the edge. If I find out you stirred trouble, I won't show mercy." - UT!Tenebris

#duality game #duality tenebris #ut au

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gingernut1314 · 2 years ago

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Little Game Pt. 2

Dracule Mihawk x F!Reader

Summary: Mihawk has found you once more after a month of hunting after you--a month of playing your little games. Found you in yet another poor excuse for a bar, except it seems you have forgotten all about your game. Forgotten and were dulling your usually sharp sense away with drink after drink. But Mihawk hasn't forgotten. Your game is still on and he plans on winning.

Tags: angst, fluff

Word Count: 4.9K

Setlist:

Emotions

I Wanted to Leave

A/N: I'm soooo sorry it's been such a long time! I'm in my last year of college and it's absolute hell on earth and the work is insane. I hope you all enjoy! 🩷

↞ to One Piece Masterlist | Request Rules | Blog Navigation ↠ Part 1 | Part 3

Mihawk had traveled thousands of miles from his Marine-ravaged home. Had smuggled himself onto cargo ships and luxury vessels to get to island after island. Had begged to join the first pirate crew he could find so he might learn to sail and build his strength. Had begged on his knees, forehead bowed so low it had touched the ground with anger-fueled tears in his eyes to the first swordsman he could find to teach him the delicate art of the blade.

Had begged on hand and knee to every swords master he came across to teach him. To help him draw closer and closer to that end goal he would do anything to achieve.

He would become strong. Become the greatest swordsman the world had ever known and then he would lay waste to the Marines. He would spare them no mercy, just as they had spared his home no mercy. Just as they had spared his mother no mercy.

It was a goal--no, a vow bound by blood and death herself that led him here to this small island. An island covered in ancient, towering trees. An island home to a secluded and unknown people. Home to the greatest swordsman of a long-ago era. A swordsmen who had lived 180 years and had never lost a fight.

His yellow eyes scanned the dark wood he had been warned was full of monsters--devils waiting to tear any traveler brave enough to enter its thick, fog-filled brush. His last master had warned him many men had gone in looking for the great swordsman to learn from him, just as Mihawk, but they never reached his log cabin at its center. They had hardly stepped foot into the wood before its guardian attacked.

Mihawk calmly stated he would be the first to make it. Would face this Guardian of the Wood and all its devilish monsters and win. He would find the great swordsman and prove to him he was worth his teachings.

The forest hardly looked dangerous. Especially when he spotted the yellow-gold petals of marigolds that he could see littered the leaf-covered floor.

No monster in sight. No devil. No Guardian.

Mihawk placed his hand over the hilt of his sword at his side and started into the dark forest. Had just passed a rather large bunch of marigolds when someone landed on the ground before him, having hopped down from their spot amongst the treetops.

Mihawk scolded himself for not having spotted the figure, knowing he would have seen them had he not been so preoccupied thinking about devils. The tip of a naginata pressed into his chest.

“Are you a pirate?” The voice that came from the figure was silky and calm, yet held dark danger within its melody. It was a voice unlike any other Mihawk had heard and its wielder was just as rare. You looked like some wood nymph. Like the mystical yet deadly creatures Mihawk had heard sung on the lips of pirates and sailors alike come to life.

“I am here for Rivers Achilles.” You frowned deeply, that sharp blade never leaving Mihawk's chest. He looked you over carefully. Looked over your well-trained stance, one only gained from practice and patience Mihawk knew all too well. Took in the fact you must be around Mihawk’s own age of fourteen. No. He could tell you were older. A year--maybe two.

“Do all you pirates have a monthly meeting to discuss such originality?” Mihawk narrowed his eyes the slightest bit. Watched your eyes spark like you enjoyed his small reaction.

“I do not have time to waste on some dirt-smug girl.” Mihawk saw you were hardly dirt smugged. You were pertinently clean as if you had washed before climbing up into that tree. He said it to snuff out that spark of enjoyment you had gotten from baiting his temper. An anger he was slowly training himself to wrangle away. “Now. Move before I move you.”

