Chapter Text
His breath clouded his vision for a second. Ahead, the landscape painted in white greeted him as the mist dissipated. He paused for an instant, extending his senses; nothing had truly changed in a decade, not since the last time he had stood there.
Whenever he climbed that mountain, it was always winter. Snow covered the entire path; ice crystals took the place of foliage. In the silence, the only occasional sounds were the whistling of the wind and the creaking of old wood. A few more steps and he could see the old cabin: the boards were loose, and there were holes in the thatched roof. When that vision emerged, he unconsciously held his breath, not wishing to catch any scent.
It didn't matter how much logic rendered his fear impossible—nearly five centuries later, there would no longer be the smell of blood and rotting flesh. Yet, he always felt it. It seized his nostrils, filled his lungs, and bile rose in his throat. He wouldn't die from not breathing; therefore, he would firmly hold his breath, relinquishing one of his greatest weapons: his sense of smell. It was a small price to pay to offer his tribute to his family, certainly nothing compared to what he had already sacrificed.
With the clouds growing thicker, the sun was barely visible; still, he was careful to cover himself entirely, even though the cold had long since ceased to bother him. On the other hand, if the sun were to suddenly appear, his instincts would urge him to seek the nearest shelter before his skin burned and turned to dust.
Without much haste, he circled the small cabin, his footsteps sinking silently into the snow. His family’s grave was covered in white, like everything else. For the next few minutes, he was careful to clear the excess snow and rearrange the stones that marked the resting place of his mother, father, and siblings.
The world grew grayer when he finally knelt, clapping his hands and closing his eyes in a silent prayer. Being there was like a double-edged sword: his mind was flooded with memories of a better time, and yet, he was simultaneously reminded of everything he had lost. He could feel the discomfort in his chest, the burning behind his eyes. It was disturbingly tempting to give in; however, he knew better. If he did, he didn't know if he would be able to compose himself again. In this life, there was no room for weakness—he had learned that lesson in the cruelest way.
If he was still there, alive, gritting his teeth and fighting, it was for a fleeting hope. Somewhere, there was someone he desired more than anything. For her sake, he was willing to do everything. It was for her that he became what he was: to find her, to save her, and to ensure that, at least with her, he would not fail—not more than he already had.
For Nezuko, Tanjiro gave his soul to the devil himself.
He claimed he didn't regret it. He claimed he was fine. The truth was that he had broken a long time ago.
Alone in the silence of winter, he imagined hearing his siblings' laughter, his mother’s sweet voice, and the humming of a content Nezuko. Lost in that utopian illusion, he let time pass without notice. When his eyes—of a reddish-lilac hue—opened once more, a blue-hued blade broke the silence with a sharp whistle.