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Kuroh skidded to a halt once he was certain that he had taken Kukuri out of danger, just as Shiro had ordered. They were standing at about the center of the huge bridge that connected Ashinaka High School to the mainland, just behind Scepter 4’s barricade. He was certain Kukuri would be safe here, leaving him free to return to Shiro’s side. Kuroh wasn’t sure why, but Shiro’s words before leaving to destroy the Colorless King had sounded more like a goodbye than a simple farewell.
“Take Kukuri to safety for me; she’s been through a lot, so leave her someplace she won’t be mixed up in the fighting. Watch out for her afterward for a bit; who knows what mental damage harboring the Colorless King in her body has done? And Kuroh- make sure Neko stays safe, too. Tell her I love her, okay? I love you both so, so much.”
And then he was gone. That was it. With a soft snarl, Kuroh laid Kukuri’s unconscious body against the railing of the bridge, just behind the Scepter 4 trucks. No one would get past this barricade, he was sure, and although he wanted to stay until she awoke, the fact that Shiro was in life-threatening danger was tugging at him. With a final glance at the unconscious girl, Kuroh straightened up and let his left hand fall to rest on the hilt of his sword- the same sword he had tried to assassinate Shiro with so many times before, back when everyone thought Shiro had killed Totsuka Tatara. But Shiro? Kuroh snorted. He couldn’t even imagine kind, shy Shiro hurting a fly. How had he once thought that that gentle-hearted king had been a murderer? Shiro was many things, but a murderer was not one of them. That was probably why Shiro hadn’t died by Kuroh’s sword; Kuroh had gradually discovered that he himself wasn’t a murderer, either. He had known he would never be able to kill Shiro long before the king had stopped trying to prove his innocence to him.
As a wanderer, a loner, whatever else one might call it, Kuroh had had no home. After Ichigen Miwa, his father, the man who raised him, had died, he was left with nowhere to go. No instructions but to kill the Colorless King, in accordance with his father’s final wish. But after that? He had never even considered what would happen next until he met Shiro and Neko. They had become his family somehow.
When, exactly, that had become the hard truth was not very clear to Kuroh, though he suspected the night in the rain when Shiro had realized he had lost his memory- that everything he had so strongly believed in was all an intricate illusion. All that was left real to the Silver King had been the young illusionist at his side and the swordsman who had been sent to kill him. Neko was really nothing but a girl whom Shiro had been burdened with caring for rather abruptly. And Kuroh had been a danger to the both of them back then, constantly biding his time and waiting for an opening in which to kill the girl’s sole guardian. Yes, that night in the rain had been the perfect opportunity…
Shiro had been unsure of himself, and Neko was evading Scepter 4 with her illusions; that left no one else to protect the young king. Kuroh could remember those amber eyes, golden even, in the light of the stadium, the mirror of his own silver, slipping closing, his head tipping back, throat bared to Kuroh’s sword and to death. Kuroh should have killed him then, yet he hadn’t. He had given the broken king a second chance, become an ally rather than enemy, and they had set out to destroy the Colorless King together. As the time passed, the three of them had grown into… well, almost a kind of dysfunctional family.
Kuroh wasn’t certain why these memories were surfacing so suddenly, as they were his strongest memories of Shiro and Neko. It had been two years now, since he had first decided to kill the Silver King. Two years of struggling to, ironically, both protect and destroy in almost equal measure. Two years of putting up with this crazily mismatched family that Kuroh had somehow come to love.
Yet, it all ended in the moment when he turned and saw the silver Sword of Damocles burning in the sky. It was Shiro’s mark as a king, the representation of his Weismann level, and it was hovering on the verge of the battle between the two other kings; the Blue and the Red. But as he watched, the Red Sword’s power surged suddenly, becoming a tornado of purple flames that swirled above the trees where the three swords hung in the night sky. Kuroh stared, eyes wide in disbelief as the tornado of fire enveloped Shiro’s silver sword. He saw it waver for a moment, Shiro’s token resistance against the flames, seconds that lasted an eternity for Kuroh. But then it had faded, the silver dust swept up in the tornado of red, Shiro’s gentle power lost forever in Homra’s red.
Kuroh was barely aware of anything but the pain in his chest as he fell to his knees, the tears streaking down his cheeks, trembling silver eyes never leaving the spot in the sky where Shiro’s sword had been projected only heartbeats before. He wasn’t aware of the red sword turning black as Mikoto’s Weismann levels were exceeded with the effort it took to end Shiro’s life. He wasn’t aware of the now-black sword beginning to plummet through the sky to the ground, before it was abruptly reduced to black ash that was caught up and swept away in the wind.
“How could you..." he choked, his hands clenching into fists. “How could you?!”
Now, kneeling beside Shiro’s grave with Neko at his side, Kuroh fought the tears that filled his silver eyes. Such an unusual color, Shiro had said. Shiro, who had eyes the color of the sun, of burnt amber and summer, had thought silver eyes were uncommon. Now, Kuroh absent-mindedly wondered how long he would be able to conjure their unusual color so easily.
Beside him, Neko reached up to place her small hand over Kuroh’s.
“Don’t cry, Kuro…” she murmured, her own blue eyes darkened by sadness. Kuroh blinked at the nickname; he hadn’t heard it in a long time.
“Kuro?” He asked her absently, eyes settling on the darkening sky; it was burning red now, undoubtedly the same color Shiro had seen fill his vision before being lost forever.
“Yes.” Neko murmured softly, in answer to Kuroh’s question. “After all, you call Yashiro Shiro. And he called you Kuro, like I did. Black and White.” The young girl laughed quietly to herself, her hand reaching out to trace the letters on the gravestone. “Yashiro Isana,” she sighed softly. “The Silver King… How, Kuro? How is Yashiro the Silver King?” Kuroh looked away so Neko wouldn’t notice the sadness in his gaze, for he knew that she of all people would.
“I don’t know,” He murmured. “He was a good king, though.” Neko smiled behind him.
“The best.” She agreed quietly, tears welling in her own eyes. “He was our king, Kuro.”
“Kuroh.” He corrected after a moment. “Call me Kuroh.” The old nickname was proving too painful. The illusionist sighed at his side.
“Kuroh…” She tried brokenly. Then, after a moment of thought, “…I can’t. It doesn’t sound right.”
Neko whimpered sadly, wiping furiously at the tears in her eyes.
“Kuroh?” It was another voice behind them, one Kuroh didn’t dare believe, one that was achingly, heart-breakingly familiar. “Are you abandoning that old nickname, Kuro? And after I worked so hard to replace the last one… shame on you.” The voice was teasing, cheerful, and exhausted all at the same time as Kuroh and Neko turned to face the Silver King where he stood behind them, gold eyes seemingly catching all the colors of the sunset at their backs.
“Shiro…” Neko breathed, wide-eyed. “Shiro…you came back!” The young girl’s joyful voice broke as she stood and reached forward to envelop the boy into an almost constricting hug. “Shiro, Shiro…” She was sobbing now as she held him. Kuroh could do nothing as Shiro let Neko pull him down onto his knees and then as the Silver King reached out to pull Kuroh into their hug as well. Kuroh wrapped his arms around the two of them, pulling them close. It was all right now. Whatever happened now, they would manage to face to together.