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High above Sukuna, the night sky spreads vast and wide. The stars are faint but the moon is bright, glowing like a lantern hanging from the heavens. He's lying on his back. The ground is hard, almost harshly so. It's not a dirt floor that he feels beneath him.
It's not the patch of grass that he'd been sleeping on, sheltered temporarily beneath a tree. Involuntarily, his body shivers. The cool air prickles at his unclothed form.
He pushes himself up. Two of his arms come around himself to ward off the cold. The other two are left open, in case he needs to fight or defend.
He looks at the two people he can feel nearby. They're dressed in a way that's both familiar and unfamiliar, scratching at some memory that he can't quite grasp just yet.
They're looking at his eyes. They're looking at his arms. Oni, he can almost hear them say. Yokai. Descended from the mountain. Unwelcome in the human realm.
“Hey,” says one of them, and there's an emotion that he doesn't recognize in that face. The man–boy?–takes a step forward. “Are you okay?” His dialect is strange, almost incomprehensible. But as he speaks, the words become clearer.
Is that…worry?
“Itadori,” the other one says quietly. “He's not human. He's a curse.”
A curse. Yes, this is what he's accustomed to. If he wasn't Oni, if he wasn't Yokai, he was Curse.
He steps back. He's not weak, but he's small. His bones break easier than those of his elders. He wants to survive. He's always trying to survive.
“He's a kid,” the first boy says. He takes another step forward, and then he pauses. He looks at Sukuna, and instead of resuming his approach, he slowly lowers himself to the ground. Like he's trying to make himself small as well. “Are you okay?” he asks, again. Perched on his heels, arms on his knees, hands loose and open.
But not vulnerable. Not like Sukuna, who has not a single stitch on him to cushion a blow. Who's made to shake like an infant left in the cold from nothing more than a light wind.
The boy seems to notice, and without hesitation, begins removing his outer garment. He holds it out towards Sukuna. When nothing happens, he says, as if trying to encourage him, “Here. You're cold, right? This’ll help.”
“Itadori,” the second boy cautions, but the first one doesn't pay any heed.
His eyes aren't cruel. Neither are they afraid. Many eyes have looked upon Sukuna, but none like these. He can't decipher them. He hates the uncertainty.
He reaches out. The fabric slips easily from the boy's grasp. No one stops him. No one moves at all except for Sukuna himself.
He pulls the robe over his head. There's a moment, there in the darkness, that his heart accelerates, tripping over itself like a rabbit caught in a chase– and then the fabric is below his neck, the sleeves are hanging from his uppermost hands, and neither one of the people in front of him have taken a single step.
The boy smiles. “Hey, it suits you.”
He's lying– the garment hangs heavy and oversized on his half-starved form.
But to lie to something with as little value as Sukuna is meaningless. Why, then? What does he want?
Sukuna has nothing with which to repay any debts. He has no family, and if he did, they wouldn't waste a single coin in their possession to see Sukuna returned to them. Surely that's been obvious from the start.
But the boy only says, still smiling, “What's your name? Mine's Itadori Yuuji. And that gloomy guy with the frown is Fushigurou. He's not bad, I promise.”
For a moment, Sukuna is quiet. A name in exchange for clothing, far softer than anything he's ever touched, let alone worn, seems too small a price. But it's what was asked, and he has nothing else.
He says, finally, “...Sukuna. My name is Sukuna.”
The second boy's–Fushigurou's–expression pinches, looking almost sick, but Itadori’s doesn't change at all. “Sukuna, huh? Sounds strong.”
Strong. How many people have applied that word to him before? It feels as if it must have been countless. And yet, somehow, he thinks it wasn't like this.
Sukuna opens his mouth–perhaps to question Itadori's intentions, perhaps to ask if he knows Sukuna somehow–but not a word leaves his tongue.
Another presence materializes by the two boys. Sukuna hadn't even sensed the warping of displaced space.
The man standing directly beside Fushigurou is uncommonly tall. His hair is a white so pure it resembles untouched snow more than a natural fading of color. His clothes are similar to Fushigurou's. His eyes are covered by a thick black fabric.
