Chapter Text
Autumn
The air smells of dead foliage and mud as Sukuna makes his way down the footpath. The ground is dry beneath his feet, a textural contrast to the cloying stickiness of the air, crumbs of dirt kicked up with each step, slipping under his zori then back to the barren terrain from whence they came. He makes mental note of where harvestable weeds have sprouted and nests have formed so that he can forage them later, planning ahead for the blizzards bound to disrupt the rhythm of life in the coming months. Thrush eggs and mugwort, in particular, are coveted additions to his menu that he’s kept hidden from outsiders for some time. The forestry, dense as it is, has unwittingly aided him in staving off the grubby hands of traveling apothecaries and wandering children with its infinitesimal range and dizzying canopy. Aside from Sukuna himself, only the founders of the village could navigate it. This ease of travel was only present during the village’s infancy, however, and passing decades of inattentiveness and erosion have likely rendered the skill useless; besides, those founders are long dead. Per usual, he remains the sole elucidator of the topographical layout.
Sukuna hoists one leg over a fallen tree, straddling its trunk awkwardly for a brief moment before swinging the other off to the side of it and adjusting his clothes. He tries not to snag anything, but a few scrapes and bruises are unavoidable; there’s a knick on his palm that’s sure to sting in the bath later and a miniature tear in his hakama that will have to be stitched eventually if it grows any bigger. He scowls at it, then carries on.
Normally, he keeps himself busy tending to the animals and studying imported foreign literature that occasionally turns up in the village’s market stalls, but every now and then a liaison of the Zenin clan will pester him about a curse that has been plaguing the homes of local merchants. It doesn’t matter how often Sukuna tells them there is no such thing—the witless fiends bark and whine and peck at his nerves until they become a mottled, stringy patch of unearthed sensitivity. He has found that the only solution to this conundrum, the only way to unravel the strings and re-establish his disturbed tranquility, is to appease the fools with bogus sutras. Thus, he finds himself leaving his cabin for the first time in weeks, carrying a faux talisman and a chain of juzu to sell the gimmick properly.
The land becomes flatter the farther he gets from his cabin, less verdant as he approaches the outskirts of the village. The vast stretch of green reigning above gives way to murky skies once he passes the threshold, a lingering, oppressive gloom he associates with the monotony of day labor. It isn’t strange for the village’s youth to venture out to the farthest stretches of the rice paddies, but it surprises him to see a huddle of girls at the edge of the field this late in the day, giggling amongst themselves with the sleeves of their tattered kimono rolled up to their elbows. Their laughter dims as he passes, their eyes trained on the odd recluse that their parents have surely warned them about, no doubt. Sukuna feels something akin to pity ebb at his conscience for interrupting what must have been a bright spot in an otherwise dim evening, but he has a job to do that the upholstery of teenage mirthfulness certainly doesn’t take precedence over. He doesn’t care if the girls smile or glare at him, though from their perspective, he understands that his presence must be a blemish in the greater scheme of things. Whatever they have been taking joy in, he has soured it. So it goes.
He acknowledges the tallest girl with a curt tilt of his chin that she does not return and proceeds toward the village interior. By the time he is finished with the Zenins and has begun the trek back to his cabin, he imagines the other villagers will have already heard news of his descent from the mountain and indulged in a copious amount of rumors about the purpose of his visit.
The Zenin compound is as sterile as the last time he saw it. Being the wealthiest family in the village, the buildings constructed on their lot are pristine and well-kept, the karesansui arranged in neat spirals of white, gray, and black, the shrubbery trimmed, and the floors polished. Naobito is lounging against several pillows when one of the servants guides Sukuna to him, delicately balancing a slim tool with a pot at its end between his fingers that Sukuna does not recognize. The old man greets him with nothing more than a grunt.
“I trust our messenger explained the situation sufficiently?” Naobito asks.
The leaf-like tendrils packed into the pot glow orange as he inhales, crackling quietly like a hearth in the dead of night. Sukuna’s brow furrows, unfamiliar with the device. Before providing a response, he watches Naobito closely, his gaze narrowed on the plume of acrid smoke exhaled into the air in front of him. His nose crinkles instinctually, but after a few seconds he embraces the stench. It’s noxious and unpleasant, but there is something about it that draws him forward. He eases into a comfortable seat near the old man and sighs, trying to commit it to memory.
“If by sufficient you mean entirely lacking, sure.” Sukuna says, trying to blink away the burn in his eyes, but all it does is make them water. He pinches the bridge of his nose and wipes the corners, sniffing indignantly before he adds, “What is that thing?”
