Run, Sweet Revenge
Run, Sweet Revenge
Run Run Run the sky screams and the sun cries, and the cobbles wail it as Kanda’s feet slap across them messily, buckles jingling as they come undone. Run and save them, run and save them, run and save them if you can.
The blood from the cut on his forehead splashes down his face and stings when it dribbles in his eyes, and the slash across his ribs makes him feel lightheaded and dizzy, but Kanda ignores the pain and the dizziness and the stares from the villagers and runs, runs, runs across the cobblestones, clinging to that last thread of hope as he weaves his way through fish carts and soba shops and little boys playing samurai and mothers scolding young ones angrily, their mouths falling open when they see the boy with the katana and the blood and the gasping breath of desperation.
Run, run, run, he thinks, screams to himself. The falling snow catches on his hair and kisses his cheeks and clumps in between his collar and his neck, snow falling white and touching him and fluttering, reddened, to the ground, droplets dribbling behind him steadily. The village is quiet and the walkers are slow and Kanda runs, runs, cutting his way through the lazy snowflakes and leaving the silence behind him.
He runs until his arms hurt and his legs ache, and when he reaches the foot of the hill that leads to his home he thinks it’s worth it, because there are no signs of fire and that has to mean they’re alive. The run up the hill is excruciating, and his lungs burn and his legs send long stabs of pain shooting up his sides.
The house is standing when he reaches it, standing quiet and still at the top of the hill. Kanda’s father is lying in front of the open door, the head lying several feet away from the body.
Kanda looks and shudders and looks away and vomits, and once he has a hold of himself he walks past it and steps over it and nudges the blood-spatter door further open.
He knows what he’ll find before his eyes adjust enough to see it. His family is dead, slaughtered and lying on the floor like animals. His younger brothers are lying next to each other in front of the fireplace, their throats slit. Ryutaro died with his katana in his hand and a knife sticking out of his chest. His mother is at the back of the room, slumped against the door. Mizuki’s sitting in her lap, impaled by the katana running through her mother’s back. The thrust was so hard it penetrated the wood in front of them. It would have taken them a while to bleed to death.
Somewhere in the distance the katana clatters to the floor and the snow picks up speed and the cold gets sharper and Kanda’s wounds start hurting again. Kanda stares and can’t think, and the images burn in his mind. The urge to run after and kill the man who did this doesn’t come for several hours.
“Don’t go,” Lavi says. “Stay.”
Kanda turns his head and stares up at the light coming through the shutter slats. There are specks of dust dancing in it, flitting in and out between the lines of light. Lavi grabs his hand and plays with the skin between Kanda’s thumb and forefinger, kneading it between his fingers softly.
“Or - we can run together. Leave the Order behind, run off and live together somewhere where they’ll never find us.” He curls a strand of Kanda’s hair in his fingers. “Where you’ll never find him.”
It’s not the first time Lavi’s said it, and it won’t be the last, but Kanda holds on to the thought anyway. “And you think we could be happy?”
“Yes. Maybe.” He slides closer, wraps his arm around Kanda’s chest. “No.” Lavi leans over and kisses Kanda’s tattoo, soft, chaste, tracing every line and spiral. “I don’t want you to chase him anymore,” he mumbles against Kanda’s skin, and Kanda feels his stomach clench and his throat drop down a bit. “I don’t want you to leave.”
They stay that way until Lavi falls asleep and the castle goes quiet and the sun drops down below the edge of the earth, and it’s almost enough to make Kanda stop running. Just like every other time.
“Are you running?” Kanda taunts, and the loud crisp quiet of the forest answers back. He’s tired. He’s close.
There’s no snow falling today; it’s clear and bright and sunny, and the light reflects on the snow, bright greens and browns of the trees thrown in sharp contrast.
Kanda steps into the forest slowly, looking, listening for any traces of the man, for an ambush. He’s not sure if he’s being careful or savoring the moment. Maybe both. He’s waited too long to waste this.
