Chapter Text
“I don’t think like normal people, never have
Have racing y- thoughts
It’s been that way, since I was a kid
I’m constantly doesn’t matter if i’m asleep or if
I’m awake
I’m constantly thinkin’ of a hundred things at
One time”
Misery in Waking Hours by $uicideboy$
The flower, the new weapons, Muzan. You had plenty to think about on the train-ride. Fuck. Was it you that was activating all these demons? Or something else that you’d gotten into the middle of? It wasn’t like it had all been so simple, when you’d first arrived, but now it was a spider’s web, where any move seemed to trap you even further. Seeing Muzan had brought flashes of memory, not quite visible. More like a feeling of how to fight him, intuitive rather than sequential. The way he moved, like chaos incarnate. Muzan used whips, ones he’d not used for you. He’d not judged you a threat, until the end. That scared you. Muzan knew sun breathing, knew the main techniques. Besides, while you could utilize them, it didn’t feel completely like yours. It didn’t calm the chaos within. How did you make order out of chaos? There were many answers to that. Poetry always brought you back into center. So you scoured the poetry you had.
To the Rising Full Moon (not sure of the author)
Must you leave me, must I lose you?
For a moment you were near,
Now thick darkling clouds enclose you,
Now you fade and disappear.
You could use that. If you imagined Muzan as the the clouds. Pretend the clouds were covering you, and the sword was guiding them, covering you. No strike yet; you could imagine the sensation in your body, a deep stillness that listens, tracking the attack like an eye following a storm front. Avoid and read, wasn’t that all you did? Let the “clouds” (Muzan’s blows) close without panicking.
But your gleaming rim consoles me,
Beacons like a rising star,
Brings the words my darling tells me:
I am loved, though she is far.
A movement, when he least expects it. You could almost see it in your mind. Feel the sword in your hand, your blade lifting in a smooth arc from behind to front as if tracing the rim of a crescent moon over your heart. The moon breaking through clouds. Chasing an unseen gap.
Shine on then in brightest ardour, Soar in pure triumphant flight!
Though my lonely heart beats harder, Still this splendour fills the night.
Then the final blow. Could it work? You hoped so, Uzui would definitely roast you otherwise.
You were supposed to get off later. However, Tengen Uzui lived off one of these stations, a few stops before. He might find your request amusing enough to indulge. Douma would be fine waiting a bit longer, so you sent a letter off to your apartment, explaining it’d be a wait. He probably wouldn’t be able to find you, so best to head him off.
“What is it?” Tengen asked, welcoming you in, once you’d found his home. He seemed as confident as ever, casually dressed in dark maroon haori and black pants. “My wives will be back soon.” Tone implying he’d rather be with them, same as ever.
So you told him what you’d seen. And your idea of a new breathing form. “I also found the blue spider lily.”
Tengen didn’t have much interest in it, but took it anyways. “Attempting something flashy are we? I approve of that!” And with that you were showing Tengen your thoughts. At first he scoffed at every attempt, and frankly you were too. Making your own form, really? Had you really thought you could? After several hours Tengen had you go to bed. “We’ll start in again tomorrow,” was all he said.
You wanted to keep going. A part of you knew it’d be a long day tomorrow, so you didn’t. The thing was, you could feel what it was supposed to be. The power had to come from your hips, as you spun, sending the blade in a wide, gliding crescent slash that followed the path your back foot traced. Any hesitation and Muzan would get you. The cut had to be continuous and clean, from low to high, as if lifting a slice of the night sky, just like the poem. A killing or maiming stroke—aimed to sever multiple limbs or cores in one motion, like Muzan’s multi-armed body.
–
The next morning, you’d had a better idea of how to approach it. It seemed Tengen did too.
“Akemi-san, are you a demon slayer or a drunken dancer? Lower your stance. Finish with your blade ready, not unflashily laying about!” he said, using his cane to poke you into place.
Tengen was not one to mince words, and it worked. So you worked on finishing in a low stance, blade extended, point slightly down, back foot anchored. Each muscle firm, not squeezing tightly. Repeating it over and over until it began to feel like a proper technique. Tengen saw it, too. It looked like a pale moon-arc flashing in front of you, accompanying the motion. Like am actual breathing form would. For the first time since you’d arrived, he smiled. “Keep thinking of these forms, the flashier the better!”