Sukuna looks at him and thinks: Sorcerer. And he thinks: Sugawara.
‘Sorcerer' is something he knows instinctively, almost intimately, but any connection there may have been between the name ‘Sugawara’ and its significance is lost.
It doesn't matter. That's not the name Fushigurou calls him by.
“Gojo-sensei? What are you doing here?”
Sug–Gojo gives a light shrug. “Wasn't planning on showing up, but the higher-ups gave me an earful about a cursed object that's still missing. So annoying… Anyway. You found it, right? You look like hell.”
Itadori suddenly becomes awkward. He lifts his hand. “Uh, you mean the finger, right? Sorry. I ate it.”
Gojo looks at him for a long, silent minute. Then he asks, “For real?”
“Yeah,” Itadori says. “But it didn't stay down. And after it came back up, it kinda…uh…I mean…” He trails off, expression uncertain. He and Fushigurou both look at Sukuna.
Gojo also looks at him. He moves closer, paying no mind to Sukuna stepping back. Gojo leans over to study him. Then, out of nowhere, he laughs, loud and genuine. “Oh, man, it's really true! Ryoumen Sukuna's been incarnated as a kid. Ha, look at that frown– he reminds me of you at that age, Megumi.”
Ryoumen.
Guardian-god. Double-armed calamity.
He'd forgotten. How could he have forgotten? That name was spoken with equal turns fear and reverence. He's not just Sukuna, but Ryoumen. That was the title he earned.
Earned for doing what? He's always inspired fear in others since the very second of his birth. What could he have done to inspire reverence?
Guardian-god...
...All he knows is that it's a name worthy of him.
“Hey,” Gojo says, addressing him now. “What're you waiting for? You might be small, but you're not that weak, right? Don't you wanna fight? Aren't you the King of Curses?”
There's no recognition this time. Whatever he's asking, whatever significance ‘King of Curses’ has to this man, Sukuna doesn't know the answer. However–
“No,” he says. “I am not weak. I won't let you kill me. And I am not a curse.”
He may not be yokai, and he may not be human, but neither is he curse. He's spent too long and gone through too much in his efforts to live for him to die here.
He looks at Gojo. “I'll fight you, kuge-sama. But if this clothing is going to be damaged, I must return it to the one who gifted it to me.”
He'll find other garments elsewhere. None so fine as what he's wearing, but if he has to fight again later on, that may be for the best.
Gojo leans back. “...Kuge-sama?” There's no longer any trace of a smile on his face. “You're calling me that?” He's quiet for a moment. Eventually, he turns towards Itadori and Fushigurou and points at Sukuna. “Hey, be honest here: this is an actual child, isn't it?”
“Yeah, of course,” Itadori says, without hesitation.
“It seems likely,” Fushigurou says, more reluctantly.
“Huh,” Gojo says. “Weird.” He looks back at Sukuna. “Well, guess I'll just have to figure out what to do with you. Hang in there, alright, kid?” And he reaches down with two fingers, and at the slightest touch against Sukuna's forehead, everything goes dark.
And Ryoumen Sukuna sleeps.
At the halfway point between dream and waking, Sukuna gradually becomes aware of a small, hazy world outside of himself.
He's laid up against some bodiless thing. There's no sensation of contact, yet there's still a sense of human presence. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, distant and long-faded, he remembers this feeling.
His eyes are closed. His breathing is calm and steady. No thoughts mar this moment. Slowly, slowly, his uppermost arms come up and settle around the place where someone's neck should be. His lower set of hands curl against an intangible chest.
How long has it been…since he last dreamt of being held?
For the first time in his fractured memory, he exists in the place before. Before this life. Before Ryoumen Sukuna. Before everything. He's here between the cycles of samsara. He's here with her.
Kaa-san.
“Oh?” a voice from above murmurs, a quiet thing that hardly registers beyond the haze of this world. “Looks like I underestimated the King of Curses. I thought you'd sleep longer than that. Sorry, but I can't let you wake up just yet.”
