Work Text:
i
he walks barefoot, blood-soaked soil turning to mud between the spaces of his toes. there are no allies and no enemies in death. every corpse decays equally with time, all decomposing flesh has the same putrid stench of fear that spares no man in the split second before life ends. the sword on his back is taller than him, its edges jagged with murder, and he clutches it to him when he sleeps.
people fear death. people fear what refuses to die even when surrounded by death, that is to say— people fear him. but their hatred, their fear will never be greater than hunger, the hunger that lives in his marrow, that shields him against the rocks they throw at his back.
ii
one day there's a man with kind eyes, who he can't reach with his sword, who stands on this corpse-strewn ground, untouched by the monstrosity of war.
he wakes up with birdsong, enveloped in unhurried warmth. there's a roof over his head. even the dark curdled shadow of his vicious hunger cowers before the man who sits beside his bed, knees folded, face against the sun, eyes the color of fresh hay, of hope.
iii
at seventeen he's back on the battlefield. pitch-black hunger claws at him with its caustic talons and tells him he was a fool to think he could ever live without war, without death. at the back of his palate he can still taste ash, and behind his eyelids, his childhood still burns. he cuts down endlessly, sword slicing through hearts and bellies and throats, with the despair of a monster that is cursed to stray further from humanity in the very act of protecting it.
iv
the death row guards have a running joke, this one's already got the eyes of a corpse. they flog him till his skin feels separate from his body. there's blood in his mouth, blood behind his eyes but none greater than the blood already on his hands, the blood that won't go away even when they flay his skin apart.
the hunger stays. the hunger holds him upright and drags his bare feet through ankle-deep snow, to a graveyard. the hunger has kept him alive. it won't let him die.
v
the old lady smiles at him in a way that makes him feel young, the feeling like a distant memory, a scar that has taught itself to not ache. she offers him a place to stay. he doesn't tell her his other name that he's earned in war and she doesn't ask.
vi
he wakes up on a surface that isn't bloodstained earth or unforgiving concrete after a long time and it makes his skin crawl. he wakes up. there's a head rolling on the floor. he wakes up screaming. he doesn't get out of bed. he cracks an egg on a bowl of steaming rice at three in the morning and drinks till he throws up.
the hunger rumbles incessant in the pit of his belly, derisive and victorious.
vii
he finds work. he buys old furniture from garage sales and spends days knocking them back into shape, till the scent of the varnish makes him feel like he's chiselled himself into becoming the closest imitation of a person that he can achieve. he paints the signboard. people thank him. he abandons his threadbare gray yukata after it becomes too worn to patch and buys new clothes. when the itching beneath his skin becomes unbearable, he finds a wooden sword, cheap and light, and sleeps with it clutched in his hands. he sleeps better than he has in a long time.
viii
the number of shoes at the entryway grows from one to two pairs, and then from two to three.
ix
some nights he sits on the tiled roof, eyes looking beyond the sleeping town bathed in moonlight. the nightmares are never far behind, trying to find the flawed seams where his skin isn't stitched quite right.
there are footsteps behind him, whispered voices calling his name. they'll come looking for him no matter how far he strays from the light, they'll reach for him even in blinding darkness. the hunger ebbs under his skin, even if there's been only enough rice in the pantry for two meals a day.
he smiles to himself, and then turns around and flicks both of their foreheads and they, in turn, laugh and bicker and lean against him when they sit down by his side. inside him, an army of fractaled griefs learns to take a shuddered breath in peace.
x
summer evening he walks back from the market. there's going to be hotpot for dinner. the stairs creak as he climbs up, the rusted rail under his hand still sun-warm. the town sprawls around him, vibrant with the tenacious hum of life.
for a brief broken moment his hand hesitates before sliding the door open. inside there's a battleground, crows singing death around a child picking at corpses, inside there's a school, burning, the crackle of fire drowned by voiceless screaming, inside there's a cell where sunlight doesn't enter, blood splattered on the walls and hunger clinging to its slimy bricks with hideous claws. inside there's an empty room, emptier than a battleground, a burning school, a death row cell.
he slides the door open. scattered footsteps gather immediately, welcoming him back, asking him what's for dinner, complaining about the TV set that's getting too much static again. in this infinite universe, their excited voices and bright eyes have carved a place where even a monster could turn human. he calls that home.
their intertwined lives catch the tilted rays of the setting sun and shine bright enough to protect even the darkness that lives in their shadows.
he doesn't need to claw his way to the light anymore. the light surrounds him, here to stay, nestling in the growing space held by his ribcage.
he leaves the door open a little when he follows them inside. there's a lingering silhouette perched on the staircase, starved of kindness for so long that it has grown wary of company, its sunken lightless eyes full of longing.
that's forgiveness.
he sets another plate at the table just in case it wants to come inside.
that too, is forgiveness.