With that, it was time to head back. Back into the kimono Douma gave, a small snack, and off you went. The train compartment was empty, leaving the only sound the movement of the wheels and steam from the engine. Although your neck still ached, alongside the rest of you, a new hope bloomed in your chest.
Douma was by the door as soon as you entered. “Who did this to you, my dove?” He asked, as he came up to you, pulling the kimono aside. His face seemed paler, grey almost. Douma had softened in many ways since you’d first known him, but this was pure Upper Moon Two leaking through. Applying a cooling hand on the bruise, healing it, he seemed to be examining you further.
“Muzan. Look, I know it sounds insane. But when I found it, I fell into some sort of trance.” You then held up the blue spider lily. Not blooming, but alive, a few more tucked into your obi.
Douma’s eyes widened at it. “My darling dove, of course you would find it. Yet at such a cost? It won’t do,”. The other traced your cheekbone. “It’s not your battle to fight.”
“It’s not as if I asked him to do so,” you said wearily. He was wrong. Fucking fate and death and all that had made it your fight. You weren’t going to get into all that though, so you let it go.
Douma leaned closer to you, inhaling your scent. “Uzui-dono?” his voice lifting upwards, almost musically, as his arms wrapped around you. “His scent lingers more stubbornly than it should. I’ll have to ask him how he manages that.” His hair brushed against your cheek, as he turned to examine you further, like he'd somehow missed it on his initial sweep.
So he could mark his scent or something? Honestly. “Yes, like i’d written. Training.” The tone was snarkier than you usually used, and part of you felt bad for it. But you were tired and sore and proud all at the same time, not feeling like dealing with Douma’s possessiveness. Uzui had three wives, for heaven’s sake! And despite the inconvenience of it all, there'd never been another for you
“Wow, wow, wow, Akemi-chan. I merely worried when you didn’t come home, a note only arriving the next day.”
Douma knew you better than to ask brownie points for not going to extremes, but you could hear the implication. So you ignored it. “My point is, I need you to be immune to the sun, and I need to figure out how to control going into that realm.” What was that which connected them? You’d picked up several physics books on dimensions – not that quantum mechanics was particularly well developed in this time period. Yet some of it had stuck. Time, it wasn’t a linear thing one could count. Measuring it was more like measuring a series of events, some overlapping and some not. Religious and mythical tales hadn’t provided much information either, though the patterns were there.
Douma’s hands tightened ever so slightly, one on your neck the other on your waist, bringing you back. “Is there any point in dissuading you, my dove?”
“None,” you said, removing his hands to step away to plant the flower, letting it rest into the sun as Douma stepped aside. You had missed him, though. Had missed his presence, comforting in its odd way. The day had exhausted you, so Douma left you to rest, standing guard at the door as if Muzan were to pounce any second. You didn’t fall asleep instantly. Though it might take ages, the cure was possible once more. The words of Tanjiro’s father resounded in your ears. He might only be cured of his affliction to sunlight. You were reminded of Tamae again, somehow. Hadn’t allowed yourself to for so long. She’d wanted you to find happiness, somehow. A life with Douma, give up the old human world you could no longer remember, wasn’t that enough?
“My cousin will be here to take you to get your kimono fitted for the wedding,” Douma told you over your breakfast the next day.
A wedding was certainly human. You hadn’t thought of the matter recently, having had other things on your mind. “Don’t we have more important things to handle?” You said, thinking of the medicine, and of Muzan. Even of Douma’s appetite — you didn’t think he’d been eating people, doubted the demon slayers would let it go if he had. And he’d been sleeping.
But Douma insisted. “Of course we’re handling it now,” He’d said cheerfully. He wasn’t planning on letting go, no matter what. “We have a future to consider, sweet Akemi,” he said, squeezing your hand.
Taking a sip of your miso soup, you nodded. What else was there to say? “Where will the ceremony be? I'd assumed your cult.”
Douma’s eyes brightened at your question. “Unless you’d prefer elsewhere.”
