Chapter Text
A dainty woman runs barefoot through tall grass and dark trees, a bundle of all that she loves cradled in her arms as her feet thump against the ground and wind whips past her face. The woman stumbles on a rock, its sharp edges cutting her foot and she lets out a clipped yelp in agony, but she doesn’t stop to assess the damage; fueled by the ominous footfalls behind her, which echo through the forest in a slow rhythm but she knows better than to hope that she’s lost the demon chasing her tail.
The woman notices that they’re approaching the edge of the forest, and knows that her only cover will be taken away once she steps out in the clearing, but she doesn’t have any other choice but to keep running. Holding her son close to her chest, protecting his head as she sprints past the tall sharp grass and low hanging, wispy branches. Her heart drops when she passes the last trees.
It’s a cliff, not a clearing.
She registers this, but her body processes it belatedly, nearly running right off the edge before she digs the heels of her feet into the loose dirt. She breathes heavily, a cloud of dust rising around her feet, and fans the dust away from her son’s face. Her heart is pounding in her ears, and she barely registers the demon slowly but surely catching up to her; in the few moments she has to decide what to do, she regrets her life decisions.
She regrets still having stayed with her husband for an agonizing five months, even after he threatened to kill their son and constantly beat her, she hates herself for choosing the worst possible option for help and shelter, she regrets ever bringing her son into this world.
‘No.’ She shakes her head vehemently, she will never regret having this bundle of joy and love she’s named Inosuke Hashibara, having given him her last name. His diaper has an attached cloth scribed with his full name; that monster had helped her with writing it since she could neither read nor write. She peers down at her son, cradled against her chest, his eyes big and innocent, oblivious to the distress his mother’s in. She chokes down a sob, and looks away over the cliff’s edge, she spots the calm, flowing river at the bottom. Looking down at her son, the only person who has never wanted something out of her, never hurt her, oh. She loves her son.
She knows what she has to do, babies know how to swim at birth, her son having to swim constantly in her belly before he was born; the thought crosses her mind and she doesn’t like it, but it’s either she does this or they both die.
Before she can even stretch her arms out, a blinding pain causes her to drop to the ground, Inosuke falling to rest on his mother’s upper arm as he cries at the moment of impact. The forearm of the arm he is resting on hanging off, Inosuke is dangling right on the edge, if he knew how to roll, he would have fallen right off. His mother brings up her other arm, intending to push him off the edge so he could be whisked safely away by the river. The demon that was following them swipes at her arm, knowing what she was planning to do, and cleanly slices it off. He looks solemnly at the ground, as if in mourning, Inosuke’s cries filling the silent air of the forest.
His mother’s paling face looks down at him as the last of her life drains from her eyes, dead eyes stare at him, a mournful expression forever etched into her face.
The monster tuts, “Oh, Sweet, Dumb, Kotoha. If only you hadn’t snooped around in places you know you aren’t welcomed, then maybe you wouldn’t have had to die.” He speaks, his voice dead but his expression twisted in anguish with a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his lip. The presence of evil makes the forest go quiet, not an animal in sight nor heard, Inosuke knows this by intuition; his wails are now fueled by innate fear and confusion.
The demon rakes his eyes over Kotoha’s corpse, his gaze coming to a stop at Inosuke’s trembling form, something flickers in his eyes, something sinister. “Ah,” The demon’s deep voice rings out into the air, “Poor thing, you must be so scared,” he leans over, grabbing the baby precariously where the blankets come to bunch together on its front. Lifting it up easily with one hand fisting the fabric, Inosuke cries violently now, starting to cough. The demon puts it to his chest, laying the baby on his forearm, mimicking the way he’s seen Kotoha cradle it but in a way only a heartless demon would. He pats Inosuke on the chest, attempting to stop the baby from hacking its lungs up, and coos at the baby. Inosuke calms, his form still trembling with the innate fear of the demon holding him.
“Your dear mother tried to kill you. Nasty woman tried to push you off the cliff,” The demon snarls, kicking the woman hard in the back, her corpse falling into the river below, the stream bleeds red. “But don’t worry,” He almost sings his words, “Douma here-” he refers to himself, “-saved you! I’ll take care of you from now on!” He grins, the expression looking so wrong on his face, it didn’t belong on a demon with no heart. Inosuke tries to babble, and even in these strong arms that are cradling him, he doesn’t feel safe.