Tracks in the snow: covered sloppily, half a footprint here, half there, little splotches of blood in an intermittent trail. Either the man is delirious or exhausted or he’s setting up an ambush. Kanda veers off to the left and crouches low, crawling the rest of the way. He stops every few feet and listens, keeping his hand on the handle of his katana at all times. Somewhere in the distance a rabbit bounds across the snow and a twig cracks under the weight. Kanda starts and tightens his grip until he realizes what it is.
He almost laughs, and it distracts him for just one second - and then he realizes his mistake and turns around and unsheathes his katana just in time to block the man’s blow. It slides off Mugen, glances off, tip nicking Kanda’s eyebrow. The blood drips into his eye, but Kanda doesn’t mind. The man is injured and exhausted from days on the run, and he is fifteen years older now than he was the first time they fought.
Kanda has dreamt of this so many times he could do it with his eyes shut.
The man is weak, now, and holding himself stiffly. The ambush was his only chance, and it’s failed. It’s simple to disarm him - one stab at the hand and a flick of Mugen and the man’s sword flies off, spins singing through the air and lands in a snowdrift some eight feet away. Then Kanda thrusts his free arm forward and pushes the man back, and he sprawls on the ground and Kanda hunches over him, rests one knee on his groin and puts Mugen’s point to his throat. The man groans, and Kanda presses down harder with his knee.
It’s just a moment, but Kanda sees it: fear in the other man’s eyes, the sudden realization that this is it - there’s nothing else to do but die. Just one moment, and Kanda savors it, revels in it, wonders if this was the same look that passed through his brothers’ eyes fifteen years ago. And then the man sneers and opens his mouth to say something, and Kanda thrusts down with the katana and watches him die.
Lavi once told him taking revenge would leave him empty, would be meaningless. Kanda looks at the body once it finishes twitching and feels nothing but satisfaction.
He doesn’t bother to bury it, leaving before the sun starts to set. It’s a long way back to the city, and Lavi’s been waiting for him to stop running for a long, long time.
Run Run Run the sky screams and the sun cries, and the cobbles wail it as Kanda’s feet slap across them messily, buckles jingling as they come undone. Run and save them, run and save them, run and save them if you can.
The blood from the cut on his forehead splashes down his face and stings when it dribbles in his eyes, and the slash across his ribs makes him feel lightheaded and dizzy, but Kanda ignores the pain and the dizziness and the stares from the villagers and runs, runs, runs across the cobblestones, clinging to that last thread of hope as he weaves his way through fish carts and soba shops and little boys playing samurai and mothers scolding young ones angrily, their mouths falling open when they see the boy with the katana and the blood and the gasping breath of desperation.
Run, run, run, he thinks, screams to himself. The falling snow catches on his hair and kisses his cheeks and clumps in between his collar and his neck, snow falling white and touching him and fluttering, reddened, to the ground, droplets dribbling behind him steadily. The village is quiet and the walkers are slow and Kanda runs, runs, cutting his way through the lazy snowflakes and leaving the silence behind him.
He runs until his arms hurt and his legs ache, and when he reaches the foot of the hill that leads to his home he thinks it’s worth it, because there are no signs of fire and that has to mean they’re alive. The run up the hill is excruciating, and his lungs burn and his legs send long stabs of pain shooting up his sides.
The house is standing when he reaches it, standing quiet and still at the top of the hill. Kanda’s father is lying in front of the open door, the head lying several feet away from the body.
Kanda looks and shudders and looks away and vomits, and once he has a hold of himself he walks past it and steps over it and nudges the blood-spatter door further open.
He knows what he’ll find before his eyes adjust enough to see it. His family is dead, slaughtered and lying on the floor like animals. His younger brothers are lying next to each other in front of the fireplace, their throats slit. Ryutaro died with his katana in his hand and a knife sticking out of his chest. His mother is at the back of the room, slumped against the door. Mizuki’s sitting in her lap, impaled by the katana running through her mother’s back. The thrust was so hard it penetrated the wood in front of them. It would have taken them a while to bleed to death.