You laughed. A small thing that grew into an all-out bellow. It was a laugh that matched your darkness. Your rareness. It had Mihawk blinking, as if stunned at its sound.

“You step another inch in my wood, pirate, and I will break your nose.” You threatened, that dangerous tone laying in the background of your voice pooling thick like venom to its forefront. It was--intoxicating to hear. A sound Mihawk wanted to drag from you again and again.

“Are you the Guardian of the Wood?” Your shoulders rose and pride swelled in your eyes.

“If you have heard of me then you have heard of what I have done to many a pirate such as yourself. I make them disappear--vanish them from the face of the earth.” Mihawk watched you slowly. A slowness that sparked anger in your eyes.

It was an anger that Mihawk knew too well. An anger that matched his own in intensity and fury like some twin flame. Someone had hurt you--had taken someone from you, just as those Marines had taken his mother. Had left you feeling so weak and empty it left that anger to fester and grow out of control in you, just as it had in him. It was an anger he wanted to lash out at. One he wanted to direct his own anger at.

“I thought you would be--” He paused, letting his eyes roam over your body again in a bored manner. “--more.” That fiery anger flared brightly. Had your knuckles going white wrapped as tightly as they were around the staff of your naginata. “How disappointing to find you are just some feral, dirt-covered girl.” Oh yes--yes there it was. Such anger. Anger to match his own. Anger that would rival him like none other ever could.

Mihawk had hardly seen you move before you were bringing the staff of our naginata to ram into his nose. A sickening crunch sounded in Mihawk's ears as pain flared in his face, nearly blinding him.

A pain that blinded him from seeing you move to kick him hard in the chest, sending him flying out of the woods and back onto the black sand of the beach he had just landed on near minutes ago.

His anger flared then, but he could only blame himself. He had been distracted by your own anger. By your dangerous voice and your rare beauty. Stupid, idiotic distractions on his part.

“A runt such as yourself should know his place.” You hissed as Mihawk shoved himself to his knees, wiping the blood from under his broken nose as he laid his yellow eyes on you once more. Found you had left the darkness of your wood and stopped before him looking like some vengeful goddess fallen straight from the heavens. “My father does not wish to waste his time training the likes of pirates. Weak pirates such as yourself, runt.”

Your father was Rivers Achilles--yes, it made sense now. Your rarity made sense. Your strength and skill. Your father was no ordinary man, therefor his offspring would be just as inordinary--spectacular.

“I am no runt and I am not weak. I will pass you. I will bow before Achilles and he will train me.” Mihawk declared, cold sea water spraying at his dark leather boot-covered feet. “Your little game will do nothing to stop me from becoming the greatest swordsman this world has ever seen.”

That excited spark flashed in your icy eyes again. A spark that flickered and twirled with your anger. A wicked, cat-like grin crossed your face--a grin that was so stunning it nearly stole Mihawk's breath away--did steal it.

“Game on.”

Mihawk had been tracking you for a month now. A month longer than he liked, but you never gave up the chase. Never slowed or stopped long enough for Mihawk to grab hold of you. All he ever saw of you was the trail of perfect chaos you left behind.

He had followed you through the North, South, East, and West Blues. Had followed you into the Grand Line, full of all its dangers, and back, only to follow you right back into its mysterious waters. And just when he thought he had caught up to you, would have you within his grasp, you had disappeared like smoke between his fingers.

Despite how long his pursuit of you had taken, he found it excited him. Had him looking forward to the coming dawn, something he had long ago started to dread.

He assumed it was because you excited him--had always kept him on his toes. You were a rare woman. One that had always challenged him in skill and wit--that matched him as perfectly as one could match another.

Part of him wished you would just give in. Come with him back to Kuraigana Island and let him indulge you in every luxury he had ever wanted to give you. It was a foolish wish, but one he held regardless. One he knew would never come true unless he won this little game of yours.

