Chapter Text
General Gorou did not usually frequent the maritime patrols of Yashiori Island, as he personally found he was better with his nose to the ground on the frontline, amongst the majority of his troops. However, a recent wave of sickness - attributed to bad food supplies - had seen many of the usuals for this particular route out of commission, and he had put his hand up for the job before he could really consider if it was a good idea or not.
And yet, Yashiori was disputed territory, and had been for a majority of the Vision Hunt Decree’s lifetime; whichever army managed to claim the island would claim an advantage in any future struggles between them. Therefore, the Resistance could not give the Shogunate so much as an inch, if they could help it. So, despite the fact he had not properly been on the ocean in months, and that he never ever truly got used to sea travel, Gorou would be commandeering a nighttime patrol of the southern coast, where the cliffs were tallest and most perilous, and most likely to conceal enemy troops.
That was how he had found himself on a humble fishing boat shabbily disguised as a proud Sangonomiya war vessel in the miserable dead of night; which in turn was how he found himself unable to find his sea legs as the ever-present storm swirling over Inazuma rose in intensity.
They had been not an hour into their patrol when the grey waves began to buck and toss the vessel like a child's bath time plaything. The sky, rolling with rain-heavy clouds, pressed down on them and unleashed a tempest that would put the Anemo Archon himself to shame. Lightning lanced through the sky, threatening their vessel like a dog biting at their heels. It seemed to be all they could do to simply keep afloat, as water threw men as if they were dolls across the deck, threatening to sweep them into the roiling deep below. Gorou found himself gripping the railing at the helm until his knuckles were white, long soaked to the bone, rain stinging his face as he desperately tried to call his men to action.
“Keep the water off the deck!" He shouted, gesturing feebly as wave after wave threatened to sink them below for good, “Use your helmets if you have to! Hold fast, men!"
It was pointless, really. The sheer chaos and desperation amid the low visibility of the rain and seaspray meant the men were less concerned with following orders, and more worried about simply staying aboard the boat. The General's words were carelessly carried away with the wind as soon as he spoke them.
That was why, when he saw the bow of a Shogunate vessel breach through the darkness, sailing directly for them at breakneck speed, his warning cry fell on deafened ears.
The starboard side hull of their boat crumpled like paper from the impact. Gorou yelped as he was violently shaken off of his feet, and for a few moments, his world spun, the sound of wood breaking like bones filling his head. He could not have been on his hands and knees for more than a handful of seconds, but when he looked up, enemy Shogunate soldiers had already begun to descend upon them, the scene akin to that of vultures to a fresh carcass.
Whether he ordered his men to engage or not was irrelevant; it was a frenzy of life or death, and death already had the Resistance by the ankles. The night was a swarm of weapons and bodies, the screams rising to match the howl of the storm. Before he could fully comprehend where he was and what he was doing, Gorou found himself in the thick of the skirmish. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, a partially snapped polearm in his hands, his feet slipped on the slick deck. Was it water, or was it blood? He bared his teeth as he grabbed and pushed bodies aside, desperately trying to find one of his men, anyone, he could aid.
But in the din, it was impossible to tell who was crossing blades with who. Faces - faces he should recognise and distinguish from one another - blurred past him. All with the same awful, terrible expressions: elation, fury, fear.
Bloodlust. Terror. Agony.
Twisted, beyond all recognition, until they no longer appeared human to him at all.
“Watatsumi filth!"
He heard it too late, and spun only to be met with the flash of steel and the bloodthirsty grin of an enemy soldier. Gorou's weapon was pressed to his body before could retaliate, and he cried out as a searing pain shot through his torso. He was pinned to the railing by a spear, and it was all he could do to grab wildly at the weapon, in a futile effort to stop it from digging deeper. He groaned loudly, the metallic taste of iron filling his mouth as he felt the spearhead breach through the other side of his abdomen.
It hurts, oh Gods, it hurts!
The brim of the soldier's helmet covered their eyes - he could not tell if they were man or woman -, but Gorou could feel the malice dripping from them all the same, as they twisted the spear for good measure.
“Shame of Inazuma!" The soldier spat in Gorou's face, barely flinching even as the General grabbed at their face, trying anything, anything, to injure or distract them, even as his consciousness swam, the world in all its chaos losing focus. He could feel his own blood streaming from his wound, his life draining quicker than he could think. But even now, a growl rose up in his throat in response, his eyes wild, daring the soldier to try and kill him.
He would die standing, in defiance. He would choose that much.
The soldier grinned wider in response, “The Shogun would see you eradicated, and I would be more than happy t-- hrk...!"