Somewhere in the distance the katana clatters to the floor and the snow picks up speed and the cold gets sharper and Kanda’s wounds start hurting again. Kanda stares and can’t think, and the images burn in his mind. The urge to run after and kill the man who did this doesn’t come for several hours.
“Don’t go,” Lavi says. “Stay.”
Kanda turns his head and stares up at the light coming through the shutter slats. There are specks of dust dancing in it, flitting in and out between the lines of light. Lavi grabs his hand and plays with the skin between Kanda’s thumb and forefinger, kneading it between his fingers softly.
“Or - we can run together. Leave the Order behind, run off and live together somewhere where they’ll never find us.” He curls a strand of Kanda’s hair in his fingers. “Where you’ll never find him.”
It’s not the first time Lavi’s said it, and it won’t be the last, but Kanda holds on to the thought anyway. “And you think we could be happy?”
“Yes. Maybe.” He slides closer, wraps his arm around Kanda’s chest. “No.” Lavi leans over and kisses Kanda’s tattoo, soft, chaste, tracing every line and spiral. “I don’t want you to chase him anymore,” he mumbles against Kanda’s skin, and Kanda feels his stomach clench and his throat drop down a bit. “I don’t want you to leave.”
They stay that way until Lavi falls asleep and the castle goes quiet and the sun drops down below the edge of the earth, and it’s almost enough to make Kanda stop running. Just like every other time.
“Are you running?” Kanda taunts, and the loud crisp quiet of the forest answers back. He’s tired. He’s close.
There’s no snow falling today; it’s clear and bright and sunny, and the light reflects on the snow, bright greens and browns of the trees thrown in sharp contrast.
Kanda steps into the forest slowly, looking, listening for any traces of the man, for an ambush. He’s not sure if he’s being careful or savoring the moment. Maybe both. He’s waited too long to waste this.
Tracks in the snow: covered sloppily, half a footprint here, half there, little splotches of blood in an intermittent trail. Either the man is delirious or exhausted or he’s setting up an ambush. Kanda veers off to the left and crouches low, crawling the rest of the way. He stops every few feet and listens, keeping his hand on the handle of his katana at all times. Somewhere in the distance a rabbit bounds across the snow and a twig cracks under the weight. Kanda starts and tightens his grip until he realizes what it is.
He almost laughs, and it distracts him for just one second - and then he realizes his mistake and turns around and unsheathes his katana just in time to block the man’s blow. It slides off Mugen, glances off, tip nicking Kanda’s eyebrow. The blood drips into his eye, but Kanda doesn’t mind. The man is injured and exhausted from days on the run, and he is fifteen years older now than he was the first time they fought.
Kanda has dreamt of this so many times he could do it with his eyes shut.
The man is weak, now, and holding himself stiffly. The ambush was his only chance, and it’s failed. It’s simple to disarm him - one stab at the hand and a flick of Mugen and the man’s sword flies off, spins singing through the air and lands in a snowdrift some eight feet away. Then Kanda thrusts his free arm forward and pushes the man back, and he sprawls on the ground and Kanda hunches over him, rests one knee on his groin and puts Mugen’s point to his throat. The man groans, and Kanda presses down harder with his knee.
It’s just a moment, but Kanda sees it: fear in the other man’s eyes, the sudden realization that this is it - there’s nothing else to do but die. Just one moment, and Kanda savors it, revels in it, wonders if this was the same look that passed through his brothers’ eyes fifteen years ago. And then the man sneers and opens his mouth to say something, and Kanda thrusts down with the katana and watches him die.
Lavi once told him taking revenge would leave him empty, would be meaningless. Kanda looks at the body once it finishes twitching and feels nothing but satisfaction.
He doesn’t bother to bury it, leaving before the sun starts to set. It’s a long way back to the city, and Lavi’s been waiting for him to stop running for a long, long time.