A game you seemed to have forgotten for the night, because here you were, in another run-down, dirty, overcrowded bar on some backwater island in the Grand Line, drunk out of your mind. It was unlike you, to be this careless. Not when it came to your games--when Mihawk was playing them just as you had wanted.

But there you were, downing the last of your beer, hardly grimacing at the taste as he knew you usually would, too drunk to even taste it. There you were, looking so--exhausted. It was an exhaustion Mihawk knew too well--that weight heavy on his shoulders as it seemed to do you. An exhaustion that had Mihawk pausing. Almost had him leaving this too-small bar and all its too-drunk inhabitants.

Almost.

A drunk man bumped into Mihawk with a slurred apology, but he hardly heard it. Hardly even felt the pathetic man running into him. Not when he was so close to you. Not when he was so close to winning the game you had started.

“Why is it you continue to frequent such nightmarish establishments?” Mihawk's voice should have had you sobering up. Should have had you scrambling to escape back out to sea and leave him and this island far behind. But his voice--so smooth and calm and utterly bored had you tingling in excitement.

You had missed his all-too-calm dementor. Had missed him, his face, and his stupid hat.

On a small hiccup, you turned to look up into those piercing yellow-gold eyes you had missed the most. Eyes you wished you could look into forever.

With your thoughts fogged nicely thanks to the copious amounts of alcohol you had consumed, you had no embarrassment or strength for good decision-making when you placed your palm over top of his hard-earned abs. The warmth of his skin seeped into your freezing fingers as you ran them over his skin.

“Mi-hic-hawk.” You purred up at the unamused man, all but fighting against your hiccups. You flashed him a sly grin. “How’d you find me?” You slurred horribly.

“You are being sloppy.” You hummed as you brought your other hand to run along his skin, taking in his warmth and power that all but radiated off of him in dangerous waves.

“You always know just how to--hic-- sweet talk a girl.” You said, running your hands around his waist, where they disappeared under his dark jacket. Where they felt the equally as strong muscles lining his lower back. “Say something mean to me again, Mihawk. Pretty--hic--please.”

Mihawk blinked down at you for a single moment before swiftly removing your hands from his body. You pouted, going to grab for him again, but he brushed you off once more. “Stop.” You whined pathetically, “You’re being mean.”

“You asked me to mean,” Mihawk said the fact simply in that overly bored manner he hid behind. With a huff, you stopped your attempts at touching him and crossed your arms over your chest.

“I didn’t say sh-hic-oo me away.”

“You are drunk, Y/N.” You rolled your eyes dramatically, turning back around on the bar stool you sat on to find the bartender again.

“And you’re not. It’s --hic-- boring.” You hissed as the bartender came over. “I will have your finest beer and my --hic-- best friend will have your oldest wine.” The woman’s eyes darted to Mihawk making you fix her with an icy glare. Her eyes looked a little too long in Mihawk's direction. Had looked over his face and body for too long. “Don’t look at him. I can only look at him.” She was quick to snap her eyes away, her face going pale in utter fear.

“Y-yes ma’am. We-we only have a red blend from a year ago.” You sighed.

“He will deal with it.”

“Y/N, we are leaving,” Mihawk said as the woman rushed off. You gave another dramatic sigh, turning back to face him. Those yellow-gold eyes had never once left you and you couldn’t help but enjoy being in their sights.

“Mihawk, we are--hic--not. I just ordered.” He continued to look unamused. Continued to fix you with his own sharp stare. One that never quite seemed to overpower your own. “Is it because I ordered you bad wine?”

“Bad wine or not we are leaving.” You narrowed your eyes up at him. Narrowed them so sharp you willed them to cut him open.

“It’s my--hic--day off. If you are going to be a party pooper then you should --hic-- leave.” It was the exact opposite of what you wanted him to do, but you had landed on this island to get drunk. So drunk you would hopefully wake up with dark spots in your memory.

