Chapter Text
Genichiro has lost.
There’s no denying it—not with his chest carved open and a sword pierced through his stomach. It is a bitter pill to swallow regardless, and had he any strength left to speak, he would express his discontent loudly and in no uncertain terms.
Instead of words, his mouth fills with blood, pushing thick past his lips and pouring down his chin to further stain the shoulder of Shinobi of the Divine Heir’s already filthy haori.
Oh, how he almost longs to rest his head on that shoulder.
There’s a flicker of what he would like to call hesitation in the shinobi’s eyes, the slightest of quivers in the blade pressing against his insides. As if out of their own volition, his blackened fingers close themselves over the small hands clutching on the sword’s handle. An act almost soothing, comforting.
He isn’t sure if he’s pushing or pulling at the blade.
What a wretched creature, this shinobi. After everything he has done, after cutting down so many of Ashina’s, after running his sword through her reigning lord… he dares to look at Genichiro with such kind eyes. This is nothing personal, he blinks, I am only following the Iron Code. Only serving my master as a shinobi should.
If only you had chosen yourself a better lord, Genichiro laments, and not for the first time.
The world around grows darker, quieter. He feels the shinobi’s knees buckling under their shared weight, the tremors of the steel buried in his gut as the man struggles to keep the lord’s mass from taking him down with it—and then, his sudden absence. A second before the collapse, the shinobi slinks out of the way with his blade, tearing open Genichiro’s side and spilling a yet another pool of blood and gore over the floorboards.
Damn it, Genichiro curses, Not yet—I can’t die just yet. Ashina still needs me—
Gods, please, let this work, he prays with his last breath, and crashes down to the filthied floor.
Wolf heaves out a shaky breath, one held in for far too long.
Lord Kuro is safe, and that’s what matters the most. That’s all that matters, and yet he finds no relief in his victory.
He looks at Genichiro’s lifeless body, at his closed eyes, loosened brow and parted lips, and something inside him churns. If it weren’t for all that blood, one could think the lord was just sleeping, and that any moment now he would blink his eyes open and rouse his body awake with a long stretch.
A part of Wolf hopes he would.
Wolf! Wolf!
The shinobi’s eyes flutter close. In the dark he sees an eight-year-old-boy with big blue eyes and forehead split by a long scar he’d one day grow into; the boy flashes him a wide grin, unminding of the striking dark gaps in his teeth.
I got something for you!
Eleven-year-old Wolf throws a wary glance at the balled hands of the younger boy.
…What is it?
You’ll see! Now, hold out your hands!
Wolf obeys. That's the one thing he knows by heart.
Genichiro puts his hands on Wolf’s held-out palms, wiggles them a little, and Wolf feels something cool and slimy hop against his skin.
The young lord looks incredibly proud of himself as he withdraws his hands.
…A frog?
Yes! I caught it from the puddle over there. Do you like it?
Wolf looks at the frog tucked in his calloused palms, and for the first time in ages, he feels warm.
…I do.
Wolf shakes his head, shakes off the image and the suffocating regret. Lord Kuro is safe, and that's all that matters. He repeats it until he believes it, until he’s strong enough to turn away.
As he approaches the large double doors, Lady Emma’s familiar form emerges from downstairs, lured back by the quieting of the battle.
“You were victorious, I see,” she says. Sorrow is unmistakeably present in her voice, but, much to his surprise, so is a certain relief.
“Are you...?”
“I mean you no harm.” Her placating gest is just as quick as his hand on Kusabimaru’s hilt. It doesn’t quell his doubts outright, but gives him one reason more to believe her than he has not to, and so brings him to loosen his grip on the sword.
She thanks him with a barely perceptible smile and dares a step closer. “Shinobi of the Divine Heir, I—”
Her eyes dart past him to the other end of the lookout, widening in dread. Wolf follows them, and feels a lightning run through his chest.
Rising from the sea of his own gore, Genichiro is alive again, hauled up by the scruff of his neck by an invisible hand. His ravaged flesh mends itself in bursts of red mist, sealing the spilling wounds with fresh scabs and splotches of bruises.