“That’s fine.” Maybe the medicine would be ready in time. If so, it could be somewhere bright and sunny, though November was a bit late for that. What would change, being married to him? To be honest, you didn’t remember what he intended life after your wedding to be like, if you’d talked about it. You hadn’t planned on having a life. Hadn’t considered allowing yourself to want it. And part of you did want it. Wanted the rest of your days with him. However wrong it was. Chiyo had come to get you to bring you to a private shop. The employee had greeted you with formality, only softening to admire it on you with a compliment.
The kimono was stunning, but part of you felt like you wearing a costume, looking at yourself in the mirror. They used lanterns inside, sunlight filtering through, causing the silk to shimmer. Exposing a lotus pattern.
“How lovely!” Chiyo said, her green kimono contrasting with yours in the mirror. She then pointed out a few adjustments needed to the employee. After that – “Now onto the second shop,” she said, gesturing for you to go ahead.
“For what?” You asked. Douma had gotten you a mountains worth of jewelry and other clothing, after all.
Her laughter rang like a bell. Douma’s family all had that charm to them, even if only related by marriage. “Your western dress,” she said.
At first you’d tried to insist one was enough, but she had none of it. So you looked at several, settling on one with long sleeves, white satin ruching at your waist, paired with a cathedral veil. Looking in the mirror, this time a bride peered back at you. For one moment, you imagined it all. Imagined walking up the aisle to Douma. Imagined a honeymoon across the world, away from it all. Imagined long nights with Douma… anyways. Point was, you imagined something beyond the eclipse.
Life did not leave you for long. The demon slayers were coming to visit the apartment, after what you’d told and shown Tengen. He’d stayed, strangely at their request – Tanjiro and Murata.
Douma’s POV
Douma looked at these elderly demon slayers. None he’d fought directly. Which was convenient. He knew you would be uncomfortable if the boar headed one, Inosuke, was there, and that would not do. Not for your sake. Not even for Kotoha’s, with that lovely singing voice and devoted heart. Murata, stiff-backed and sour, radiated disapproval. Douma endured it with ease. It wasn’t unwarranted, he supposed. But how foolish for anyone to believe they could stop him from marrying you, darling. When they arrived you’d poured them each a cup, hand shaking ever so slightly. Oh, Akemi, such fear, yet how beautiful you remained, so dignified.
Tanjiro’s right hand took the tea cup carefully, taking a sip. “Thank you for seeing me,” he started, looking at you. “I needed to make sure I understood you,” Tanjiro said. Douma recognized humans lost in time, eyes growing soft with memory. Some seemed painful, some merely old.
Your hands had steadied as you began, “I saw your father. He taught me Hinokami Kagura. And upon finding the spider lily, I had a vision of Muzan…”
Tanjiro—ever earnest, ever gentle—listened with eyes softened by time and memory. Old wounds in that gaze. A kindness not unlike yours.
“I know it sounds insane,” you said, voice wavering, “but I will do whatever it takes to fight him.”
“We will,” Douma said, squeezing your hand. He kept his own hand warm. Soft. It was so easy to crush bone, if he didn't. Any risk to you was unacceptable, so he always paid great care.
The rain deepened its rhythm, pattering along the windows like an omen. Tanjiro finally looked at him. “Why?”
Murata scoffed. “Who cares what a demon thinks?”
But Tanjiro’s eyes sharpened. “I will not belittle those who regret their actions and suffer over them.” A beat. “Do you regret them, Douma?”
Regret?
How curious.
Demons were not built for regret. He had lived centuries without a single heartbeat of sorrow before you. This demon slayer seemed to believe demons could have humanity. He had that kindness his sweet dove did.
Did he regret the past? Yes. No. Not in the way Tanjiro meant it. Not if it had brought him to you, darling. Douma hadn’t ascended many more for your sake. Still, he’d relieved many people of lives they’d hated, and after his time in hell he’d known they’d gone to heaven, to reincarnate. Yet when he looked at you, at the grief in your expression when you imagined the horrors he’d committed, something in him twisted. Your heart was a warm thing, bleeding and raw at times, but always human. His heart, however, beat only for you. It always had.
You’d held his hand, squeezed it gently beneath the table.