Inosuke becomes aware at one year old, his first ever memory being the stinging pain of Douma’s sharp nail sinking into his plump flesh, pouring Kibutsugi’s blood into his body. He almost doesn’t survive, his chubby face contorting into an expression no child should wear, purple crawling up his face, his veins pulsating. Inosuke screams out in horrific agony. Douma’s face is expressionless, letting Inosuke writhe in pain for a few moments before helping him distribute the demon blood in his veins.
At one year old, Inosuke becomes a demon. At one year old, Douma introduces him to his master, Muzan Kibutsugi, who allows him to keep Inosuke as his child. “If you keep this child and raise him as one of us, perhaps he will grow into a strong demon. Maybe…” The Master trails off, looking at the demon baby with a twisted kind of hope. Douma eagerly waits for his Master to finish his sentence, but it never comes. He returns to his manor, an inkling of an idea of what his Master hopes to achieve with his son.
At three years old, Inosuke can hunt animals for their blood, even this young, he refuses to kill any of the lifeless humans his father brings him and knows naturally that this is wrong. Douma tolerates his vehemence against, and disgust for, eating human flesh, for now. By tolerance, the demon means slicing off Inosuke’s right arm with a force so strong it knocks the toddler on his back. It takes a week for his arm to grow back, and with Douma’s constant apologies, even as a toddler, Inosuke found him to be annoying. Still, a strong fear of his father takes root deep in his bones.
Master Muzan visits them unexpectedly one day, staring down at the child held on Douma’s hips as he talks to his cult, hidden by the shadows of the manor. Douma notices his presence, excusing himself to his room, putting his son onto his bed. Muzan immediately grabs the child by his arm, Inosuke cries out as his nails dig into his skin, thin trails of blood streaming down his chubby arm. “This child has broken out of my control.” Muzan says cruelly, his eyes gleaming. Douma frowns as he takes in the sight of his son. “He is but a child, how can he break out of your control?” Muzan shakes his head, “Then this must mean that he has great potential to serve me, to become one of the Twelve Moons,” Muzan glances up at Douma, “like his father.” He drops Inosuke, luckily onto the bed, as he paces over to Douma’s closet. “Do not inform him of this. We do not know if he will stay loyal. As demonstrated, he still retains some human morals.” Douma nods, and Muzan turns to him, as if he wants to say something more. After a beat, he doesn’t, instead leaving immediately as the familiar thrum of a string resonates throughout Douma’s room. Inosuke, despite being afraid, crawls to his father making grabby hands. Douma stares at him for a moment, before seemingly melting and picking him up, cradling him close to his chest, similar to the way he did when first taking Inosuke in. It didn’t make him feel safe at all, but Douma’s warmth made Inosuke convince himself that he was.
At five years old, by his father’s influence and with his father’s help, he murders a human girl, one only a couple years older than him. At five years old he has his first taste of human flesh, he hates its texture, the alarm bells going off in his head screaming wrong, wrong, wrong; yet at the same time, he likes the feeling of the power and energy boost it gives him. He screams “I hate you!” at Douma when his father first forces the flesh of the girl he killed into his mouth, holding his son’s arm in a tight-fisted grip, Inosuke squirms as Douma makes him chew and swallow the gross-textured flesh. Once it makes its way down his esophagus, his demon body absorbs it, giving his body a boost. His muscles enhance, and the wounds he got from the human girl fighting back healed quickly, Inosuke glances up at his father. Douma smiles wickedly at him, his grip firm on his son’s shoulder, Inosuke slowly returns the smile. His humanity slips away from him.
At seven years old, he overhears his father saying he looked like his mother to one of his many followers. Kneeling with his legs folded beneath him, Inosuke watches his father eat the flesh of his victim - the same one who shared a conversation with him earlier about Inosuke. His father is always so clean and proper when eating his followers, Inosuke wonders why he’s always so messy when it comes to his own food. Unconsciously, Inosuke sits leisurely with one of his legs spread out and the other pulled up to his chest, Douma licks the blood off his fingers, glancing at him. Inosuke doesn’t bother to correct his posture, knowing his father doesn’t really care unless it is in front of Master Muzan.