Sukuna slips easily into the darkness. And why shouldn't he? There's no reason to fight when he's safe in the arms of the one who loves him most.
A dream slips away, unimportant and readily forgotten, and what Sukuna wakes to now is not open sky but the closed space of four walls and a shadowed ceiling.
The walls are covered in seals. The only light illuminating the room is cast by the abundance of candles he can see stationed in each corner. Sukuna has been left in a wooden chair, a blanket wrapped around him as if someone had wanted him to be comfortable. He's still wearing Itadori's robe beneath it.
The blanket is soft.
He doesn't understand. Hadn't that man wanted a fight? Hadn't he called Sukuna a curse, just like so many others?
…But he'd also called him a child. Is that why?
Is that why he left Sukuna alive?
“Hey there,” the man says, careless smile back on his face. He's sitting in a similar wooden chair across from Sukuna, one arm thrown over the back, one leg crossed loosely over the other. “Good to see you awake. Remember me?”
“...Kuge-sama,” Sukuna says, watching Gojo for any change in his demeanor, any sign of his true intentions. There's nothing keeping Sukuna in the chair. Despite that, he doesn't move.
“Still the same, huh?” Gojo says, almost pleased. “Great, just what I was hoping for.” He leans forward. “So, Sukuna-chan…tell me about yourself. Tell me what you know about Ryoumen Sukuna.”
“...Why?”
Gojo tsks. “Sorry, I'm the one asking the questions here. There are no wrong answers, so don't worry about specifics. Just tell me everything you can remember about yourself.”
Sukuna grasps the edges of the blanket with four sets of small hands. “Will you kill me afterwards?” His voice is no different than when he'd spoken of returning Itadori's robe to him. Plain. Unafraid. A simple question which needs nothing more than a simple answer.
“Didn't I say I was the one asking questions?” Gojo says, though he gives no indication of being bothered by it. “But, since I'm such a nice, understanding person, I'll let you have this one. Unless you attack first or put other people in danger, I won't hurt you or kill you. How's that sound? Fair?”
Would it matter if it wasn't? Those who stand above govern the fates of those who lay below. Whether it's fair or not, it's what he must take, because it's all he'll get.
And so he says, “I understand.” He will not attack first. He has never attacked first. Even if this man could claim otherwise, Sukuna will know that he was not the one who crossed the line laid out for him.
Gojo claps his hands together, the noise echoing loudly within the confines of the room. “So agreeable! And to think the higher-ups used to go even more senile just from the thought of you coming back.” His smile never wavers or dims. “If I let you meet them now, they'd start telling me I should learn manners from you. Fickle old bastards.”
He'd spoken of them before, briefly. Those of a higher station than himself. He's strong, Sukuna can tell, but it seems even Gojo has people who would control him.
Then, this disrespect towards them is a sign of how strong he must be. He wouldn't be allowed to speak like this if he didn't have the power to live as he likes without fear of repercussion.
Sukuna doesn't hate it. He won't hate it when this man kills him, either. Sukuna will fight to survive until everything in him breaks and his skin is coated in layers of his own blood, but he can't hate the freedom someone has from those who would rule them.
Gojo settles back again, elbows on the arms of the chair, clasping both hands over his stomach. “Well? Go ahead. Tell me a story.”
As if it's a fabrication and not a history. But Sukuna is neither proud nor ashamed of what he is, and so he doesn't bother objecting.
“...I was born with four arms and four eyes,” he says. “I was starved in the womb, and so ate my twin to sustain myself. This body of mine was the result.”
“A twin,” Gojo repeats, sounding intrigued. Nothing in him reveals a hint of disgust or unease. “Interesting. Go on.”
“I was feared as a demon. Many times, I was nearly killed because of it. Curses were drawn to me as well. I quickly learned to kill what I could whenever they sought me out.” He'd even thought of eating the flesh of curses, in the times when he had nothing else. During winters that froze the earth and sent all the animals into hiding. And so, in conclusion, “My early life was a series of failures to die.”