The soldier faltered, mouth flapping, and looked down dumbly, as the tip of a sword sprouted from their chest. They babbled unintelligibly, blood bubbling up in their mouth as the sword was pushed up, further, further, threatening to carve them in two. Time lingered there for a moment, warm blood falling like gentle rain on Gorou's cheeks, before whoever it was who had just unknowingly saved him spoke, pure hatred in their voice.
“May the depths claim you… though it is more than you Shogunate dogs deserve."
Gorou barely had time to consider what that meant, before the body of his assailant, now limp and silent, was brutally shoved into him, and flipped over the railing. His tiny frame, still impaled, was dragged overboard with the dead weight before he could utter a sound.
He tried to scream, but the blood in his throat caught the sound before it could escape. He fell for what felt like lifetimes, the world now just blotches of grey, the sound of ringing steel and cries of anguish washing away into a low hum, giving way to his heartbeat thumping impossibly loud in his head. It felt slow, too slow, too loud.
Ah.
His last thought, before the waves, coaxed ever on by the tempestuous winds, caught his body and swept him away.
It's finally over, isn't it?
✧✧✧
He would later remember not knowing whether he was facing the sky or the ocean, breathing air or saltwater, whether he was alive or dead. He would remember his blood becoming ink, thick and sweet, painting the sea a deep indigo. He would remember feeling the sea calling him, the rushing water in his ears cooing him, soothing him. All will be well, in the end.
Lastly, he would remember feeling like he could let go, that it would be easier than trying to hold onto the fraying thread of his life. He could rest, finally, rest.
And so, let go he did.
Arataki Itto was a frivolous man, not that he knew exactly what that meant; he was just called that a lot. But the way Granny Oni shuttered the windows whenever Shogunate soldiers were nearby (“It’s just a little hot today is all, my dear,” she’d say, her brow furrowed deeper than he had ever seen before); the knowledge that some of the Vision holders he knew had not been seen in weeks; the fact that the local children he regularly played with no longer openly wished to one day be gifted a Vision; even he knew it was serious. He resented the Shogun for the depressing mood it seemed to place on everyone, but for the most part, he had tried to keep as low a profile as he could. He could get by on his own. He always did.
The trouble started when supplies in Inazuma began to thin. Many food and water rations went directly to the front line, leaving much to be desired for the common folk of Narukami. And with refugees flooding in from Yashiori and Kannazuka, there was less and less to go around. Break-ins were becoming more common, arguments and squabbles over the produce from the communal gardens in Hanamizaka a regular sight. People were on the edge of starvation, and now when Itto walked through the village, all he could see in their eyes was desperation. That, and fear.
The thought of turning to robbery to survive would occasionally cross his mind, however he squashed those thoughts before they could grow and fester. He knew all too well what it was like to live not knowing when he would eat next, but he was not about to become the one to take it from others in need. Not after what he’d been through. Not after what Granny had been through on his behalf.
And so, when Granny returned from the city, the burlap sack they used to store rice weighing heavier on its own than the food they had been rationed, Itto made a decision.
He instructed Genta, who lived the closest to them, to look out for Granny, keep her safe and fed as best he could. Strapping his greatsword to his back, daring only to take a half-filled waterskin, he struck out in the dead hours of the morning, when the night shift guards were at their bleariest. The low grey sky accompanied him with a rumble of thunder as he stole along the cliffs of the Byakko Plain, skirting across the bank towards the deserted island of Amakane. By sheer dumb luck (which was how he did most things, anyway), an old wooden dingy had been haphazardly left by the shore, clearly forgotten and left to the elements. Uttering a word of apology under his breath, he pushed it to sea, leaving Narukami in the dull morning haze behind him.
Getting past the Shogunate encampment on Kannazuka was by far the most tense part of his trip; for once, Itto was glad to catch sight of the symbol of the Raiden Shogun being flown high, giving him ample warning to give that part of the island a wide berth. He sailed low and slow, against his baser instinct to hurry and get it over with, and by the grace of the low morning sea fog, he felt he managed to stealth by unnoticed.
He continued toward Tatarasuna, where he vaguely knew some kind of mine existed, though that was not the reason for it being his destination. No, the reason he headed there was because neither the Shogunate nor the Sangonomiya rebels held permanent sway on the island. As far as he had heard, the two armies had struggled for control ever since the Decree had begun, and thus, the island was largely abandoned.
Abandoned… and abundant with supplies ripe for the taking, as far as Itto was concerned.
Using the tall southern cliffs as cover, Itto steered his boat to shore and pulled it onto the sand to prevent it from drifting away. It must have been around midday, though it was difficult to tell as the clouds had only darkened as the day went on, casting the entire island in an eerie grey gloom. He gave himself a moment to stretch, mentally patting himself on the back for a successful stealth mission, before breathing out long and hard through his nose and beginning his hunt.