“You’ll see for yourself what is happening. One of my nephews has become rather… obstreperous. We hope you’ll take care of that. As for this-” Naobito inhales again, allowing the smoke to accumulate before blowing his toke in Sukuna’s face with a snicker. “Kiseru and tobacco proffered by a neighboring lord. The tobacco comes from one of those nations to the west. Portugal, I think he called it.”
Sukuna has heard of neither. “I see.”
Naobito tilts the kiseru over a saucer and taps the pot against it, emptying the waste from it before turning to face Sukuna. The old man is perhaps one of the only slatternly sights within the compound. His mustache is wiry and unkempt, his hair slicked back with the oil his body has naturally produced. His robes are disheveled as if he had been in a romp with a woman only moments before, bony sternum partially exposed. He glances at Sukuna’s juzu. “Something sinister has latched onto this nephew of mine. Whatever the curse is, it’s making him more violent than usual and causing quite a disturbance in the village. It’s not that we doubt your capabilities, but… Well, if your method proves ineffective, let us presume the Zenins have other means of resolving the issue.”
“What do you mean by more violent than usual?” Sukuna asks.
“A few commoners have accused him of slaughtering their cattle. Dead cows, horses, sheep. Things of that nature.” His response is more vague than Sukuna would like, terse in a manner that indicates purposeful secrecy. Sukuna’s charade will suffer for it, but it can’t be helped if the Zenins want to keep their lips sealed, and even less so if the charade comes across as lackluster because of it.
Naobito does not join him for the chanting of the sutra. The same servant who escorted Sukuna through the washitsu—a woman who introduces herself as Sayo—guides him down a separate wing of the main household that branches off from the kitchens. As far as he can tell, it’s isolated from the living quarters of every other clan member, the hallways as cold and unwelcoming as the rest of the compound. The only difference, he observes, is a stark absence of life aside from the infrequent ting of a wind chime hanging off the engawa’s roof and the shuffling footsteps of other servants. Sayo hesitates before turning corners as if expecting some sort of retaliatory strike to land across her cheek. No such hit comes, but Sukuna witnesses her fear and molds it into something to be learned from—he wonders how much abuse she has incurred in the absence of spectators.
Be it an ominous curse or a violent man, he will approach the situation apprehensively either way.
“Here, my lord.” Sayo stops outside of a set of shoji panels at the end of the hall, kneeling to the ground in preparation to slide them open.
“What’s his name? The old man never said.”
“He is called Toji, my lord.”
“Tell me about him.”
Sayo blinks up at him in confusion, awkwardly tucking her hands beneath her thighs. It’s clear that she has been trained to bite her tongue, though it seems Sukuna’s question has rejuvenated something within her, a craving for socialization that the servants must be deprived of during working hours. Her opinions are actually worth something, unlike the higher ups whom Sukuna has usually been forsaken to.
“He may be listening. I mustn't speak ill of Lord Naobito’s kin,” Sayo murmurs.
Sukuna shakes his head dismissively. “Pay it no mind. I’m sure you’re aware that the Zenin elders would prefer to keep my consultations under wraps, but I do need to protect myself. I cannot do that if the old man doesn’t tell me everything. The more I know, the better. So speak up.”
“H-He has never directly assaulted his brothers or his uncles, but I believe the animal attacks in the village were merely substitutions for what he wishes he could have done to retaliate against them. It is wrong of me to speculate based purely on conjecture-”
“It is, but your input holds value,” Sukuna assures. “Tell me.”
“Young Master Toji… he isn’t well.” Having untucked her hands from her legs in a burst of anxiousness, Sayo wrings them together, flinching at her own shadow. “Will you be alright, my lord?”
Sukuna nods, gesturing for her to slide the panels open. “Go on.”
The man called Toji is—upon first inspection—nowhere to be seen. Once Sukuna has crossed the threshold into what he assumes is the man’s bedroom, he is struck by the overwhelming scent of soil. Not the dirt riddled with manure out in the village fields, but the kind surrounding his cabin, latent with moist shrubbery and minerals. To those more accustomed to village life and all of its frivolities, such an odor must tickle the nose pleasantly, but Sukuna embraces it with a familiar neutrality, inhaling as deep as he can.
