Chapter Text
"We're almost there," calls the strangely dressed man pulling the cart. His sound is cluttered, awkward, but kind. "Another hour or so."
Zenko says nothing. She jolts slightly when the cart runs over a small rock, and remains quiet when the man hastily apologizes. The words can't seem to leave her throat.
"I'm Goto, by the way. I, uh. Don't think I introduced myself before." He hadn't. "You're Inadama Zenko, right?"
"Agatsuma," Zenko corrects, voice hoarse.
"…Oh. Sorry," he says, and he sounds like he means it. "I just thought… since you're… ah. Nevermind."
The cart rattles along. There's two onigiri wrapped neatly in a box next to her; Goto had made sure to stop by a food stall and get her something shortly after they'd left her home— or, what used to be her home. She'd protested against it, but he'd insisted she'd be hungry later.
She doubts it, though she appreciates the kindness. The thought of consuming anything, anything at all, reminds her too much of that night. When she closes her eyes and concentrates, the sounds replay in her ears— teeth tearing into meat, smacking against each other. Breaths lobbied in between frantic swallows, a heavy, spiralling sound pulsating all throughout—
Her stomach lurches. She fixes her sight on the horizon, at the trees that grow smaller and smaller as they go along. Far off into the distance, she can still see that mountain.
"…Have you ever visited the Roaring Hashira's estate before?" Goto asks after a while.
Zenko shakes her head. Then she remembers Goto can't see her, and says, "No."
"Ah." His tone is jilted, awkward. "Well, it's very nice. Spacious. I'm sure you'll like it."
You're going to be living there, after all, goes unsaid.
She doesn't need her advanced hearing to know that Goto pities her. Its clear in the way he talks to her, in the way he fights to keep the mood from getting too heavy. He's the first person she's properly talked to in what feels like ages, and for that reason, she can't help herself from risking his patience.
"Do you," Zenko gets out, swallowing hoarsely. Goto doesn't push her, but he does slow the cart down, ever so slightly. "I mean. Did he… say anything to you?"
"Huh?"
"Do you know why he's… letting me stay?"
"…No," Goto replies, carefully. "Uh, I'll be honest, I've never really spoken one-on-one with Inadama-dono. He's very, uh. Reserved."
So he doesn't talk to her, and he doesn't talk to other people. Zenko doesn't know if that makes her feel better or worse.
"But, I wouldn't worry," he continues after a moment. "He's your family, isn't he? Family always sticks together."
Family.
Zenko opens her mouth to say something. Instead, her breath hitches, and her eyes well up with tears. She bites back a sob, forcing her head down and clenching her fists until her knuckles turn white.
Goto's sound wilts, as if realizing he'd made some sort of misstep. Zenko wants to apologize, reassure him, maybe, but the words remain stuck in her throat, just beneath another breakdown. She doesn't want to cry right now.
The rest of the trip passes in silence.
The estate is about as big as Zenko imagined it would be, which says a lot, since even she can admit her imagination can get away from her. Grand, imposing— traditional. Dark wood walls, roof tiles tinged a deep blue, a towering height that makes her eyes go wide. Polished stone pathways sprout from the main path, towards the vast training ground behind the mansion, and to the left—
Zenko hears rushing water, the gentle hiss of steam. Bathhouses. More than one.
If it didn't make her sick with guilt, she'd admit she's relieved at the thought of never having to share a bath ever again.
"Inadama-dono is returning from a meeting," Goto explains, jutting his chin towards the door as a sign to follow him. He has a single large box in his arms, matching with the smaller, thinner one Zenko holds in hers. "He'll be home within a few hours, so we can get you settled until then."
She nods, dully, as her eyes begin to wander, further inspecting the house. Omamori charms dangle from the roof awning, all across the length of the engawa, and two polished komainu statues stand guard in front of the door. She even catches glimpses of lucky bamboo in the open window.[1]
Still so superstitious, Zenko thinks as she crosses the entryway. The familiarity would be comforting, if she wasn't so bitter. He really hasn't changed at all.
Goto leads her around, keeping his pace steady so she can follow. The eastern wing of the house is filled with guest bedrooms and a large, empty dojo-like space; Goto explains that it's for training slayers. He doesn't say that Zenko isn't allowed there, but knowing Kaigaku, avoiding the East wing would probably be in her best interest.
So long as it's not forbidden, though…
Zenko envisions a room full of muscular men in gakuran pants, sweating and heaving with exertion, splashing themselves with water to cool down. She promptly turns beet red and hastily waves off Goto's concerned look.
They move past the dining room, which seems plain and polished, and past the kitchen, which seems practically untouched. Both rooms seem old-fashioned, even to her unrefined eye, and their distinct emptiness strikes her as odd.
She doubts any slayers are in here, especially when the host is gone, and a residence of this size has got to have some sort of staff, but if they do exist, she can't really hear them. The fact that none are in the kitchen, when the master of the house is set to return within hours, is… odd.
"That's the tea room," Goto says, gesturing with his hand. "No one's allowed to enter without Inadama-dono's permission, but I'm sure he'll show it to you when he returns."
Because his back is to her, Zenko feels comfortable rolling her eyes. She doesn't believe that for even a minute. That jerk is probably fuming at the thought of her even breathing near his private space, ready to exile her off somewhere in the house where he won't have to look at her. A little space far removed from the rest of the mansion, tight and enclosed and tiny —
A shiver runs down Zenko's spine. She shakes her head, rattled, trying not to think about that night, speeding up so she can walk just behind Goto.