He began nearby, where he had spotted what looked like small miner’s huts nestled into the rocky cliffs. After giving a cursory inspection to see if anyone lived there (the thick layer of dust on the furniture suggested otherwise), Itto spent hours rummaging through crates and chests, sourcing blankets, lanterns, dry food such as biscuits, wheat and rice, and some produce that had only slightly begun to turn. He even found some naku weed, which he knew was good for medicine. Granny’s joints sometimes groaned louder than the watermill that stood in the centre of Hanamizaka.
Despite his powerful physique, it was hard work climbing up and down the rocks, and it felt like he had only taken his first break of the day when he realised he only had less than an hour of light left. Not enough to finish carting what he had found to his boat, and definitely not enough to get back to Narukami. Itto stood for a while, scratching at the base of his horns in thought. Ordinarily, he was the type to take the risk of trying to sneak back in the dark of the night. However, as he idly scanned the horizon, the sky responded with an angry crack of thunder and a flash of lightning, as if to warn him.
“Okay, fine,” he replied in turn, sighing through his nose. Thought before action, he heard his Granny chortle at him in his head. It wasn’t often he fully heeded her words. But this felt too important to risk - not for his own safety (he very rarely cared about that), but for the fact that he had supplies here that could last a long time if they were careful. Flinging a worn burlap tarp over the boat and weighing it down with rocks, Itto found a sheltered alcove to bunker down for the night.
It was sandy, damp and slightly stunk of rotting seaweed, but in all honesty, he had slept in worse. He started a rather sorry looking campfire (more smoke than fire, really) and chewed on some fish jerky and fresh lavender melons he had found, watching as the storm only worsened, the sky taking on a deep purple colour as the wind and rain picked up. The waves rolled violent and grey, reaching across the shore toward him as if trying desperately to pull him under. He watched half in amusement, before his eyelids eventually drooped lower and lower, and he slipped into a deep, exhaustion-induced slumber.
✦✦✦
The sound of screaming seagulls was what jolted him out of sleep. Itto sat up with a start, forgetting where he was, wondering in his sleep-addled haze why there was sand plastered to his face and a briny taste in his mouth. After blinking his eyes several times, he remembered in sequence: Arataki Itto, supplies, Tatarasuna, storm, less-than-ideal sleeping situation.
His muscles ached in protest as he stood and after checking his hair was not too out of place, went to assess the damage from the storm. A surprising amount of debris, mostly what looked like broken planks of wood, had washed ashore; thanks to the violent waves, he guessed. Thankfully, his dingy remained where he left it, more or less unscathed. The tarp had unfortunately blown halfway off, exposing some of his supplies to the elements. Seagulls perched upon the crates of food, helping themselves to his hard-earned loot.
“Hey hey HEY, get off! Get!” Itto flailed wildly at the birds, pulling the tarp over the crates once again, “That’s mine!” The gulls screamed at him and fled in a shower of feathers, the oni glaring after them in indignation. He frantically checked the damage; they had gotten into the produce, he realised with a grit of his teeth. He briefly considered just leaving it as it was, but in his heart he was too proud to turn back up at home with molested vegetables. He’d have to find something else to make up for it.
Thankfully, his experience living on his own - surviving not by the charity of others but through his own force of will - would come in handy once again. And that experience told him that storms washed up not only debris and driftwood, but also clams, crabs and seaweed. It wouldn’t be luxurious, but food is food - his grumbling stomach also reminded him of that. Fetching his greatsword and a moth-eaten sack, he grabbed a good sized fallen branch for digging in the sand, and set to work combing the beach.
✦✦✦
The dark clouds from yesterday’s storm had lightened to a soft grey, diffusing the light from the sun’s hiding spot behind them. Therefore, he could not quite tell what time of day it was, though he knew he had awoken quite late. By the time he got to work, he guessed it may have been around midday. It would most likely be a nighttime retreat back to Narukami now that the storm had cleared, after all.
He was at his task for a good half-hour, but he was quite happy with his haul. He had collected quite a few clams (after he hungrily cracked open a few right then and there), wrangled some crabs and gathered long strips of seaweed. He even found a few freshly dead fish, which he fantasised about drying for jerky later.
In addition to things he could eat, Itto noted the sheer amount of stuff there was on the beach. Even he knew it wasn’t quite normal to see the amount of rope, wood and miscellany washed ashore. Picking up a sake bottle, excitedly turning it up only to have seawater spill out, he scratched at his chin, musing out loud.
“Musta been a shipwreck,” he nodded as if in response to himself, and kept going southward, tickled by the idea of finding something more valuable.