His eyes rove the walls from floor to ceiling. There are no paintings; no shelves filled with heirlooms or trinkets or scrolls; no cushions, save for the one on the unmade futon; no clothes haphazardly strewn about. It reminds Sukuna of a barren womb, as if the room itself is eager to house souls, yet none have sought refuge and none have been implanted. The futon is a wreck of twisted blankets and sheets under which the man of the hour is tucked away inconspicuously. Indeed, Sukuna would have missed him altogether had his gaze not lingered on the human-shaped lump beneath them a second longer. He steps forward, tabi whispering across the tatami, juzu clutched tightly within grasp.
“Zenin Toji,” he says. “Are you asleep?”
The lump remains stagnant, nary a trace of life. He wonders if the man still breathes.
There is minimal light to work with. What few slivers of it there are come in muted streaks of white beneath and between the shoji panels, igniting the perimeter of the bedroom in hues of gray and black. Sukuna is reluctant to inch forward, further into the darkness, but he does. He hears his steps more than he sees them. When he believes there are only a few more feet between himself and the edge of the futon, a muffled voice cuts through the silence, and he stops.
“Are you a shaman?”
“Something like that. Your clansmen tell me you’ve taken an interest in the villagers’ cattle. Is that true?” A question for a question—he supposes that’s fair. A fine and civil exchange, considering the circumstances.
The lump beneath the blankets suddenly shifts, slivers of light rippling over the blankets as Toji rises to greet him. Sporting an eerily pleasant grin, Naobito’s nephew stands at full height and faces Sukuna, his animosity palpable. At the corner of his lips, a fresh gash has not fully scabbed over. It gleams red and wet like a crushed plum. Sukuna doubts more than a few hours have passed since he was injured. It will scar if left untreated.
“I got hungry.”
Sukuna chuckles grimly. “Ah, well I suppose eating your neighbor’s horse makes perfect sense then. They should have known better than to leave it unattended.”
“Precisely,” Toji nods appreciatively, his smile toothy and unwavering. “You get it.”
Toji kicks aside the blanket and approaches the shoji panels on the opposite wall, tugging them apart to reveal a portion of the engawa. Shockingly, more light pours in than Sukuna could’ve expected. He’s forced to squint, trying to adapt to the abrupt shift in visibility, but all it takes is a blink for Toji to turn on his heel and suddenly appear mere inches from his face. Sukuna feels his next exhale sweep across his cheeks, hot with rage. He sputters and rears back, fists clenched, bracing to defend himself. Nothing could’ve prepared him for such close, bitter proximity. Still, he realizes belatedly that he is taller than Toji and able to look down on him—a flimsy reassurance, but one he does not take for granted.
“You get it, shaman. I’ll admit that much, but nonetheless, you’re unwelcome here,” Toji mutters. “I think I’d like you to leave.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Allow me to stay five more minutes. The old man isn’t convinced I’ll be able to help you, and frankly, I doubt you can be. I could just sit here and count juzu in silence, or you could tell me about the animals. Whichever works. I will not leave yet, though.”
Toji barks out a laugh that sounds like rattling bones and claps a hand on Sukuna’s shoulder. “Who knew the recluse from the mountain could be so jaunty? I never thought I’d live to see the day I became the target of one of your farces. Some of the villagers actually think you’re mute. Did you know that?”
Sukuna glowers at his shoulder, then at Toji. “I prefer it that way. Keeps the fools out, save for your clan.”
“Your acting is terrible.”
“Yet you are the first to critique it. Tell me, should I kill your uncle the next time he blows that smoke in my face?”
“I’d pay you handsomely if you did.”
Sukuna can’t help himself. He bursts into laughter, shrugging Toji’s hand away and swinging the juzu carelessly at his side, relishing the imagery of Zenin Naobito with that accursed kiseru crammed down his throat. Across from him, Toji’s grin is wolfish. Together, they double down and laugh until it becomes hard to breathe, until Sukuna feels the very essence of Toji’s being start to turn rigid and hollow. An icy chill claws up Sukuna’s body, wraps itself around his ribs, echoing frost into his lungs, searing every lymph and cell with trepidation the longer he stays. This man is cursed. But he’s glued to the floor. He may be on a fool’s errand, and he may pretend to cure the sick, but he knows a spiritual imbalance when he feels one. Zenin Toji is cursed, and the only thing that can be done to save him is to put the poor beast out of his misery.
Sukuna knows immediately that the Zenins will tear him apart. A pack of wolves ravaging one of their own, a perceived weakness that can only display its strength in futile attempts to exert dominance. He may kill a cow, a horse, or a man, but Naobito will see to it that his nephew’s soul is expunged.
Sukuna has been brought here not as a savior, but as a witness to the dying wolf’s last howl, however guttural and sorrowful it may be.