Wolf finds himself breathless once more.
“Lord Genichiro…” Lady Emma’s voice shakes. “Is this… the Rejuvenating Waters?”
Whatever force pulled Genichiro back from the dead sure is a heartless one, dropping him bluntly onto his feet and abandoning him to his fate right after. He almost crumbles back down to the floor, chest heaving and breath rattling as he learns to live again.
As he is now—hunched over, tangled hair falling like a mane over his face, fingers twitching as though itching to claw through his own skin—he bears a closer resemblance to a maddened beast than a noble warrior lord.
“Ashina, this land…” he sputters through gritted, bloodied teeth, “…is everything to me. For her sake…
His eyes find Wolf, glaring at him from between the scorched-black fingers; they’re those of a madman drunk on tainted waters, blazing red and filled with rage.
"I will shed humanity itself."
They remind Wolf of the giant man chained at the gates; the same fire was burning in him, a blind, unbridled fury that urged him to crush anyone and anything that crossed his path. Even a master shinobi had been an easy thing for him to pick up and smash against the cold ground.
The thought of Genichiro reduced to a mindless ogre like him shakes Wolf deeper than he should allow.
He readies Kusabimaru, even if it’s obvious the Ashina lord isn’t in a state to fight. Then again, for one, Genichiro doesn’t always have the same threshold for obviousness as people around him, and for two, he’s notoriously stubborn, even for an Ashina-born. Wolf could cut off all his limbs, and he’d just move on to bite at his ankles like some rabid palace dog.
Truth be told, Wolf isn’t surprised to see the lord refuses to let even Death itself best him.
Still, he pretends to be.
“Resurrection,” he mutters, and doesn’t miss the smug yet pained smirk it brings to Genichiro’s lips.
“Yes… indeed,” the man wheezes as he staggers towards the railing outlining the lookout. The way his eyes flit between Wolf and the fall like measuring his chances sets an ominous feeling to it. He wouldn’t—
Of course he would.
“So long,” he quips, and hurls himself over the railing. Wolf makes a move after him, but lightning splits the skies apart with such force it turns the whole world white.
By the time sight returns to him, Genichiro has disappeared, leaving behind only his armour and traces in the snow where he tumbled down.
…It would appear he hit the roof at least four different times on his way. Not the most graceful of escapes, is it.
“That damned fool,” Wolf hears Lady Emma whisper in an unexpected spurt of anger. She has knelt down by the pieces of armour strewn across the floor, the lord’s helmet pulled in her lap and fingers combing through the plume of horsehair. She looks as composed as she always does, but the gleam in her eyes betrays her.
She worries. She worries so terribly.
Wolf could chase after Genichiro. Finding him should be easy, he can’t move very quickly—jumping down the roof like a gutted salmon from a fishmonger’s basket, he’s bound to have injured himself further—and has probably left a trail of blood leading straight to him. Even if he hasn’t, Wolf knows how to hunt difficult prey.
Yes, he should chase after Genichiro. In fact, he he should’ve already done so; right now he should be cutting him in pieces so small no power is divine or demonic enough to bring him back. The safety of his master demands it: as long as the Dragon’s Blood flows in Lord Kuro’s veins, Genichiro will pursue it, through Hell itself if needed.
Yes, Wolf should go.
Only, his feet refuse to take him.
“…damned… Shinobi… of the Divine Heir...!”
Genichiro slumps down against the cold, humid wall of an abandoned shrine, grunting in pain as the wood grates against a gash on his shoulder.
The room is gulfed in dark, with only a thin pillar of light at the far-end corner where sunlight squirms in through a gap in the roof. Some candles might have been left behind from a time the shrine still had regular visitors, but he doesn't bother with searching. He… doesn’t want to see himself, right now.
Instead, he curls up against the wall, one hand holding his left side, the other clutching his right ankle. The Sediment stitched his wounds rather haphazardly and did nothing to ease the pain, and then… well, he’ll admit that landing was not his most elegant. He can only hope Wo—nobody saw him fall.