“I will. With you.” He insisted. You rubbed your eyes roughly, that exhaustion you had come here to escape returning with a vengeance.

“You are such an --hic--asshole.”

“Poetic.” Mihawk monotoned. You hissed, yanking your hands away from your face and flinging them up in the air.

“I’m drunk, Mr. Smarty-Pants. Leave me be.” Your beer was placed before you and you were quick to scoop it up. The bad glass of wine went untouched by Mihawk. “Do you want to know --hic-- something?” You asked the bartender who hesitated. Hesitated and stayed after you fix her with your icy glare once more. “This--hic-- guy acts all tough but really --hic-- he wants to leave because all these people are making him--hic--itchy. He’d rather just sit on his pert little ass in the dark.” You said, a giggle leaving your lips.

The bartender’s eyes darted back to Mihawk and you slammed your fist on the countertop, making the glasses rattle and the bartender nearly jump out of her skin. “I said don’t look at him.” You watched her chest heave up and down in fear as you took a long sip from your beer. “Talking about pert little asses. Mihawk once ran naked--”

“Enough, Y/N.” Mihawk all but commanded you, making you tense. It was a command you bristled at--made your anger begin to heat in your chest rather quickly. Too quick for you to grab hold of and control, especially when you were this drunk. “We’re leaving.”

“Fuck you! Fuck you and fuck the Marines and --hic--fuck you again.” You hissed, standing from your stool only to nearly fall off it in the process. Mihawk stayed planted in his place, even when you ran into him during your oh-so-graceful fall. “You can’t tell me what to--hic--do.”

“You are stumbling around like a no-good drunkard. Collect yourself.” You stomped your foot and pushed Mihawk with another hiss like some child. The swordsman hardly seemed to even feel your attack. A fact that had you seething and going to do it again, but he grabbed your wrists in a tight hold. “Enough.” He commanded again. You yanked against his grip but it stayed strong.

“Let me go.” You hissed at him, yanking again.

“We are leaving. Whether you do so on your own two feet or I carry you out makes no difference to me.” Your anger surged in your chest. Surged in defiance at his orders. You were not one to be ordered around. Especially by him.

“You will unhand me this instant or I will--hic--break your nose.” Something flashed in Mihawk's golden eyes. Something--sad. A sad that called to your own sadness which had been welling and pooling within your chest for years now. Pooling to the point of near flooding. A flood you resorted to drinking to dam it up.

Mihawk’s grip around your wrists fell, but he made no sign of leaving. Made no sign of moving a single muscle from his spot before you. Made no sign of giving up on his declaration of leaving this bar with you in tow.

In your drunken state, you thought this was a perfect opportunity to draw your black blade, which you had left uncovered at your hip. You swung, your muscles moving on near memory, at the frustrating swordsman before you, causing the bartender and a few people around you to scream out in fear.

Mihawk sidestepped your attack and before you could blink, your sword was skillfully pulled from your grasp and you stumbled forward with a roar. “Give it--” Your words were cut off by a yelp as Mihawk grabbed you up in his strong arms, throwing you over his shoulder.

Your right shoulder hit Yoru’s hilt painfully and you had to quickly throw your hands out to stop your face from colliding with the black blade strapped to his back. Mihawk wrapped an iron-like arm around your thighs to keep you in place before starting for the exit.

Your vision blurred from the sudden movement, but it didn’t stop you from pounding on Mihawk’s powerful back and kicking your feet as best you could in your weak attempt to escape. His hold on you never lessened, only seeming to tighten in your struggle.

“Let me go, Mihawk!” You shouted, pulling yourself up enough to try to catch of glimpse of his face, only for his stupid hat to hit you in the face. You gave a frustrated little growl. “This is not fair! I’m drunk!”

“Drunk or not, you started the game. I plan on finishing it.” You huffed in frustration, punching his back once more to no avail.