“What’s a mother, and why did you say I looked like one?” Inosuke speaks suddenly, Douma polishes off the rest of his food before looking to his son. “Two people were needed to make you, I am one of them and your mother is the other one,” Douma acknowledged with that ever permanent smile he has, moving to clean up the body and put it in the pile of bones and skulls in a secret room off to the side. Inosuke fidgets, wanting to say something - do something - but he knows better not to interrupt his father while he’s cleaning. Douma locks the side door, wiping his hands and face off with a handkerchief, he sits down on his bed which is more of a huge, fluffy throne. His father pats the space beside him, Inosuke gets up and throws himself down by his father immediately, Douma holds him to his side. “Your mother tried to kill you when you were a baby. I stopped her from killing you,” Douma whispers, burying his nose into Inosuke’s soft, fluffy hair. Inosuke felt a flicker of hatred for this unknown woman, for trying to kill him, yet something in his heart stomped out that hatred. He couldn’t bring himself to try and resent the woman his father said was his mother, he couldn’t, even though his father was subtly pushing him towards that notion. Inosuke didn’t move out of Douma’s hold for fear that his father would poke his eyes out for refusing affection.
At ten years old, Douma pointed out that he was smaller than other kids his age, telling him that he’ll start to grow when he eats more and becomes stronger. Inosuke went on a killing spree, eating until he was sure he was going to explode. When he returned from the nearby village he terrorized, Douma laughed, picking him up like he was still a child. “My chubby boy, gonna become so strong!” Inosuke growled, demanding to be let down. He obliged, and as Inosuke turned to walk to his room that was connected to his father’s, Douma watched his retreating form with a glint in his rainbow eyes and one of his golden fans over his face. Inosuke huffed when he got to his room, collapsing onto the bed he had that was so similar to his father’s.
At twelve years old, his father taught him how to read and write, he was met with resistance from Inosuke. No matter what, Douma couldn’t beat it into Inosuke in how to read and write. Douma soon gave up, and Inosuke told himself not to cry.
At thirteen years old, Inosuke sometimes couldn’t control this thing he had, where once he thought it, he would do or say it, it got him into a lot of trouble when he was “just joking” in front of his father’s followers. It cost him a lot when he was out with his father, either visiting a rapidly growing and advancing city or when they were called to meet with the master. Inosuke learned how to keep his mouth shut until he was alone. Master Muzan still held this strange admiration and hope for Inosuke, as though he knew he was destined for greatness, or so, that’s what his father told him. Inosuke regarded the Master with a combination of fear and arrogance, Muzan tolerated this, allowing him special privileges because he had high hopes for him, though Inosuke could feel him staring at the back of his head. Douma would proudly show Inosuke off when he met the other Demon Moons (usually the lower ones), and Inosuke would excitedly show off his muscles and flexibility when fighting with lower demons. It was one thing they shared, a tendency to be both viscous and prideful.
At fifteen years old, Inosuke had long hair, his features becoming increasingly feminine, Douma would look at him and see his mother. Inosuke hated that he was being compared to someone he didn’t even know, so he cut his long hair brazenly with the pair of rugged swords his father stole from a dead demon slayer, and mutilated his face brutally with his own claws. Blood poured from his mutilated face as his father cradled his head in his arms, “No,” He whined, and although Inosuke couldn’t see, he knew that his father didn’t actually feel the pain of watching his own child mutilate himself. He couldn’t. Inosuke found that out a long time ago. For days, Inosuke wandered about his father’s room, locked in there to prevent any of Eternal Paradise’s cult members seeing his mutilated face with a constant stream of blood that stained his skin. He dressed similarly to his father, in dark red, so the humans in Douma’s cult could live in ignorance to the ruthless demons they worship that always had a splash of blood on them.
Inosuke went six days with his face mutilated, his sight, smell, and taste senses nonexistent when he didn’t have any nose or eyes. His father would demand he heal himself, wounding him more when Inosuke would shake his head, trying to force him to heal himself. He relented when he grew tired of being weak and unable to protect himself from Douma’s unrelenting attacks towards him. Inosuke healed his chest and back wounds from Douma’s claws, regrew his left arm, and healed his face. When he looked into the reflection of the pond his father had, he was disappointed but not shocked to see that his face had no scars. Douma kicked him from behind, making him fall into the pool, his father’s idea of a bath. It semi-worked, the blood coming off of him to dye the water red, Inosuke snarled, glaring up at his father. His father looked down at him from the elevated docks, something flashed in his eyes, “Deja Vu much?” He grinned at a joke Inosuke didn’t know, although by his father’s tone, he came to the conclusion that he was the butt of it. He frowned deeply, before pushing himself off the rocky bottom of the pond, heading towards the door that leads into his bath. Douma watches him go, fan over his mouth, and his rainbow eyes calculating.