The hallway seems endless. They pass a large room, sitting innocently on Zenko's right, and Goto glances at it but does not call it by name. They keep moving, eventually reaching a room at the end of the hall. Zenko knows, without even needing to be told, what this room is.
"Here we go," he says, pushing back the fusuma.[2]
It's big— bigger than any bedroom Zenko's ever seen in person before. There's a large futon draped in soft looking blankets and pillows towards the western wall, a dresser with a mirror off to the left of that, a small bookshelf near the end of the room, a closet right next to it. A single window, opposite to the futon, brings the sunlight in.
She's left in awe at the clear luxury— the polish on the mirror, the laquer over the wood, the pristine finish of the spines of the books— but, more than that, she's discomforted by the clear sparseness. The dresser is empty, the bookshelves contain five books, total, the floors are swept clean. The negative space is, paradoxically, overwhelming.
"This is your room," Goto sets the box down next to the futon— her futon, she realizes belatedly. "Hopefully it's to your liking, Agatsuma-san."
"I," she murmurs, unable to form any coherent thought.
Goto seems to understand, nodding patiently. "I'll give you a moment."
Zenko's throat is too dry to thank him properly, even though he's been so kind to her. It feels like a trick. It all feels like one big trick.
"I'll be back to check up on you when Inadama-dono returns," he reassures her, unaware of her inner thoughts. "But until then, just yell if you need anything, okay?"
Then he's gone. The fusuma slides shut with a definitive swshhh.
Zenko is alone.
Unsure of what to do, she decides to unpack. She'd never had much to begin with— a simple set of hairpins, a small pot of face cream, some clothes, a comb, and two ribbons she'd cherished too much to wear out. Next to that, in a neat, sturdy pile, is a bunch of writings and books that had belonged to Ji-chan. That's the first box.
Delicately, Zenko opens the second box.
There are only two things inside. First is Zenko's old diary, which hasn't had an entry for about a week. She picks it up and places it aside, stomach churning. Beneath that, is a silken kimono.
Brightly colored, impeccably crafted, glowing and beautiful. For as long as she can remember, this had been the most important thing she owned. This was what she wore in countless daydreams when her future husband, tall and handsome and protective, first gazed upon her, smitten by her beauty and diminuitive daintiness.
In real life, she had never been given the opportunity to wear it, to even unearth it from its box. She had imagined that when she finally did, it would be for something special.
Now she takes in the kimono's yellow hue, thumbing over its pattern of white triangles, and she finds she can't bear to look at it. Swallowing, blinking back a fresh bout of tears, she quickly places parchment over the kimono, then the diary on top of that, sealing it all away with the box lid. She tucks it away in the bottom corner of the empty closet, after she's checked for bugs and moisture and dust.
The other two outfits she owns go in the closet, and her cosmetics go on the dresser, and… that's that. She's unpacked.
It feels anticlimactic. Everything does. Living in a nice house was supposed to be the fullfillment of a lifelong dream, but this…
She gnaws on her lip, glancing at the bed.
She's not sure how to describe it, really. This place doesn't feel like her room, even though she knows, logically, that it is. Her cosmetics feel seperate from the dresser, her clothes feel distinct from the closet— even the bed seems like it's not for her to touch. Zenko looks around the room and feels as though she's playing pretend. Like she's once again sneaking into empty rooms in nice inns, ears open in case a matron comes by to discover her, to scream and throw her out.
But at the same time, Zenko knows that her feelings are unfounded. She would have known if this wasn't permanent, or some sort of joke. Goto had come all the way up to the mountain to collect her, and he had taken her all this way, and even gave her a small tour. Goto works for the Corps, and they wouldn't have made him waste his time like that if it wasn't necessary; nobody would have wasted any amount of time on Zenko unless it was necessary. Ji-chan was the sole exception.
And now, Ji-chan is gone.
Outside the window, the setting sun burns. Birds chirp. Flowers bloom. Water rushes. The wind blows. Far beyond that, slayers roam the lands. Demons, too.
Inside, Zenko is alone.
In an hour, her hair is combed, and her clothes are clean, and even her face is washed, and she stands outside as the sun begins to dip below it's peak in the sky. Goto stands behind her, presumably for support.
She can't help but get the feeling that it's just to make sure she doesn't run away.
Zenko is a coward, but she won't run. No matter how tempting it is, she steadies herself, clenched fists clammy with sweat, forcing herself to peek up through her eyelashes.
Kaigaku looks just about the same as he did after Final Selection, all those years ago. But as he steps towards them, a permanent furrow in his brow, blue haori billowing with the movement, Zenko can pick out some differences. A crescent scar under his right eye. Sharper features, like the little baby fat he'd retained at seventeen had been scraped off with a blade. And his sound…
Kaigaku's sound dominates the space, still as thunderous and stormy as she remembers it being, but it's more muted, as if refrained. Beneath that, there's surprise, confusion, even— which perplexes Zenko until she remembers her bright blonde hair. The last time Kaigaku had seen her, it'd been black. And in her defense, she did write to him about it— it's just pretty likely he ignored it.
But if it really throws him off his guard, it doesn't show on his face, considering he's already scowling. He looks more… tired, than he did before. Weary, almost. Visibly older.
That, and—
Kaigaku stops just before her, gaze so intense she shrinks under it.
Yep. Definitely taller.
"Zenko," he says, voice deceptively even. "Its been a while."