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He remembers dying the first time.
Frozen fingers and shackles biting into his wrists. A chopping block. A sword slicing through his neck. That instant flash of pain and then a dream he can’t quite remember. Bankotsu’s voice. Maybe the other’s, too. It hurts his head to think about it too much.
It’s easier not to. More fun not to.
They wake, covered in grave dirt, tattered, filthy clothing still clinging to their reformed flesh in none of the right places. But Bankotsu is there. Where he should be, smiling and laughing.
And Jakotsu knows that everything is going to be alright.
Or, as alright as things usually are. There are no happy endings for mass murderers, and he likes it that way. Things would be so boring if they had been promised such a fickle thing like happiness.
They go their separate ways, only a few days, because despite their miraculous revival they are still mercenaries. And they have a job to do.
His first memory is a mouse.
He’d found it in a trap, leg broken and bloody, bent at an odd angle. He’d pried it free, cupped it between both hands. So small yet almost too big for his chubby fingers. Great big eyes staring up at him. Adorable, tiny ears flickering back and forth. It had shuddered against his palms, and he’d been fascinated by that tiny, bloodied foot―he’d taken it between his fingers and pulled― the mouse had let out a sound that could only have been a scream as joints snapped and its leg pulled apart, flesh stretched until the tension broke and he was holding the stump between thumb and forefinger. Panting in his hand, the mouse still lived, its tiny body trying to cope with the pain and unable to move. Frozen in fear or shock, he would never know, his attention moving from the broken limb between his fingers, to the three that remained intact…
A woman―he doesn’t remember who―would find him later, hands covered in blood and tiny matts of fur. She beat him for it. He did not apologize.
No one looked at him the same again.
But he heard their whispers.
Murderer. Freak. Monster. Abomination. What sort of woman―?
He’d stopped listening after a while. Insults and curses and lies meant nothing when there was nothing he could be except himself.
And oh how he loved being himself .
It had been easy, when everything was in such chaos. It didn’t matter the violence he wrought when the country was in flames. He stole the jakotsu-tou from some wandering bandit, one who’d probably stolen it just the same. Such an elegant weapon for such an inelegant bastard, he thinks. The man hadn’t known how to use it. He beat him bloody before the jackass could learn.
And even he hadn’t seen its potential―the intricate dance of blades slicing through the air―it takes months before he’s raining down death before his victims can even see what’s coming for them. Another few before he’s good enough to get paid to do what he loves.
So skilled that his reputation precedes him. So infamous that it only seems right to take the name of the blade for himself.
Jakotsu. A good name. One that brings fear and dread all in one. Simple. With a certain deadly ring to it―
It’s wonderful to hear it screamed through bloody teeth.
The months blur, one job after another, all bleeding together, until one mid-summer day…
Hired on by some broke, struggling lord to deal with his once-allies-turned-rival house who owe him a good deal of rice. A job just like every other that he’s taken.
Except this time, he finds he has competition.
A small man. Young. Long black braid trailing down his back. Cute enough with that giant sword slung over his shoulder, but not enough to spark his interest.\
A partner, the lord tells them. Not that he underestimates their abilities, but better safe than sorry when there is so much at stake. You understand.
Jakotsu does not complain. They have a job to do, and there is little he hates more than going back on his word, even as inconvenient being made to work with someone else is.
The man hardly speaks. Nothing more than a nod and an agreement to return with the promised goods. Maybe the head of the lower lord for good measure.
The job isn’t hard. They travel in silence, led by one of the lord’s men. They find the gates locked, but then the little man thumps the butt of his fist so hard against the door that the wood splinters and breaks. Maybe he’s underestimated him, just a little.
The lower lord turns over the promised goods at the display and their threats of violence. A coward. Not even worth the trouble of taking his head. And ugly besides.
They load their carts and turn back, happy with their loot―
Only to find an ambush waiting for them.
It seems the higher lord has no interest in paying them. Twenty something soldiers wait for them in the woods, swords and arrows drawn. The man who’d led them offers nothing more than a shrug and a chagrined “sorry” before the arrows fly―too slow for his sword.
They fall quietly. The forest is silent, and when he turns, expecting the other bastard to lie in a bloodied heap like the rest of them. Instead, those bottomless black eyes are staring at him.
It’s unspoken, what happens next, they find themselves at the lord’s gate without needing to say the words.
The castle falls in fire and blood. Swords and arrows and axes are nothing to them as they barrel through the halls amidst a cacophony of screams and the twang of arrows being loosed. The lord’s head rolling across the floor does not stop them. Far too late for the residents of the castle… And more fun than he’s had in years. Jakotsu finds himself laughing, and when he glances at the man by his side, standing there with blood splattered across his cheek―he’s smiling, too .
“You’re good,” he says later, as they wash the blood from their skin and clothes in an ice cold stream. There’s an odd sparkle in his eye that Jakotsu doesn’t recognized. “What do you say we team up? We’d be tougher together, and we’d split the money even.”
And that―wasn’t been what he’d expected.
Dumbstruck, ice water dripping down his neck, he can only ask: “Why?”
He shrugs. “Why not?”
And the more he thinks about it, that’s enough of a reason for him, too. The man extends his hand, brown blood beneath his finger nails, they shake, and Jakotsu feels a warmth he hasn’t felt in a very long time.
“What was your name again?”
“Jakotsu. And you?”
He blinks as if he hadn’t expected the question. He doesn’t answer right away
“Well, if we’re going to be partners, and you’re Jakotsu, and you use a jakotsu-tou, and I carry a banryuu…” He turns his head to the sky, pensive. “Then Bankotsu seems like a good name, right?”
Jakotsu and Bankotsu. Partners. Brothers. Comrades. Yes, that seemed right.
Together they travel, work, kill. For money, for sport, it doesn’t really matter. Morals mean little outside the confines of their partnership. They only need to look out for each other, never lie, never betray, and never, never , leave the other behind.
The lipstick, the facepaint, the furisode, and the jewels all come later, when he’s finally, truly, found himself.
What a wondrous time it is. Everything blurs together, a haze of bloodshed and roaring laughter. The rest of their band comes together like puzzle pieces, perfectly slotted at just the right moment.
They are unstoppable.
Until they aren’t.
No one is meant to have a second life. No matter how immortal they think themselves.
They die. One by one. Picked off like fleas. He does not weep for them, because this is the life they chose, and a second chance hasn’t changed their fates. Predestined to die young, they make the most of what they can.
He doesn’t need to be asked to kill. It’s all he’s ever known. Second nature, especially when the target is so adorable. Furry, silver ears a prize all their own when they’re coated in blood.
When Jakotsu dies the second time, he isn’t sad. Only a little disappointed that it wasn’t the hanyou who’d done the deed.
All things considered, he’s lived a good life.
Renkotsu takes the shard from his neck. The betrayal hurts more than his body fading away.
Maybe the mouse had felt the same…