Gojo smiles. “Oh? Looks like we have something in common: things trying to kill us. A lot of assassins and curses came after me as a kid. Of course, in my case, I was simply too strong for anything to be a real threat, so I can't relate to anything else you said.”
There's no smugness in his voice, only the tone of a casual, offhand remark.
Hah…how ■■■■■n would despise him.
…?
A name…but…whose name was it…?
“So?” Gojo's voice prompts. “Was that it?”
“...I belonged to a province,” Sukuna says, after a brief pause “I would protect the land and people, and in return they would provide anything I needed.”
Gojo waits. After a long moment of silence, he says, “Wait, that was really it?”
“It's what I remember.”
Gojo unclasps his hands, resting one on his knee. His fingers tap an aimless rhythm.
Finally, they come to a standstill. “Alright. One more question. How old are you right now?”
Is that important? “I don't know,” Sukuna says. “I don't count the winters. I can't be sure.”
Gojo waves a hand dismissively. “It doesn't matter in the long run, anyway. There's no denying you're just a kid.” He looks at Sukuna contemplatively for a moment, then says, “You know, I probably shouldn't be doing this, but whatever. Hey, Sukuna-chan.” He tosses a small object at Sukuna, who snatches it from the air. “Eat this. If it goes well, I'll do you a favor and keep you alive.”
When Sukuna opens his hand, there's a withered, dismembered finger laying on his palm.
It's not of human origin. He can feel a strong sense of dark power radiating from the corpse-finger, familiar in the way that his own eyes, teeth, and ears are familiar to him.
Gazing down at it, he thinks: So this is mine.
Without a second thought, he brings the finger into the shelter of the blanket, beneath the hem of Itadori's robe. He feels the skin on his stomach separate, feels the finger press against the mouth previously hidden there. Feels the teeth open up and swallow it whole.
Power flares and combines with what he already possessed. Something in his mind shifts– something unfurls–
He remembers–
Utasaki is the first to find him, her lantern held out in one hand as she carefully navigates through the trees. “There you are, S■■■■■-sama,” she says once she catches sight of him. “Come back inside, the rain will fall soon. Uraume-dono will be displeased if you get soaked again.”
S■■■■■ keeps his foremost eyes closed, leaving his lower set open to observe her. His back is rested against the thick trunk of a tree, legs crossed. And indeed, the air is heavy with the scent of coming rain. Still, “I'll return soon enough. Until then, leave me be. The rain won't kill me.”
“I can't do that,” she refuses. “If you won't come back with me, S■■■■■-sama, then I'll stay here with you.” And she moves to stand at the side of his tree to do just that.
Stubborn. Why are all of his attendants so stubborn?
He finally cracks open his eyes, muttering, “Is this how a god should be treated?”
Utasaki, ever ready with a retort, says, “It is how this god will be treated."
Of course. It always is.
“S■■■■■-sama,” Kanae calls, beckoning him over. The other patrons part, giving him a clear path to her food stall. She's smiling at him when he reaches her. “I made something special for you this year.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Give it here, then.” He holds out one of his uppermost hands. Kanae deposits her gift onto his palm.
It's a soft, doughy ball of mochi with four sesame seed eyes and an unreasonably charming sesame seed frown. There are tiny spikes of caramelized sugar on top, giving it a short head of glistening amber hair.
He laughs, head tilting back, animal teeth showing, and more than one bystander smiles back. “A perfect likeness! You've outdone yourself, Kanae.”
Kanae grins, the corners of her eyes scrunching up, so teasing he already has a hunch on what she's about to say next. “An artist's masterpiece owes all the credit to their muse.”
S■■■■■ almost laughs again. “And how many hapless suitors have you felled with that line tonight?”
“That one's just for you,” she says, and now he actually does laugh again.
Another nearby vendor calls out to him, and Kanae sends him off with a second ball of mochi. He takes a bite as he moves through the crowd, mouth still curled at the ends.
It's just as sweet as he thought it would be.
The final supplicant is a man who has never been seen in Hida before. Tall, with hair flowing down to his calves. Wearing jikitotsu sugata, though he feels nothing like a monk should.
