Chapter Text
Giyū supposed he should have seen this coming.
His more pessimistic side had flared up at various points during the Infinity Castle fight and had screamed at him that they all had absolutely no chance at defeating Muzan, least of all himself, and at risk of being given the deadly 'sad eyes' from Tanjiro, Giyū knew there was no way someone like him could ever hope to make a dent in the fight. Not in any way that mattered.
Giyū had been trying, yes, ever since having that enlightening conversation with his companion, to look ahead more, to make an effort to actually live and not just exist, huddled in the middle of an empty room, to try and make lasting bonds that were actual people and not plants or his crow or alarmingly real h̶a̶l̶l̶u̶c̶i̶n̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶s̶ memories of his dead family members, trying to honor the wishes of those who suffered untimely deaths, but he still couldn't bring himself to think he was worth the trouble—couldn't bring himself to think he would help stall for time, even though by some miracle, his slayer mark had actually activated. Time wasn't on their side to heal that wound. Not back then, and not like this either.
Before, Giyū was spared his usual thoughts of inadequacy solely because he was more focused on trying to dodge every hit that came his way, neck deep in the frantic heat of battle, but now, lying on the ground and probably going into shock, there was nothing to prevent the poisonous, self deprecating thoughts from coiling around his throat, cutting off precious air and making him gurgle helplessly.
Or that could be the blood. He didn't know.
Useless.
A thought he knew very well, and one Tanjiro could probably smell on him constantly alongside the grief and crippling regret, but one that rang no less true after all these years. He knew Tanjiro, kind hearted as he was, would be disappointed in this relapse, would probably scold him with far too much poise and experience for a child his age, and finish his pep talk off with a list of small, inane things he found charming about him. That was just the type of person he was. And although Giyū wanted, truly wanted, to be better and climb up the steep slope he'd found himself in since Sabito died, he didn't think he could do it alone.
Tanjiro had been the only one who'd reached out his hand after Oyakata-sama's own could no longer be steady enough —his smaller, bruised hands gripping tightly—but Giyū's pain was far too heavy for his friend to pull him out completely. Giyū had found his head above water, but now, as the sounds of battle finally faded away, leaving the stench of blood and dust behind, he found himself sliding down again.
Why couldn't he stand up?
Giyū twisted his torso, feeling a sharp bite of pain along his shoulder. Come on, stand up.
His vision blurred with agony as he put his left arm on the ground, pushed up, and tried to move his right, only to fall on his chest, the wind knocked out of his lungs. His shoulder was on fire. Giyū glanced over to the source of the pain.
Ah.
His arm...
A pit opened in Giyū's stomach, literally and figuratively, as he dry heaved onto the dirt. The limb with which he used to hold his sword was cleaved right off, rivers of red staining the remains of his uniform. He probably hadn't noticed it before because of the adrenaline, the deafening thundering of his heart and the blood rushing in his ears, but now, he was acutely aware of the loss. Pins and needles spread all over his chest, the white bone sticking out into the frigid air alongside bits and pieces of hanging flesh. The oxygen burned. Moving hurt. The blood spurting out in regular intervals was hot and sticky.
The adrenaline that was quickly leaving his body left him shivering and sweating, gritting his teeth to avoid crying out as his nerves were shredded.
Well, no matter. A missing arm wasn't...it didn't matter. It wouldn't hinder him. Giyū was ambidextrous anyway, this was nothing. He should rejoin the fight.
He dragged his left arm up. Pushed. Shook.
Nothing.
He swallowed copper.
Once again.
Drag, push, shake. His vision blackened as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him.
There was so much blood.
But he needed to keep going.
Please, please.
Bodies around him. Deathly stillness.
Drag, push, shake.
Some were fellow hashira...from here he could see Obanai was curled around an armless Mitsuri. Neither was moving.
He missed her chatter.
Giyū's nose dripped red. His wrist shook, trying and failing to hold him up.
I beg of you.
Drag, push, shake, weaker this time.
Some were junior demon slayers, their black uniform wet with blood. Decapitated, limbs severed, bodies cut. Behind them, the fire spread from the rubble, licking the ground dangerously close to the bodies. Distantly, Giyū wondered if there would be anything left to bury. What would they send to those who still had families?
What would they send to Urokodaki?
They failed.
Drag, push...
He had no strength.
Cheek to the ground, burning, burning, a slowly spreading warmth beneath him, Giyū knew this fact with certainty.
They failed. They lost. The world was about to be plunged in violence and darkness because they weren't strong enough.
He wasn't strong enough.
Best case scenario, Kibutsuji Muzan failed to take hold of Nezuko, and they were back to square one, scraping together a new slayer corps out of nothing and hunting monsters until somewhere, somehow, another miraculous sun-resistant demon was born—if it was born.
Worst case scenario...?
...He didn't want to think about it.
Actually, thinking was very hard all of a sudden, which was strange, since usually that was all Giyū was able to do.
Ah, he was probably truly dying then...it hurt. Wasn't it supposed to stop hurting at some point? Wasn't it supposed to have never hurt in the first place?
A horrible cold settled first on his extremities: the tip of his remaining fingers, stiff, his feet, rigid, and then spread inwards to his upper arms, his thighs, his chest. He was freezing. Giyū's eyes fluttered, eyelids heavy, and maybe that scared him most of all. Darkness.
... Wasn't the mark supposed to stop this? Wasn't it supposed to boost his survival and make it so he could fight on equal grounds with a demon? The fight with Akaza proved it well enough, though that nagging voice whispered they hadn't truly won that battle. Akaza had self destructed, somehow—tore chunks out of his flesh and walked away until he no longer could, reaching out his arms like he was begging before crumbling to dust. And Tanjiro had done all the important work anyway, Giyū had just stalled for time, and barely.
Stop it.
But it seemed the mark had run its course, which was unfair, because Giyū could still fight with one arm, and he was pretty sure the surviving hashira members were equally hurt or worse, and there they were, fighting hard. So why couldn't he? Had his mark malfunctioned somehow? Had it not found him worthy?
...He wouldn't be surprised. It was the truth.
Stop it!
...He should apologize. Tsutako wouldn't have wanted to hear these thoughts. Sabito had not tolerated any self sabotaging speeches. Tanjiro had been so persistent, trying hard to help him see the light again...he was disrespecting their efforts.
Giyū sighed shakily. He could only see black now, when had he closed his eyes?
...
...
Well, this was it, then.
He hoped Oyakata-sama's remaining children could move forward...they were still so young.
Tanjiro...was he alright? Surely, surely if it was him, they could weaken Muzan, and...and...
He hoped Nezuko's medicine worked. He hoped she wasn't in too much pain. She had been so strong...she deserved to be happy.
...
Ah, he hadn't fed Kanzaburo this morning...he should...get up and...do that.
Forgive me...I wasn't much help.
....