The forest lay quiet, broken only by the harsh rasp of a breathing that struggled to stay alive. Mikage's steps faltered as he found him—Tomoe, collapsed against the damp earth, his white fur dulled and matted with blood and dirt. Dark marks ran along his arms and shoulders, etched deep like the scars of battles both past and recent.
"He… he was searching for a place to die," Mikage murmured, stepping closer. Tomoe's eyes flickered, half-lidded, sharp yet empty, burdened by centuries of pain. Each breath trembled as if the world itself was pressing down upon him.
Mikage knelt, hands reaching out despite the instinctive wariness radiating from Tomoe. "You don't have to do this alone… I won't let you die here."
Tomoe's gaze met his for a brief heartbeat, guarded but exposed—so fragile it almost cut through the years of pride and heartache. Mikage's fingers brushed the marks along his arms; they told stories, silent and cruel, of battles, betrayals, and a life weighed down by things too heavy for one being to bear.
Tomoe attempted to recoil, instinct screaming, but Mikage's calm voice held him. "Stay. Let me help you, even if only for now."
A flicker of something long-buried shone in Tomoe's eyes—desperation, a sliver of trust, a shadow of the being he once was. For the first time in countless years, he didn't run.
Mikage's hands were steady as he guided Tomoe toward the shrine, supporting him under his arms. Each step was a struggle; Tomoe's legs trembled, and he leaned heavily against Mikage, silent except for the shallow, uneven breaths. The fox yokai's pride bristled, but his body was too weak to resist.
Inside the shrine, Mikage gently helped him to sit on the tatami. The air smelled faintly of incense and old wood—familiar, calm—but Tomoe seemed oblivious, lost in a haze of pain and exhaustion.
"Here… you'll be safe for a while," Mikage murmured, carefully undoing the knot of Tomoe's yokata. As the fabric slipped open, the dark marks beneath were revealed in stark contrast to his pale skin—raised, jagged, and cruelly patterned. Some were fresh, still stinging; others were older, faded into scars, like a map of battles fought and survived.
Tomoe tensed instinctively, a low growl escaping despite his weakness. "It… doesn't matter," he rasped. His voice was quiet, brittle, like it could shatter if spoken too loudly.
Mikage's eyes softened. "It matters to me," he said quietly. "Every mark, every scar… it tells me what you've endured. You don't have to bear it alone anymore."
Tomoe's perple eyes flickered with something unspoken—resistance, distrust, and yet, faintly, a glimmer of relief. He looked away, his gaze fixed on a beam of light slicing through the shrine's doorway.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the crackle of the hearth and Tomoe's uneven breaths. Then, almost reluctantly, he spoke:
"You… shouldn't care. No one… ever cared before."
Mikage knelt closer, meeting the fox's gaze. "Then let me be the first."
A fragile silence hung between them, heavy with history, pain, and something unspoken that had yet to be named. Tomoe's body slumped further, exhaustion overtaking even his pride. And beneath the surface, buried deep, a fragment of a forgotten past stirred—a shadow that had been waiting for someone to notice it.
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying a hint of foreboding. Somewhere, in the darkness beyond the shrine, secrets long buried waited—secrets that would not stay hidden forever.