He did his best for other humans now, yes, but only because you wished for it. Only because you believed such goodness existed in him. For that, he could regret it. And that was new. Uncomfortable. True. Douma lifted his head, allowing the silence its full weight before answering. “Yes,” he said softly. “My time in hell changed things.” A simple sentence. Honest, in the only way he knew how. Elegant.
You and Tanjiro relaxed somehow, softly. Murata stiffened. Douma felt the shift in the air—their confusion, their disbelief, your quiet, aching hope.
“Kamado-san, there’s not much room in this apartment, but would you tell me if you recognize this?” you asked, breaking up the moment. Clever dove. Douma could hear your still your breathing, holding every muscle in place. “Eight Form: Sunflower Thrust.” The movement was second nature now, a single direct thrust. Douma saw Tanjiro unconsciously grab his shriveled hand at the sight.
The door slid shut behind Tanjiro and Murata. Their mortal scents faded down the hall—rainwater, steel, old grief—and the apartment finally exhaled. So did he. The sight of demon slayers reminded him of days past. That hunger, that desire to test their skills, he could feel the steel of his fans between his fingers. But that wouldn’t do, of course!
You stood by the window, fingers curled against the sill, shoulders trembling the slightest bit. Not in fear of him—no, his dove rarely feared him anymore. Rather, it was the fear of having shown so much. How sweet. How unbearably sweet. Douma was quiet for a long moment, simply watching her. Watching the way light touched your hair. Watching the emotions ripple across your face, so exquisite in its beauty. Watching the way you held herself upright in the presence of men who had once desired his extinction. “You handled yourself beautifully,” Douma said at last, stepping forward.
You startled slightly, lost in thought. “I’m not sure they believed me,” you’d murmured.
“They believed you,” Douma replied. “They simply do not know what to do with belief.” He placed a hand gently at the small of your back. you relaxed into it instinctively. Oh, dove. That was the sort of sensation he could live on forever, sweet Akemi-chan! The silence pressed close, warm despite the rain.
Douma had said yes to Tanjiro’s question because Akemi’s hand was in his. Because Tanjiro’s eyes held expectation instead of hatred. Because the room smelled of tea and rain instead of blood. And because it was strategically wise. Humans loved a confession. It soothed them. But that wasn’t the whole of it. No, not anymore.
Regret.
The word had tasted bitter on his tongue when he said it—“Yes. My time in hell changed things.” Not a lie. Not the whole truth either. Hell had not “given” him remorse. It had merely cracked him open, opened the possibility. You had filled the emptiness that spilled out, beloved Akemi. Douma sank onto your sofa, staring at the tea cups you’d laid out. The delicate way you’d poured the water. The subtle tremor in your hands. The human grace of trying to host men who had every reason to kill him on sight.
He replayed Tanjiro’s eyes. Was it hope in his eyes, or merely exhaustion? A man who had once fought a war against Douma’s very existence, now appraising him not with hatred but hope. Hope for a monster. Ridiculous. Beautiful. Impossible. A faint smile touched Douma’s lips. Akemi-chan was rubbing off on people. And Murata. Yes, the man who glared at him as if Douma were mud tracked across a polished floor. That old-fashioned loyalty, protective and rigid. Douma didn’t dislike him. He found him… amusing. A watchdog snarling at a storm. Even if he’d tried to speak against your wedding!
Your footsteps approached from the kitchen. He composed his face instantly. For you, he would learn tenderness. For you, he would carry the weight. For you, he would make regret mean something. Douma leaned his forehead lightly against Akemi’s temple. “They will come again,” he murmured. “With questions. With doubts.”
You had nodded, swallowing. “I know. But they also might come with a cure.”
Akemi’s POV
The monk had given you a pouch of herbs that you’d tucked into the bottom of a jewelry box Douma had given you. To be smoked or in tea. He said it would help you dream. So you went into the kitchen to make some tea. Douma assembled it for you, and you kissed him on the cheek. It surprised you both, for whatever reason. Both of you were unable to state the hope and fear in the air, the dreams abounding beneath them.
The tea was potent, with those herbs. And you did dream, of the strangest world. Misty, a place where the floor was of crystal, jaded with mirrors, and the skies of stars. Only there was one more person here. You got closer, waving hello. And stopped in shock. Their voice, the expression on their face, their height. Like a literal clone. The only thing keeping you together was the fear you could feel coming off of them, making you want to be brave.