And he did find some more interesting things than wood and bottles, though it was not entirely what he expected. A snapped spear here, a stringless bow there. A slow realisation dawned on him that it wasn’t an average fishing boat that went down. The nature of the items he found, the fact that so many weapons lay here on the beach… it could have been a Shogunate vessel.
That thought had only just crossed his mind, as he turned what was once a handsomely handcrafted shortbow in his hand, when the glint of something caught his eye. He squinted across the strait he had arrived at, trying to catch that glint again. Perhaps if he got closer--
Itto halted in his tracks when he spotted it. There were many things he didn’t know - he got told that more often than not, to his chagrin - but he knew a body when he saw one. For right across from him, laying face down in the sand, was a small figure. A person. Still. Unmoving.
“F…fuck…” Itto mumbled under his breath. He had not even considered that if there was a shipwreck, there would, like as not, be bodies as well. He felt his stomach heave in a way that made him feel ill, and he began to turn around. There was nothing he could do about it, after all.
Or was there? What if… what if they were somehow still alive?
“Shit.” Itto bit his lip and cursed again, but not before he was already turning back and beginning to wade across the strait. The kindness in his heart, that kindness that was shown to him so many years ago, would not let him leave. His chest felt tight, blood pounded thickly in his ears. He had seen dead bodies before. Probably more so than the average person. But it was not like it was easy. It certainly did not make it any more enjoyable.
As he sloshed closer through the seawater, he could make out more of the figure’s features. Copper hair and pale skin, though whether that was from a lack of sunlight or from… well… he didn’t want to think too hard about it. He realised that it was armour that had been gleaming in the passing sunlight and… was that… a tail? His curiosity almost made him forget what he could be approaching, until he stood just a foot away from it.
He gulped thickly. They weren’t moving. But that didn’t mean they weren’t breathing. He’d have to check to be absolutely sure.
Itto squatted down unsteadily, his hands hovering over the figure’s shoulders. So tiny, he found himself thinking, uncertainty freezing him in place once again. Their garb was not Shogunate make, he realised with a pang of relief, which made him think perhaps this was a rebel soldier. The shine of a Vision at the base of their neck caught his attention too, though it appeared to be rather dulled in colour. Finally, fear gave way to panic and he grabbed the figure’s shoulder, shaking them gently. He tried to ignore how cold and clammy their skin was.
“Um, h… hey… are you, y’know, you alright?” his voice came out higher than he would have liked under ordinary circumstances, “Just give me a sign if you are. Like, a thumbs up, or something? …hello?” He gave a few more shakes, which warranted no response. He gritted his teeth, a cold dread washing over him.
“Hey… c’mon…” he pulled at their shoulder, gently, in trepidation, turning them over, against his better judgment. Was he even ready for what he might see?
He certainly wasn’t ready for just how young they looked. The young man, Itto now realised, could not have been much older than himself. He couldn’t help wiping away the sand that was caked on his face, despite how little it would help. He was cute, Itto thought. In an objective way. Obviously.
A weak cough almost too faint to hear shocked Itto so much, he almost dropped them back into the sand. This was what drew his attention to the blood on his lips, not dry, but wet. But more importantly, his lips were moving. Itto drew in a sharp breath when he finally noticed the grievous wound in the other’s side - fresh, deep, having soaked the boy's clothes almost black with blood.
He wasn’t dead. Not yet. But he would be soon, if Itto didn’t do something about it.
As gently yet as swiftly as he could, Itto scooped the injured soul into his arms, dropping his sack of food, already forgotten. With such a small frame, it was no wonder he weighed close to nothing. It was like holding an old cicada shell between his fingers; it made Itto afraid the smaller one would crumble to dust at any given moment. The oni ran back the way he came, almost bounding in his haste. His mind ran even faster, trying to recall the few lessons he had received about looking after injuries. He recited it aloud, calling it from the depths of his memory.
“Naku weed, grind it down, fresh water, boil it to be sure, cloth to bind it, stay warm. Naku weed, grind it down, fresh water, boil it to be sure, cloth to bind it, stay warm. Naku weed, grind it down, fresh water, boil it…”
He had to find shelter, something better than what he had slept in the night before. Stopping at his dingy of supplies, he rummaged one-handed while still holding the boy until he found the bundle of naku, as well as several blankets. He hesitated as he pulled away, staring longingly at his precious supplies for a moment. His mind wandered back home to Granny Oni. Akira, Genta and Mamoru.
His gang. His family…
But it was only for a moment. As if to banish the thoughts so he could focus on his new task, Itto shook his head. Then, all the while, cradling the dying young man close to his chest, begging him to live, he continued running northward.