He lifts his gaze to S■■■■■ and smiles. “The guardian deity of Hida…what an honor it is to meet you at last. Please, forgive this sudden arrival, and allow this humble onmyouji to offer his sincere greetings.”
An onmyouji…interesting.
S■■■■■ regards him for a moment, chin resting on his palm. Eventually, he says, “I've encountered your kind before, sorcerer. I've found many to be brash and ill-mannered.” A hint of mockery enters his voice. “They would challenge me to a death match, then flee like a coward once they realized their inferiority. Something so pathetic wasn't even worth the effort of stabbing it in the back.”
The man doesn't falter, nor frown, nor give a single indication of anger. That smile remains on his face as if painted there. “I see. The great S■■■■■■-sama is fearsome indeed, to fight such foes without the need to kill them.”
S■■■■■ looks down at him for a moment longer, then leans back and says, as if bored, “Leave. Your mindless fawning is sickening my stomach. I don't converse with puppets who can only act out an incompetent stage performance.”
The man is still. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. It brings a volatile glint to the pitch black of his eyes and splits his mouth like a knife. He rises from the floor, delivering a deep bow to S■■■■■. “Then I shall return another time,” he says once he's lifted his head. “I was advised to bring an offering or two. Sadly, I carry nothing but my own belongings. I'll have that rectified when next we meet, if it so pleases my noble god.”
What impudence.
S■■■■■’s own mouth splits– into what, he doesn't know. But the brash and ill-mannered onmyouji doesn't balk at the sight. “Very well. Very well, sorcerer. Next time your shadow darkens this land, I expect to see something worthwhile.”
“This humble ■■h■■■ ■■■■■n could hope for nothing more,” the man says, and through some inconceivable means, somehow makes himself sound as if he's being sincere.
Utasaki knocks briskly on the door. Behind it, the sound of slow shuffling gradually grows louder. The hands that open the door bear a faint tremor. The expression on the elderly face that peers out at them is soft and kindly.
“Kenji,” S■■■■■ greets. “How heartening it is to see you look so well.”
The lines and creases on Kenji's face deepen as he smiles. “Ah, S■■■■■-sama! Am I to have the honor of hosting you today?”
His body shows its age, but his eyes are still bright and young. S■■■■■ remembers when this man was a child, small enough to fit into one of S■■■■■’s hands. Now he would need to use at least three hands to hold him. A negligible inconvenience; S■■■■■ has carried far worse burdens.
“You are,” S■■■■■ says. “I have come in answer to the prayers I heard from you late in the night.” A lie, of course. It's a story that only the children still believe. In his peripheral, Utasaki hides a smile behind her sleeve.
“I see…I've been blessed, then. Our S■■■■■-sama is a truly benevolent being,” Kenji says, dutifully playing along. The gaze that looks on S■■■■■ is fond. It's not how a worshipper should look upon their god. How good it is, then, that S■■■■■ prefers it this way. To be worshipped is to be above the world. To be separate from it.
An awful notion. Such a thing could never be worth more than this gentle fondness.
“The people of your province wholeheartedly revere you,” ■■■■■n observes, gazing down at the tribute altar piled high with offerings. “Yet even the sum of their reverence pales in comparison to the sum of their trust. They gladly give anything they have in their possession, all because they have no reason to fear its absence. They come to you with the smallest disputes because they know your judgment to be fair and just.” He smiles, a flash of teeth hidden behind the humble closing of lips. “How remarkable it is, to witness an earth-bound god treated as both a divine authority and a beloved clan head.”
Always, ■■■■■n meets him with flattery. S■■■■■ has no patience for it. “Speak plainly. If a yako like you is capable of such a thing.”
“A yako? How you wound me, S■■■■■-sama.” And yet, ■■■■■n's smile doesn't fade. A liar so practiced he almost can't help himself. “This gentle onmyouji only meant to express his honest appreciation. To find a place and a people like this is rare indeed. I would be remiss not to praise my noble god for his achievement.”