The bar fell away and soon you were being carried through the night-filled streets of the backwater village you had found. You continued to fight against his hold until your stomach stirred nauseously and your vision blurred to the point you could hardly see.

With a pathetic moan, you let your body go limp against his back, your body bouncing with every graceful step he took. It only made your nausea grow, but you were too dizzy to do anything about it.

“Tire yourself out?” Mihawk asked something like amusement finally filling his smooth voice.

“I’m going to vomit all over your fancy little sword.” You murmured, making the man sigh deeply through his nose.

“Are you serious?” You moaned, feeling bile rise in your throat. Your world spun and blurred around you as Mihawk dragged you off his shoulder, a movement that only had that bile rising sharply and your mouth filling with hot spit. You were placed on your feet, but your knees gave out with little warning. Tiny rocks dug into the flesh of your palms and into your kneecaps.

You cursed, taking deep breaths of the chill night air, hoping to settle your upset stomach. Maybe you had overdone it on the drinks--but unfortunately for you, this is what you had set out to accomplish, and sober you knew she wouldn’t have to deal with all of this nastiness.

You had just opened your mouth to relieve your aching stomach when strong hands collected your hair away from your face. Hands that held your hair in a manner so soft you hardly felt it. You vomited before you could think much more on whose hands were holding your hair up.

“Why were you in that bar, Y/N?” Mihawk asked, voice low and so--gentle. As gentle as the man could make it seem. You huffed in and out deeply, catching your breath.

“Why do most people go to --hic -- bars? To get drunk.” You hissed as best you could between breaths. Bile rose in your throat and your stomach rolled once more. Gods--

“Yes,” He sighed, annoyed at your comment. “But you don’t go to bars to get drunk. Not when you are set on a task. Not ever.” You huffed a moan before throwing up once more.

“I’ve changed.” You huff out, catching your breath once more. Mihawk was quiet behind you. A quiet that ate at you more than you wished to admit. Your vision blurred again. But it was a blur that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the tears welling in your eyes.

You had drunk too much. Way too much if it was bring you to tears. Tears you could do nothing about to control, not in the state you were currently in. Not when the man making you cry was behind you, holding your hair like there was nothing wrong between the two of you. Like you were back on your home island, stealing alcohol from your father and sneaking off to the only bar on the whole island.

Your home. Your father. Your forest. All gone. Just like that in the blink of an eye. How had it happened? How had you let it happen? You had been your home's Guardian, just as your mother before you, and her mother before her. It had been your job, your responsibility to protect it from such dangers.

It had been your life's purpose and you had failed. Failed and lived. Lived when you should have died protecting it.

“Y/N--” Mihawk started, but you swatted his hands away as you turned your body away from your puke. You buried your face in your hands to keep the swordsman from seeing your tears. From seeing your weakened and broken state.

“Leave me be. Please.” You all but begged. Gods you were pathetic. So far from the proud and strong person you had once been in your youth. So old and angry and tired.

“I’ve seen you at your lowest. Some sick and a few drunken tears are hardly going to deter me.” He said on a sigh like you should have already known that.

You pulled your face from your hands to glare at him where he knelt behind you. To tell him to leave on a venomous hiss--to throw insults his way, but his hand disappearing into his jacket pocket caught your eye. It reappears with a golden hair clip, diamonds sparkling in the lamp lights as he showed it to you.

“That’s my--” You started in disbelief.

“You forgot it on my ship when you left.” He said, handing it to you. You took in gently in your hands and before you could even begin to process everything, his hands were in your hair once more. He gently pulled and twisted it, mimicking how you had done your hair a million and one times before without so much as a thought of his ever-watchful gaze. His free hand plucked the golden clip from your hand and nestled it securely in your hair.

He had kept it. Had not only kept it, but had kept it on his person. Kept it close and ready to use if you ever needed it once more.