“Who are you?” They asked, their expression a mirror of yours, making it difficult to tell who was who in the mirrors around you.
“They call me Ren Akemi. But…” you whispered your real name to them, after standing. “Did you wake up in a world that wasn’t yours?”
They nodded. “I was set to join my father on a trip to this cultist he’d heard of, from a family friend. Apparently having a young female made admissions easier,” she said, her tone bitter on the last sentence. “It was a religion in the mountains, difficult to find outside of Japan.” She paused to examine you further. “The ship drowned. Lightning. All I could see was the strike of lightning, as I fell…” her voice drifted off, caught in memory.
You remembered it all too well. “Falling through eternity.” You said, a tear falling. “Have you had the dreams, with Fate and…?”
She let out a gasp. “It’s you? They told me I was supposed to be eaten by that cult leader, but another took my place.” Her hands trembled at this, and it made you want to take them, to offer some sort of comfort.
“They told me I had until the eclipse,” you said, wondering why they’d given her more information. “Are you happy in… my world?” You then asked, voice still rough.
She blushed at that. “I woke up in a forest.” She cleared her throat. “There were strange screens, I thought them glowing mirrors at first, phones. All sorts of machines I’d never dreamed of. It’s different. There was this couple, they gave me a job at their store, let me rent the room above the place. I’m saving up for school.”
“That’s good,” you said. It didn’t seem like she was used to kindness. If it were true, her original fate, that made sense. “And fascinating — time isn’t the same, or at least not linear.” Not that that was the most important part.
“Are you happy there? Has whoever you lived with treated you well?”she asked, her eyes filled with concern.
A sob broke from you, as a thousand memories came up. No, yet part of you wouldn’t change it for the world. “It’s complicated. I have a fiancé.” Only thunder rolled through the mirrored world, before you could finish your answer.
A figure stepped forward — Fate, draped in a crimson toga that burned brighter than the mirrors. Beside them stood another Fate, silent and pale as ash, red kimono.
When the first spoke, the world trembled. “Persistent humans.”
From behind them, bones shifted — Death, patient and smiling without lips.
The sound was soft, like wind through hollow reeds. “You were mine,” Death said to you.
“A car crash, simple, clean. I counted your heartbeats. You slipped away.” The skull turned, empty sockets gleaming toward your double. “And you — you were meant for his table. To be eaten by the Upper Moon. Until you chose Douma. Tricky, tricky. Both of you wanted to live. Yet both of you chose.”
“What are you talking about?” Your counterpart asked.
“What?” Your breath caught. “I remember a pain. A passing car. I never chose you.”
Death snorted—an actual snort, like a skeleton offended. You would’ve laughed, had you not been stunned into silence. “Not that. Not the mundane dying. You chose Douma.” It gestured with a long, bony finger toward one of the mirrors. The surface rippled, revealing two images: You, buying an online ticket to see the Infinity Castle Arc movie. The other girl, boarding a train to Douma’s cult.
“Really?” you cried out. “I chose to see a movie about him. She didn’t even know who he was! How does that count?”
Another presence drifted closer, the tick of a waist coat watch echoing across the mirrors. Time. Its voice was rhythmic like a clock. “Both of you were moving toward Douma. You through fiction and her through circumstance. The distinction is irrelevant. Your choices aligned. Both of you longed for a life you had not lived.”
Then Death once more swept its hand across the mirror. You saw Douma falling out of hell. “You see-”
A new voice cut in, high-pitched, horrified, sounding like a frazzled kindergarten teacher at the end of a very long day. With a nametag, yeah a nametag with Feeling written on it. They looked wildly out of place—pastel sweater vest, glitter pens clipped to their collar, eyes large with perpetual panic. Feeling jabbed a finger toward the mirror and said “I tried to stop it! I swear! You guys had big feelings about dying, which makes a lot of sense, those are big topics! Since Muzan was tied to Douma, Muzan almost got out. Way bad, right? So I blocked him—hard. Because, wow, the trauma?? Absolutely not.”
“Hold on,” you started, feeling overwhelmed by this info.
