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There’s a misplaced silence in the midst of a rowdy bar. A laughter that should’ve been there but isn’t, a presence absent amidst the packed room. The clock hits twelve am and all lights are turned off in the citadel except for Nihongo’s makeshift bar.
Usually Hasebe would’ve shut down the place by now, but he makes an exception just for this night. The three great spears are teetering between blackout drunk or just normal drunk, which just them still maintaining normal cognitive function to a certain extent, the Dategumis are solemnly drinking at one corner, even Ookurikara joined in, the pain must’ve been too much on him, heck even the Sanjous joined in.
Tsurumaru swirled his cup of sake, how many have he drunk? Seven? Who knows. His eyes are blurry and head pounding. What’s left of his adrenaline is still surging through his veins. His mind replays Mitsutada’s funeral like a broken cassette, a death like any other in battle, a heroic death, a means to an end, but why? Why him?
His body felt frozen in time, forever stuck at the moment Yamanbagiri Kunihiro unwraps a cloth to reveal what remained of Mitsutada’s damaged blade. The deafening silence after realizing what they had just witnessed quickly followed by Ookurikara covering Taikogane’s face who’s screaming in disbelief, Ichigo Hitofuri, a member of the team that just returned from battle, fell to his knees begging for forgiveness while shaking and sobbing. Yamanbagiri Kunihiro hid his face under his hood, trying to steady his grip on the cloth. Tsurumaru stood there in silence, he didn’t cry, didn’t say a word, and let the broken blade of his once best friend be burned into the back of his mind.
The funeral felt surreal, standing before him wasn’t Mitsutada, but just a framed picture of him. Tsurumaru swore he could hear Mitsutada’s laughter echoing through the frame, he swore the picture blinked. His body and mind felt torn between time and space, present and the past. He replayed their interactions and jokes, the shenanigans they had, foods they cooked, and facing the reality of Mitsutada being gone, just poofed out of existence felt too jarring.
The first thing Tsurumaru did after witnessing the shattered blade of his friend was go back to his room, which is his and Mitsutada’s room, well, was his and Mitsutada’s room. The room was tidy only on one side and messy on the other like two worlds split in half. Neatly folded dark blue tracksuits are still placed on top of Mitsutada’s futon for when he returns from battle. Tsurumaru could still smell him and even feel his presence. When he shuts the door and sits down to gather his thoughts, he swore he could still hear Mitsutada’s footsteps, his heart pounding filled with unrealistic hope that Mitsutada would burst through the door at any moment, yet it wasn’t Mitsutada, just Hasebe checking up on him.
The bar felt suffocating, filled with awkward silence and drunk laughters that ended in another wave of silence. Tsurumaru got dragged back into his room by Ookurikara, he mumbled something about how Tsurumaru’s silence is eerie and that he had enough drinks already. Ookurikara plopped him to his bed and promptly left. As expected of Ookurikara, Tsurumaru thinks to himself. The pounding in his head grew harsher, he needed meds, but his migraine is probably the only thing distracting him from his grief, even when it’s temporary.
Tsurumaru shifts his gaze to Mitsutada’s side of the room, still the same way it was left. Tsurumaru knew better than to tamper what’s left of his friend, yet he couldn’t resist, he crawled to Mitsutada’s futon, hand and feet scraping the floor, burning him a little, he reaches for Mitsutada’s tracksuit and cradles it. It smells like the detergent everyone uses in the citadel, yet when he closes his eyes, it felt like he was hugging Mitsutada. The guilt of tampering with his jacket overlapping with the pain of missing a friend was his breaking point as he finally screamed and cried his heart out, breaking down into the most carnal screams as he finally realized that no, his friend isn’t coming back. No cooking late night snacks together, no sparring, trying new stylish clothes, heart to heart conversations under the moonlight, it’s never coming back.
Tsurumaru opens the window and gazes up to the crescent moon hanging alongside the stars. Heaven, do swords go to heaven? Do tsukumogami souls even go anywhere after death? Or are they tethered to earth, wandering around for eternity? Do they go to purgatory for all the sins they committed? Acts of violence and taking one's life isn’t a heaven worthy deed. Or is it reincarnation? Will Mitsutada come back as a cat that will one day wander to the citadel one summer evening? Or will he be reincarnated as a human many many years in the past? Or will his soul be recycled and given to the next Mitsutada?
Who knows? not even the saniwa who’s grief stricken right now. Tsurumaru wants to believe that Mitsutada arrived in heaven, just like what many preachers say. A beautiful land with lush green grasses and rolling hills with crystal clear skies. It fits Mitsutada, maybe he’ll finally find peace and be freed of this cycle of violence he always resented deep down. He could spend all of eternity cooking and serving meals to the Gods, doing what he loves without a care in the world.
Is heaven really that far? Tsurumaru wishes to fly up there and visit him, just for a little talk. So many things unsaid, places they haven’t gone, he aches for Mitsutada’s touch so much that it burns, his mind replaying the funeral over and over and over again like an endless loop. The screams of the saniwa will always be something he can’t unhear, such raw emotions coming from someone who barely even speaks a word is jarring. Taikogane’s cries will also be something he’ll never forget. Tsurumaru wanted to vent, he instinctively opened his mouth to call out Mitsutada, only to realize once again that no, he’s gone.