He ignores the embarrassment prickling on his cheeks to concentrate on his surroundings instead.
It is more of a shack than a shrine nowadays, this hideout of his, long since deserted and completely forgotten. Has been for as long as he remembers, which is exactly what drove him to adopt it as his hidden lair as a child; much like Grandfather would retire to the Great Serpent Shrine whenever he was in need of peace and quiet, little Genichiro would come here whenever he grew frustrated with the world and needed to think.
Only, unlike Grandfather, Genichiro made sure no one ever found out where he disappeared after disagreements and disputes; it wouldn’t be much of a hideout if everyone knew about it, now would it.
He lets out a deep sigh, tries to find a position a bit more comfortable—and immediately regrets it as pain sears his abdomen where it had been cut open only a moment earlier. The rage that had been slowly subsiding flares up again, illuminating the shrine with an eerie red glow.
Stupid mutt! Refusing me, for the sake of a master who can’t offer you more than rags to wear?
Rejection doesn’t sting any less the second time than it did the first, Genichiro learns.
Kuro does not deserve his shinobi. He deserves nothing but to shut up and do as he’s told, the impertinent, petulant child that he is, put on a pedestal because of a divine heritage he happened to be born into! An ignorant, selfish little imp, prancing around with his high morals and words of advice when he doesn’t know the world outside his own nose! The insufferable little shit!
And yet his shinobi looks at him with nothing but adoration in his eyes, like a loyal dog looks at its master.
It is unbearable.
Outside, something is moving.
Genichiro’s head shoots up from where it was propped against the wall and his healthier shoulder while his hand flies for his sword, only to find its scabbard empty.
Something akin to panic surges in his chest; where the hell is his sword?! He remembers clinging to it at death, but… did he drop it afterwards? No, no, it has to be somewhere here, he wouldn’t have left it behind, he couldn’t possibly have been that stupid—
It moves again, rustling through dying leaves and dry branches.
Everything in Genichiro stills to listen. His heartbeat echoes like the bell of Senpou Temple in his ears as he watches, waits, anticipates, his senses so sharpened by the bloodrush the world around seems to move at half speed.
Minutes tick by…
…and the shrine remains enveloped in the same eerie calm as always.
Genichiro falls limp against the wall, freeing the exhale he’d been holding long enough to make him light-headed. He must’ve dozed off and dreamt it, that’s all. No one has any reason to come here—hell, no one even remembers this place exists!
How long was I asleep?
He runs a rough hand over his face before throwing a drowsy glance at the entrance of the shrine, still outlined with daylight. Then he inspects his injuries, now dry scabs and patches of blue and purple bruises. A few hours, he’d estimate, unless he has been out cold for days—
Someone speaks.
Their voice is too vague and distant for Genichiro to identify, but also far too real to be chalked up to his imagination. His breath hitches in his throat when another pipes up from much closer to his hideaway, but, he reassures himself, they could still be simple wanderers—a short-lived hope, cut down young by a third one joining the discussion practically from the shrine’s doorstep.
But—how would they know where to look..!
Despite the freezing cold, Genichiro feels beads of sweat forming on his skin.
In total, he counts four separate footfalls. Judging from the grinding and creaking of metal and leather, at least one of them is wearing a full armour; the others sound to have a much lighter air to them, but he knows better than to think they were any less lethal.
They take positions around the shrine, trapping him in like a bear in its den. Time crawls by in a deafening silence; it takes a monstrous effort to keep his hands from trembling, to keep his breath steady.
Then, finally, a thunderous voice cuts through the false calm and sets off the storm.
It is a voice he knows—and fears.
“Genichiro!” Grandfather booms; it is just as effective as it was twenty years ago, sending the young lord shrinking against the mouldy wood. “Get out here and face me!”
He’s not serious! Inside Genichiro’s head, his adult self is hauling the cowering child in him up by the collar. Grandfather would never do it! He would never truly harm me—
A series of ear-splitting bangs blasts through the air, and right after four bullets rip a part of the shrine wall into splinters, sending him scrambling down to the floor with wide, dumbstruck eyes.