“But this guy,” she said, pointing at Douma’s image, “I couldn’t do anything with him! No emotions! No shame! No guilt! No fear! He slipped right past me like a toddler on a slip-and-slide. Just—zip! Out of hell!” Feeling threw their hands in the air. “I yelled ‘No!’ but he didn’t hear it because he can’t feel ANYTHING.”
The other you had their face in their hands, whether to laugh or cry you couldn’t tell. Finally, you whispered: “…So I ended up in Douma’s world because my counterpart took the wrong train and had a messed up dad, and I bought a movie ticket? Because I was thirsty as hell for the wrong man?” If you didn’t laugh you would cry. So much lost and for what?
Death leaned in close, eye sockets glowing, then nodded.
Feeling nodded vigorously. “Something like that. Honestly? You’re doing great. Considering.”
Destiny smoothed its sleeves. “Your arrival provided an opportunity for unprecedented thematic elegant.”
Time simply stated. “Balanced.”
“What happens if we go back?” the other you asked at last, after a moment.
Death’s grin widened. “You die where you were meant to. The threads resume.”
“And if we stay?” you both asked at once, then laughed —half-hysterical at the weight of the choice, half at the similarity between you two. Down to the sound of the laugh you shared.
“If you remain here,” said the western toga Death, “you are mine.” To your twin.“If you remain there,” said the kimono Death to you, “you are mine.”
Time’s voice calm, exact, and cold as a pendulum stated, “Star Walker. Your counterpart cannot see as you do. The thread lies through Douma. Only one of you could share that gift.”
“What happens if we refuse both?” you asked.
“There is no refusal,” said Fate.
“Only delay,” said Death.
The mirrors cracked at the sound, spiderwebs of light splitting the stars beneath your feet. You turned to your other self. “I can’t remember my family, my world, my past. Why can you?”
“I dreamt it, i didn’t remember it upon waking up. They said that was my gift, not yours.”
Could she share it, you wondered? That gift. Because yours just seemed to be a burden, whatever it was. Your heart broke at the simplicity of it — one self full of memory, one stripped bare. “I can’t choose without those memories.” With what other you had alluded to, could you truly ask for them to go back? When they’d found a family, kindness?
She wept, gripping your hands. “I don’t want to die. I’m sorry, Akemi. I want to live.” Of course she didn’t. You didn’t either. Could you force that choice? How many months had you spent in agony, seeing each mark on the calendar as a step closer to your execution?
“Tell me,” you said quietly, “if I stay, where does my soul go? Will you let me remember?”
Death tilted its skull. “With me, there are no memories. Only rest.”
The Fates leaned forward, robes rustling like thunderclouds.
“Then choose,” said one.
“Or be chosen,” said the other.
You swallowed, voice barely a whisper.
“If I stay, I fight Muzan on the eclipse. If she stays, what happens?”
“Then Muzan will rise. The Upper Moon will devour the child. The world will darken.”
A rush of outrage swelled in your throat, pressed down by reason. You could not ask her to die, not when she could live. “Let her live.” Goodbye, old world. Goodbye, freedom. At least one of you could.
Your counterpart wrapped you up in a tight hug. “Thank you,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”
And as the mirrors dissolved, you heard Death again — softer this time, almost kind. “All things return. Even you.”
You were thrust into a different dream at that point. A bright, sunny day. You didn’t recognize the place, didn’t think it was one you'd been to before. The air filled with the smell of food and fresh cut grass. And there they were. Your family, your friends, your home. Them, you recognized.
“Y/N, we’ve missed you! You’ve been so busy,” one of them said. “Tell me all about what you’ve been up to,”
And so you did. Talked about your life. The one with Douma like it was normal. It was like a dream, where part of you was aware of the absurdity. They talked about theirs, catching you up on the latest news. Your parents fussing at the state of you. Siblings, friends, cousins, all these people a person could have, if you had them were there. It felt so surreal. Part of you wanted to cry. Oh finally, you were able to say goodbye. And as you woke up, a tear slid down your face.
When you woke, Douma was asleep beside you. A book open beside him –
When I compare my heart from before we met to after we made love, /
I know I had not yet grasped /
the pain of loving you.
Spiegel im Spiegel by Arvo Pärt