Chapter Text
Kongō had always been the definition of the perfect child. The tutors called her bright, the maids cute and her sisters loved her as much as she did them – she only wished her father would love her, too.
Once, Kongō tried to be more like her sisters: outgoing like Kirishima, curious like Hiei, deeply absorbed in the world of books like Haruna.
It didn't work, so she assumed her sin was looking so much like the blonde woman on the old painting she knew was her mother.
When she got older, the resignation turned into hate, the feeling pooling around her teeth like acid.
Kongō decided to stay by herself – the garden and her books were good enough.
The hound who one day appeared out of the bushes in the garden was unnatural.
Her fur was as dark as a hole in space, eyes a red that makes it impossible to tell whether they glow or not and body much bigger than even a wolf's.
Apparently, she happened to terrify Kongō’s father, though she didn't cause any harm.
In fact, the Hound – whose name Kongō would never learn – happily played with her, protected her from what small dangers existed even as a well-guarded noble child and spent time with her for the cause of it.
What hole Kongō's father had left was more and more filled by warm, lightless fur. She liked hiding in it when the man got annoying.
A long, long time ago, Kongō’s father had visited the western demon lord's domain; a pitch black tower in the centre of the ruins of an old civilisation, countless visible and invisible eyes having tracked every move.
The Hound's human form had been taller than most humans, skin not less dark, eyes not less piercing, ears not less sharp.
He had offered his unborn first child to the demon dressed in the red of the ruins outside, a proposal to save the life of his ill, pregnant wife.
It had been his – and Kongō's – luck that the Hound happened to know and like the maternal half-sister she would never meet.
However, intelligence alone didn’t make a scientist; neither now, nor then.
The demon had cursed what would become Kongō, the child's appearance slowly changing as her body grew.
Now, the right side of her body had already turned black, the corresponding eye a maybe-maybe-not-glowing purple.
Kongō supposed the Hound was now, more than ever, more her father than her father could ever be.
Even as her new appearance and the loyal, giant dog invited both fear and jealousy, Kongō couldn't help but think that the life she now lived – one where her father let her be and she could gather her sisters around – was one she liked.
Some day in the future, the Hound would propose that her father had most likely felt guilt, that he hadn't wanted to grow attached to a child he'd sold.
Kongō would answer that that, still, meant that he didn't understand the meaning of “family”.