That old bastard! He even brought his gun!
“Do not make me come and get you, boy!”
This really is it, then; Grandfather has come to finish what Shinobi of the Divine Heir started and cut his pitiful grandson down for good. Genichiro should have expected as much, he supposes, but it hardly makes the realisation more palatable.
No matter. If a fight is what Grandfather wants, a fight is what he’ll get.
Genichiro heaves himself up and staggers to the door of the shrine. His right hand prepares itself on the handle of his knife, the other paws through the remaining arrows in his quiver; every single fibre in him screams in protest, but he pushes through the pain, despair and fatigue with pure, Sediment-induced fury.
He kicks the door off its hinges, too high on the rage to feel the stab of pain in his wrecked ankle, and steps out.
As expected, Grandfather is standing closest to the shrine, his wrinkled hand relaxed over the hilt of his sword. To his left, Ujinari, to his right, Jinsuke and Masaji; the most trusted and the deadliest of his men—at least of the few still left.
It really doesn’t look like they plan on giving Genichiro a chance in this fight.
Yet another smack in the face, yet another punch in the gut. So I am well and truly alone, Genichiro frowns, trying to wipe the grief and dismay from his face with the side of his hand.
“Grandfather,” he growls through bared teeth. Isshin remains silent, but his gaze is sharp and unrelenting and immediately homes in on the knife on his grandson’s hip. “Have you come to end me? Like you would an errant dog?”
The world shines red. Genichiro is only half-aware of his hand flicking the knife out of its sheath, of how his sanity is slipping away from him.
“Come, then,” he rasps, “I promise you it I won’t let it be easy. I will protect Ashina, at any cost… and I will not let anyone stand in my way. Not even you, Grandfather.”
“Stop your rambling, boy, and put that knife away.”
“I’m afraid I cannot. You taught me better than that.”
Grandfather’s sole eye darkens.
“You fool.”
The Sword Saint strikes. Genichiro braces himself to meet his blade, but the old man is quick, much more so than anyone his age or state has any business being, and slips through his defences like a phantom.
A flash of white, and it’s already too late.
Grandfather snatches Genichiro’s ear in his pincer-like grip and yanks.
The screech that escapes from the younger lord is the most pathetic, undignified sound the land of Ashina has ever heard.
Grandfather tears at Genichiro’s ear, dragging him tumbling down on his knees in the snow, and suddenly it is as though they were both twenty years younger and Isshin had just caught his grandson in the tea room amidst the remains of a priceless porcelain service with a football in his hands.
“LET GO OF ME!!”
“Let go of you?” the old lord lets out a barking laugh, “After you come at me, brandishing your blade? Surely you jest!”
Another bloodcurdling cry echoes through the valleys as Isshin tightens his hold.
“Why won’t you just kill me?!” Genichiro shrieks like possessed, and fights desperately to free himself from Grandfather’s death grip. Isshin responds by twisting his ear around itself, drawing out a long chain of agonised yelps and hisses, and for a moment Genichiro fears it might tear off. Then Isshin twists further, and Genichiro begins to hope it will tear off, because at least then this torment would end.
“Silence, boy! Did you really think I would simply watch from afar as you destroy yourself? What kind of a grandfather do you take me for? You moron! Dunce! Absolute blockhead!”
The unflappability of Grandfather’s men is truly admirable. Each of the three watches their reigning lord and clan leader get dragged wailing and kicking through dirt and snow with scarcely a twitch, faces schooled into impassive masks of stone. Not that Genichiro would know anything of the expressions they bear, he’s too damn ashamed to ever look in their general direction again, but suppose there is some solace in knowing they still hold enough respect for him to not laugh straight at his face.
Gods, how much more merciful a fate death would have been.
After what feels like an eternity in Hell but in reality amounts to mere minutes, Isshin finally releases his grandson from his iron grip, leaving him to crumble down into a pitiful little heap.