At sixteen, he and his father are summoned to the Infinity Castle, where Muzan Kibutsugi is already waiting, slightly impatient with a stern and callus look.
Inosuke kneels beside his father, who is sitting leisurely, Master Muzan standing elevated above them. ‘He’s pissed,’ Inosuke notes, Douma notices that he has a daunting expression and sends a quick, stern glance to his son, a silent warning. Muzan paces back and forth, his mouth a tight line, he looks as if he might lash out any second. The memory of the lower Moons being “disbanded” crosses Inosuke’s mind, but he knows Muzan won’t get rid of one of his highest ranking demons and the demon he has expectations for. Inosuke fails to suppress an annoyed sigh at all this unneeded anticipation. Muzan snaps his eyes to him, his posture tense. “Inosuke,” His voice bellows out into the dimly lit Infinity Castle, the two demons bowing before him slightly tense, bodies preparing to be hit. “There is this boy, around your age, with hanafuda earrings. He has a demon sister, one that got out of my control, and he has a strong sense of smell. He will know you are a demon, convince him that you are on his side. Find him, gain his trust, and slaughter him,” Muzan ordered, eyes glowing red and as the words leave his mouth, Inosuke and Douma both know this is one of Muzan’s expectations, yet it is completely unexpected for both parties.
Muzan snaps his fingers, and in a blink they are back in Douma’s pond area, Inosuke sighs, lifting himself up from his kneeling position. Douma is already standing, looking contemplatively into the distance, his fan held over his mouth. Inosuke goes to his father’s side, waiting for him to speak, waiting for his father to tell him what to do. Douma stares down at Inosuke in the corner of his eye, his white hair glinting in the moonlight the open roof lets in, tinting his hair a silver hue. “Let’s get you dressed,” He says with a wide grin, walking into the direction of his grandeur room, Inosuke follows behind, relieved to know Douma’s done trying to hold his hand everywhere they went.
Douma spends the next five hours trying to get Inosuke to wear his signature maroon, black, and off-white, Inosuke insists on wearing dark blue or green. Douma decides on dark blue, giving Inosuke a long-sleeved kimono in that color, unfazed to his son roughly ripping the sleeves’ ends to “look cooler” and leaving the kimono loosely tied, so his toned torso was exposed. His father rummages through his giant closet of clothes, most of them given as gifts from his cult, Inosuke dislikes the idea of wearing his father’s clothes, but all of his current clothing are ruined and unwearable due to them being shredded by him fighting recklessly. Douma fishes out some black pants, Inosuke makes quick work of the ends of the pants too, leaving his outfit to look like he was attacked by a rabid animal. His father watches with a gentle smile, and then turns to go through the door that connects their rooms together to grab the two Nichirin swords for Inosuke to take with.
Inosuke waits for him, tying his shoulder-length hair into a low ponytail; he refuses to let it grow any longer. Douma hands him the two swords, grabbing something to hold them for him, and ends up finding a discarded roll of bandages. He uses that to wrap the dual swords together and then takes them out of his hands to use a belt to strap it around Inosuke’s chest, Inosuke dislikes the feeling of something weighing him down, but he doesn’t say a word.
“The sun is rising, but Master Muzan wouldn’t want you to waste any more time,” Inosuke scoffs at his father’s statement, as if they hadn’t just wasted hours arguing on what he was going to wear, it was fortunate enough that it didn’t end with Inosuke having his throat ripped out. When Inosuke rolls his eyes, Douma is gone one moment and the next he reappears with a rice hat stolen from the corpse of a farmer who ended up in his cult. “Wear this,” Douma is more affectionate than usual, perhaps because he knows Muzan is watching them now that he’s heard his name, and puts it on Inosuke’s head, “It will protect you from the sun so you’ll have both the day and night to search for the boy with hanafuda earrings.” He pats his son’s shoulders from under the hat, walking him towards the section of his manor where the cult members reside, and where the main entrance is. Inosuke knows what he’s planning on doing, sending him off on a farewell from people who worship them as gods. Inosuke isn’t really worshiped as much as his father is, but since he is his son then he would technically be their savior’s blood and successor if Douma should die, which will never be.
