Chapter Text
Itecho was standing in a hall, solemnly decorated.
A portrait with draping ribbons, black and white.
The crowd has gathered, dispersed, and gathered again.
Black suits. White robes.
The podium was soon expecting someone to stand behind,
Black dress shoes. White identical tiles.
Yet his feet remained rooted to the floor.
And a ornate piece of wood, front and center.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a figure, or two, approaching him. The words they said blended into a stream. Perhaps that was his queue to step up.
A sheet of writing in his hand, its worth amounted to a decade of memories.
He smoothed out the creases on the paper in his hands, now held up to his eyes. The hand was neat, familiar, and easy to read. It was his.
The ink is fresh. This letter was recently, unexpectedly written.
He made a futile attempt to take calming deep breaths, if only to settle his heart and his voice.
The words tumbled out, disturbingly practiced.
He kept his eyes down, and absolutely did not allow it to wander.
The room was packed, but missing one.
For if he were to look up, he would surely notice the absence of his lord.
In the frigid evening, Itecho read the opening lines to a eulogy.
Somewhere in the village, Winter was celebrating the birth of a new agent.
While he alone mourned the loss of Rosei's life.
Itecho was presented to his new master a few days later.
The new Agent of Winter was a young boy of ten, with hunched shoulders and a perpetually timid demeanor. Even though the boy was not from the prestigious Kantsubaki family, the village has made an exception and allow Itecho to continue serving, due to his extensive experience with his lord.
Presumably, he has heard about the circumstances of his predecessor, up until the motive of his sudden passing, and felt reasonably scared of what this meant for his future.
He said, the adults around him told him not to be scared. That his guard was a capable man, the best of Yamato's swordsmen. As long as he kept his head down, and did as he was told, he had nothing to worry about, was what he said.
Itecho nodded, rattled off a few reassurances. The boy accepted them gracefully, then asked a few more questions.
Will I be hunted too? Winter is the most targeted, but I will be here to shield you from harm.
Can I see my parents? Only during the downtime from summoning Winter.
What about school? I will be your teacher, and you will get to learn everything you do at school, and more.
The Agent of Winter asked normal questions, questions a ten-year-old who has been freshly estranged from his old life will ask, but they have never felt so bizarre to Itecho's ears.
Why was he still expecting questions about Hinagiku and Sakura?
Itecho felt extremely ashamed of himself.
In the past week, he almost called the new Agent of Winter, 'Rosei', and the one time he did, he was confused as to why the boy didn't turn.
In the past month, he has been having dreams of his lord. Even hallucinations, when the night watch felt long and the shadows played tricks on him.
The dark night became Rosei's unruly hair, and the stars above became his sharp eyes. The shadows casted by wilting pine trees became his kimono, and the fireflies traced the gold embroidery with their flickering light.
For a brief moment, he felt that Rosei had truly returned to him.
Under the waning moon, 'Rosei' looked particularly free of the burdens he once carried as a way of atonement, his grin illuminating. He was a vision, a dream—something wonderful that further led Itecho into a labyrinth of his memories, turning it into a safe haven and urging him to never leave.
And every once in a while, he complied, lowering himself onto the dewy grass. Itecho would sit, cross-legged, next to 'Rosei', smiling and exchanging stories. 'Rosei' would chuckle, indulge him with banter, and eventually, the passing seconds lost their importance.
It was a paradise Itecho allowed himself to live in. The other guards often glance at him, concerned, but they simply don't understand how much of a necessity these moments are to his sanity.
At least they can still find ways to meet, in these hazy pockets of time.
Perhaps it was more than enough. It should be.
For the blade that cut too late the rope around his master's neck,
Even peace was a sin.
Itecho has been put on a watchlist.
Insurgent attack. The new Agent of Winter, now a year older, targeted again. The boy did not have Rosei's expertise nor tenacity. The guard did not recognize his charge as his own.
The events of Spring's kidnapping, and Rosei's first suicide attempt, played out in front of his eyes. Except that Spring was long kidnapped, and Rosei's first will be the spark of a bloody, grueling series of other attempts, one of which later ended his life.
This was not the kidnapping of Spring. The amount of incoming insurgents were manageable. Hell, he wasn't even shot in the stomach like back then.
Yet it took a bullet to the boy's leg for him to react.
And him, being the despicable, incompetent guard who was still stuck in that funeral night, only reacted at the split-second image that his subconscious produced of Rosei being hurt.
When his hands supported the young Agent up, the boy's face was blurry. He only heard soft, pained whimpering in place of the harsh tirade he was used to.
Although, he was certain that on the other's face was an expression of deep hatred.
Later, the boy was sent to the hospital. He was injured, but he'll live.
Meanwhile, Itecho was summoned by the chief of the Village of Winter. They criticized and admonished him with their words and glances. They spoke about demoting him, reducing his allowance, even punishing him outright.
Surprisingly, he found all of the above tolerable and deserved.
So why did Itecho Kangetsu draw his sword? Pointed it at the village chief in a frenzy? So the people wonder.
He would ask right back, why did you give up on Spring?
And by giving up on Spring, you forsook my lord.
Why did you forsake my lord and leave him to die?
And when he did die, why do you still resent him?
Was it because he was a difficult child? A promising child?
Was it because he was the impulsive Lord Winter, or the childish Rosei Kantsubaki?
No, I know it was because he took a part of me with him when he died.
He died—and I, who loved him so, was rendered lifeless in the process.
'Had I known that you would have turned out like this, Kangetsu,
then that Agent should have just gotten it over with before you became this attached.'
I'm sorry, Rosei.
Were I not the lesser man who failed to live on without you,
Would you be revered as the god that you are,
And not my murderer?
Had I not been your guard,
Would you finally know love then?
Would it truly have been better had we never met?
Itecho was lying in a bed of flowers.
Peonies, he noticed. The flower Rosei carried as a scar on his skin, the mark of his legitimate divinity.
They embraced him with their shapely petals, the scattered red in his hair contrasting well with the silver strands.
As he sat up, some of the petals were shaken off his head.
The bed became a sea. Endless, rolling fields of peonies as far as the eye can see,
And in the middle was a hazy figure, clad in black and gold.
He immediately rose, stiff legs moving towards the familiar sight by pure instinct. When they're close enough to touch, Itecho reached out both arms to pull 'him' close. Strangely, 'his' body temperature was warm where it should be cool.
It was as if his divinity was discarded, transforming into the trampled peonies beneath their feet.
"...this is the first time I am able to touch you," Itecho murmured, awestruck. "I wonder if it will be the last."
The figure chuckled, a nostalgic sound.
"What are you saying?" 'He' replied. "We'll be here together for a long, long time."
'He' smiled.
"Welcome back, Itecho."