Since his earliest childhood, Genichiro has liked to see himself as a ferocious tiger whose roars send the rest of the forest fleeing in terror. Grandfather, however, has always preferred to compare him to a new-born deer, stumbling over its own limbs in its haste to run when it has yet to learn to walk; he finally sees the resemblance, sprawled over the ground with a clump of snow pressed against his ear as he is.
Grandfather lays a hand on the crown of his head, drawing out a startled, strangled croak. It rests there for a while, tense as though anticipating some kind of retaliation, but when none comes it begins to gently comb through the dirtied locks.
“Foolish grandchild,” he sighs. The sternness of his voice has melted into fondness. “Come. Let us go home.”
Genichiro nods and scrambles to his feet, making sure to keep his gaze glued to the ground and his face hidden.
It will take a long time before he feels like a lord again.
Ujinari hands him a haori and a pair of socks and sandals, and graciously pretends he doesn’t hear how his breath trembles with every exhale. Jinsuke passes a case of pellets in his palm and kindly looks past the canyons tears of humiliation have carved through the grime caked on his face. Neither of them say a word, and Genichiro could not be more grateful of it.
As the rush of survival abates and the tension in his muscles breaks, exhaustion—both physical and mental—lumbers in to take their place. His limbs weigh like lead and neck bends under its burden, and were it up to him, he probably would have stayed in that same spot until the end of time. Grandfather gives him no such option; he nudges him going, his large palm a steady patch of warmth between his shoulder blades as he steadies his wobbling heir; another reenactment of days long gone.
Genichiro takes a tentative step, his jaws clamping together when his mangled ankle makes its opposition clear. One step at a time, he tells himself, you have lived through worse. One, two, three…
Turns out, there are a lot of steps to take to reach the castle.
“My lord,” Masaji’s voice is deep and rough as always, but holds a rare tenderness to it when he moves in to stop his limping lord, “The walk is too long for that foot. Please, allow me.”
Genichiro has not yet been humiliated enough for the day, it appears. He tries to refuse, tries to insist it will be fine, almost pleads at least let me return to Ashina on my own feet, but Masaji is irritatingly immoveable.
To tolerate Isshin Ashina for forty years, suppose one has to be.
“You’ve grown since I last carried you,” the man says with a good-hearted chuckle once Genichiro has clambered up on his back, managing to draw a weak smile out of the young lord.
“Too much for you to carry, perhaps?”
Masaji scoffs, but no offense is taken. “Nonsense,” he says, “I could carry all four of you, with no struggle!”
“I’ll be curious to see that,” says Jinsuke with an amused lilt, “But it will have to wait until Lord Genichiro has healed.”
“We should pit him against his brother while we are at it,” Ujinari chimes in, “once the old Gyoubu is fit to leave the doctor's ward.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve always wondered which one of you two brutes is stronger, you or Masataka.”
“Most regrettably, I might have to admit it’s him. But I am without a doubt the handsome one of us.”
“If that is true, then why do you hide your face behind that mask?”
“Elementary, my dear Ujinari. The ladies would not stop flocking in if I didn’t.”
“Pft. Is that so.”
Genichiro tunes out of their friendly banter to settle his head against Masaji’s shoulder, eyes quietly following Isshin walking next to them. Grandfather’s stride is still as fiery as ever, despite his high age and years shadowed by the illness.
“How did you find me?”
The old lord scoffs as if the answer were obvious. “You have been coming here to sulk for the last fifteen years. There was no need to look anywhere else.”
Genichiro blinks at the surprise, feeling the all too familiar heat of embarrassment tingling over his face.
“I… I thought you didn't know. I thought no one did.”
Grandfather shakes his head and lets out a deep, weary sigh. “…You are nowhere as sneaky as you believe, my boy.”
Genichiro doesn’t think that’s true, he thinks he is actually very sneaky and they only found him by a lucky guess, but doesn’t have the strength to argue about it right now.
Instead, he turns his face away and lets himself drift off to sleep.