Inosuke decides that calling him ‘the boy with hanafuda earrings’ is too much of a mouthful, instead opting to call him hanafuda. He wonders how he’s supposed to find a single boy, until he realizes that the Demon Slayer Corps. wear uniforms, which makes it easier for him to start ruling out people. He’s stuck on thinking up a plan that he barely registers the fake speech his father makes up about him being sent off on a spiritual journey, even though his father doesn’t believe in anything he or his followers spout on the daily. Inosuke observes the faces of Eternal Paradise’s cult members, who don’t even realize they are in a cult, wish him a good and safe journey; these people revel in the prospect of having a close relationship with godly beings, thinking that if they worship him they will be saved from an eternity of damnation. Unfortunately for them, it is all fabricated by his father who’s had centuries to perfect this operation of not needing to hunt far for food when his food worships him.
Inosuke nods, pressing his lips into a tight line, poorly mimicking a smile, and allows for a nearby woman to come forward with her hands hovering over his chest as she loudly wishes him a safe journey. He has half a mind to slice her hands clean off, but to keep up his father’s facade, he barely prevents his expression from slipping into a scornful frown. A follower pushes a stack of bentos wrapped together into his hands, another hangs a bamboo basket of blankets and covered food off his forearm, and a child comes up to place a doll of a boar into the basket. Inosuke has an armful of food, canteens, and gifts as he grits his teeth, trying not to lash out at all the pampering followers. Douma can tell Inosuke is becoming more impatient as this interaction drags on, so he cuts it short, giving an abrupt farewell as he guides his son towards an exit of his manor instead of the grand (and main) entrance. Inosuke tries not to fight against his father’s manhandling of him, but allows himself to scowl through the whole ordeal.
At the door, with a sliver of the dawn sunlight filtering in, Inosuke and Douma face each other. Inosuke tries to nudge his hat in a comfortable position with his shoulder, and Douma fixes it for him, letting it sit more snug on his head. He rests his hand on top of Inosuke’s hat, with his son standing tensely, anticipating, waiting.
“Don’t fail the master.”
Douma takes his hand off of Inosuke’s head, and lets his clawed hands linger in front of his son’s face, a silent warning, a silent promise. Inosuke nods, keeping his expression stoic. His father’s smile never leaves his face, unsettling for even his own son.
“I will not fail, father.” Inosuke assures himself more than his father, putting the stack of bento inside the bamboo basket, then sliding his arms through the straps.
Douma has his lips pressed into a thin line but still pulled up at the corners, if his son is to go out of his sight, his control, then there will be no guarantee he will return. ‘Why would Lord Muzan choose for my son to go after this boy?’ Douma thinks, knowing that he will surely pay for questioning his master’s orders. He’s listening.
Douma doesn’t like this idea, but he cannot fight it. Master Muzan doesn’t have any power over Inosuke, this having been apparent ever since Inosuke was three, but the boy didn’t know this nor will he ever be told this. Inosuke notices the look of hesitance in his father’s gaze, and he looks off to the side. “I will succeed and return home,” He murmurs, hoping that will ease his father’s worries - whatever they may be - and he will be allowed to leave.
Douma nods absentmindedly, tempted just to keep his son locked in this manor forever and suffer consequences later, but before he can act on impulse, his son opens the sliding door. He flinches away from the sunlight, as his son bows to him, his clothes and hat protecting him from the sun. Inosuke steps out onto the patio, stepping down and walking down the gravel pathway a few steps before turning back. Douma waits in the shadows, his rainbow eyes and white hair flare in the dark, he watches his son silently, no final words to be spoken. Inosuke stares back with the same intensity that his father has, though his face is shadowed by his hat, and his sleeves cover his hands. He grabs the edge of his hat, pulling it down as he turns away from his father and continues down the gravel path.
“Farewell,” He whispers. Maybe the wind will carry it over to his father’s ears. Inosuke hopes it does, because deep down he feels bad that it feels this incredible to be walking away from him.