When he was done, you turned to stare bug-eyed up at him, tears still refusing to halt their endless fall. Calm. He was always so calm. A calm that frustrated you and grated on your nerves to no end, but was such a familiar, comforting presence. A presence you had yearned to be around more than you yearned to hunt down every last Marine you came across.

Hesitantly, he reached for you. So hesitantly he gave you enough to slap him away, but you made no move to do so. Made no move to stop him as he brushed your tears away with his thumb.

His touch sent your eyes watering all over again. His touch and his actions were so gentle and kind and so utterly unfair. So unfair because you couldn’t give in. Not now. Not for a long, long time.

Gods how you wanted to give in.

“I can’t--I can’t go with you.” You said in a low, grave tone. Mihawk brushed his thumb over your cheek once more before pulling away, making you feel that cold aloneness you had been trying to chase away with drink. He gave the slightest of nods.

“I know.” He said just as lowly, his face seeming to harden further. You watched him grab your black blade, which he had placed on the ground beside him. He resheathed it at your side skillfully and reached for you again, grabbing you under your arms and lifting you to your feet. You swayed like a great gust of wind had blown into you, your drunkenness having yet to wear off.

Mihawk hardly made a single sound before he was lifting you off the ground once more. Made no sound as he prompted you to wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. You did so without much thought, the action having been memorized by your body.

It was something the two of you had done many times over the years, whether it be you clinging to his back or front. Whether it be because you were too drunk or injured to walk, you would cling to him and he would hold you tight. It was something he had grumbled endlessly about the first few times you’d insisted upon it, but had slowly grown used to it to the point he would pick you up as such without your prompting.

Your eyes catch his own briefly. Eyes so bright they were like the sun. A sun your soul begged to orbit one more, but your pride beat it down. Had you looking away and placing your cheek on his shoulder, taking his rose and expensive cologne scent deep into your nose so that you might hold on to it for that much longer.

Mihawk felt like a teenager again, holding you like this. It was--refreshing, though if anyone of importance saw him in such a way, there was sure to be trouble. But for now, in this small village in the middle of the Grand Line, he could get away with it. Could hold you close and keep your seemingly ever-cold body warm.

He had marked where your ship was docked before he had ever docked his own, so finding it again was hardly a chore.

Your ship was just a tab bit larger than his own, still designed for a single crew member to sail, but large enough for a much more spacious sleeping quarters and kitchen. That had been something you had complained about endlessly when having sailed with him on his own ship.

He readjusted his hold on you so he might open the door that led to the inner workings of your ship. It was neat and tidy, just as his own was, though the walls covered in numbers and markings were unlike anything on his own ship.

They were Marine branch numbers, ones you had come across during your journeys. Underneath each number were tally marks which he assumed represented how many ships you had destroyed flying those same numbered flags. The branches you had completely whipped off the face of the earth he found were crossed out.

It was impressive how many Marines you had wielded your perfect chaos against. Impressive and worrisome because he knew as the number grew, the more you would be noticed. And the more you are noticed, the more likely it was they would send another one of the Warlords to slaughter you.

Garp had warned him of this the last time they spoke. Had commanded Mihawk to get you under control or you would be spared no mercy. It was Mihawk's first and final warning to stop you before you got yourself killed.

And as much as Mihawk wanted to take you away to his new home, to keep you out of the prying eye of every last Marine and pirate that sailed the seas, he knew he needed to wait. To play your game and win it, or there would be no victory. No having you back by his side.

You had fallen asleep sometime during the walk, so you made no fuss as Mihawk placed you in bed. You merely grumbled something in your sleeping state as he pulled your boots off and took your sword from your side, propping it against the wall.

He watched you for a long moment. Watched your softened features as you slept.

So rare. You were too rare to let go. To give up on and allow to die. You were Mihawk’s twin flame. A flame he would fight and die for if given the chance. You were the only person alive he would truly bend to.

And bend he did by letting you go. By playing your little game. A game he vowed to win the right way.

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