What a farce. A wild beast would be more gentle than this man.
S■■■■■ scoffs. “To call yourself gentle, and then to call a god yours…perhaps the title of yako-tsuki would be better suited to you. It suits your shamelessness well enough.”
■■■■■n's smile widens, its modesty falling apart as it reveals pointed canines. The hunger of an animal can be seen in that ungentle expression. Hah. There truly is no cure for that kind of shamelessness. This fact is only compounded by the words that next leave ■■■■■n's lips. “If S■■■■■-sama has deigned to name this lowly one, then who am I to deny his affection? Even a name like that will sound sweet coming from a god who returns others’ devotion with his own.”
S■■■■■ barks out a laugh. “Devotion! From you? No, pure impudence is what it is. Only a fool would think otherwise.”
For the first time since they first met, ■■■■■n laughs as well, the corners of those dark eyes crinkling. “And my god is certainly no fool."
Oho. So even he can make a face like that. Any more of this and S■■■■■ may just take him for the fool instead.
Heavy snow blankets the world outside. S■■■■■ watches it fall from the overcast sky as Utasaki drapes yet another kimono over his broad shoulders. He can hear her calm voice speaking to Tounaga and Uraume, but he doesn't listen to the words. A bird is singing in the branches of a barren tree. A cat is purring faintly in his lap. Tea is being poured into a cup at his side.
There's a nearly inaudible clack as Uraume sets the pot back on the table. When S■■■■■ takes the cup into his hand, the heat radiating from it is a balm against the cold morning air. He brings the tea to his lips and simply rests it there, letting the steam warm him. His eyes close.
Later, he'll visit the residents of the land to check for problems or illnesses. He'll travel into the forest to gather extra wood. He'll provide what his people need. And he'll gratefully receive what they give him in return.
But for now, there is the air, the tea, and peace.
There is war.
The taste of blood. The sensation of flesh caught beneath his nails and between his teeth. The sound of someone hammering ceaselessly on a drum.
The taste of blood.
The taste of blood.
The taste of blood.
The taste–
So he's returned.
The man who smiles with the benevolence of a bodhisattva and fights with the brutality of a ravenous oni.
“Have you come for another taste of defeat?” S■■■■■ says, lounging back on a pile of burnt and bloodied wood; the blackened remains of a shrine. The scent of smoke has long dissipated. The only thing that lingers now is him.
■■■■■n removes his sandogasa, and this smile is not so much benevolent as it is sly, dark eyes glittering beneath the sun. “Were we two not equally defeated and victorious?” A fox-like expression; one that he never shows to others, whether he's in the presence of a peer or a peasant.
Yet, he shows it to S■■■■■. What does that make him?
Nothing that could matter.
He scoffs. “It was not I who fled like a coward with my tail hidden between my legs. Is it right for the great ■■h■■■ ■■■■■n to tell such lies?”
“We two survived our battle to the death,” ■■■■■n says. “It was neither victory nor defeat, and so it must be both. Is that not so, S■■■■■-dono?”
“Call it what you like,” he says. “When next we fight, you won't live long enough to give it a name.”
“Come, then,” ■■■■■n says, setting his sandogasa aside. His other hand keeps hold of his shakujo. “Let us choose together.” He smiles once more. “Fear not; if death is my fate, no curse upon you shall fall from these lips.”
“How noble,” S■■■■■ says, rising from the ruined shrine. “If only I could promise the same.”
And so S■■■■■ is the liar now. If he is slain one last time, it won't be ■■■■■n that he curses with his dying breath.
At the crux of his first death, the moment when his heart stuttered a final note inside the butchered remains of his ribcage and his body had no strength left to offer him, he was born anew. Curses were branded into his very flesh. His body was formed from the hatred engraved on his soul. His hands have soaked in the viscera of the ones who birthed him, and he curses them still.
No, ■■■■■n will never hear those words from him. And the ones who have will never be granted a reprieve from them.
A long, ceaseless curse. That is his existence.
That is the existence chosen by A■■-■■-Suk■n■-■■-S■■■■■.