Chapter Text
She stands in front of the door to Tanjiro’s home and wonders why she even came here. This will only spell out trouble, but if her theories were true, then Tanjuro will have answers.
So she stands there, waiting miserably for the one man who could probably solve half of her problems.
That is, until the shoji slides open, revealing black hair and pink eyes in the form of a young girl. “Hello?”
Makomo’s eyes practically bulge out of her head. “Um… hi.”
Nezuko giggles, and it’s then that Makomo remembers how young she is.
(She remembers being eight years old once in both lifetimes, but now, it seems so far away,)
“I’m Nezuko,” she giggles again, holding out her hand to shake.
Makomo smiles crookedly and shakes her hand softly. “I’m Makomo. Is your father around?”
“He went out with Tanjiro.” Nezuko squints at the trees lining the area around her home. “They’ll be back soon. Can I braid your hair? It reminds me of my papa.”
“Um… okay?”
As Makomo kneels in the snow and listens to Nezuko chatter about random things, she meets the rest of the Kamado family. They all reveal themselves as kind people, though the children are a bit more giggly than most.
Makomo remembers a time when she lived like this, with family and love all around. It takes her entire body not to blubber as Kie kindly tucks a hair behind her ear, reminding Makomo so much of her mother that she wants to break down into tears.
“Oh? Who’s this?”
It’s then that Makimo sees him, and boy , if Makomo knew she was the last descendant of Yoriichi himself, she would have believed he was.
Tanjuro has his face, his hair, his eyes. And frankly, he looks surprised to see her.
She pulls on the side of her grandfather’s haori , and reveals Yoriichi’s keepsake. When Tanjuro’s face flashes in familiarity, she knows .
“May I speak with you?” she asks.
“Y-Yes. Tanjiro, go play with your brother.”
Tanjiro runs past and makes direct eye contact with Makomo. He has a curious look in his eye, his nose scrunching slightly as if to smell the air around her.
Makomo wonders what he smells. Is it her fear or her resentment that he can sniff out of the air?
Tanjuro leads her deeper into the woods, but not far enough that they cannot see the children playing in the snow in the distance. He looks nothing but sad and afraid and Makomo can barely stand it.
(At one point in time, more than three hundred years before where they stood, Tsugikuni Yoriichi had lost almost everything. Yet now here he stood, with everything he had ever wanted.)
“So-”
“I-”
They cut each other off. Makomo’s shoulders hunch up to her ears, and all she can feel is shame.
Tanjuro wipes something from the corner of his eye, looking at her as if she were another one of his children. “How old are you?”
“What?” She didn"t expect that.
“How-” She can hear how his voice gets caught in his throat. It’s as evident as the tears beading in his eyes. “How old are you?”
“Twelve.” she replies hoarsely.
He lets out a small breath, an aching sound echoing through it. “You’re so young. You shouldn’t be in the Corps. I-I didn’t want-”
“You didn’t want what? For your descendants to know where they came from?” Makomo hisses a little too quickly, but shrinks back. “I’m sorry.”
“No. I’m the one who should be apologizing.” Tanjuro buries his head in his hands. “How did you know about my past li-”
“Don’t worry about it.” Makomo says a little too quickly. “I’m-” Her throat feels a little too dry. “I’m a Hashira. Became one a while ago.”
Tanjuro sobs, holding his hand over his mouth.
“Muzan knew about my family being descendants of yours.” She hears him weep next to her, but continues nonetheless. “He turned them all into Demons. I had to kill my entire family in order to get where I am now.”
He stares through teary eyes. “You’re all that’s left?”
“I’m all that’s left.”
Tanjuro stumbles back, cradling his head in his hands as he collapses into the snow. “I knew this would happen. I knew-”
“That doesn’t matter now.” Makomo kneels next to him, pulling her two swords out to lie in the snow. “I have your blade, you know. And-”
There’s something about the way he stares at the purple nichirin sword that makes her stop. The way he stares at it like he’s revisiting every memory of his brother and childhood. “Michikatsu’s sword.”
“It’s not his, just the same color. Besides, he’s not Michikatsu anymore.”
“That’s right.” Tanjuro breathes heavily, wiping away his tears with his callused hands. “I’m getting sick, but I’m sure you already know that. Something about you tells me you know more than you let on.” He laughs wetly, grabbing the purple blade from off the snow. “The last time I held a sword, it was against my brother. I wanted to believe I had nothing, but I had a lot. My daughter and her daughter. The people I had saved. As I sit here before you now, I have everything I ever dreamt of.”
“H-How did you save your daughter?” In the manga, Yoriichi’s wife and child died.
“My wife died shortly before I got there. The Demon ripped our daughter from her womb. I heard crying when I came home. He would’ve eaten her if I hadn’t gotten there in time.”
“My great grandfather always said that you gave her up because you couldn’t handle her.”
He shakes his head. “I couldn’t give her the life she would’ve thrived in. She was so angry at me when I returned years later just to teach her sun breathing. ‘It’s a dance,’ I told her.”
“She knew.” Makomo sighs. “She wrote diaries. My great grandfather never let anyone read them, and my mother died before she could crack them open, but she wrote about you. There were entire paragraphs spent cursing your name, criticizing you for abandoning the last piece of Uta you had.”
“Oh.”
“But there were also stories. She wrote about people you saved, about the things you had done. Apparently she found where you died and… took your sword and torn haori before sewing it back together.” She pulled on her sleeve, showing faded stitches from the haori being mended.
“ Oh. ”
“My great grandfather used to tell me the stories she had written about you, and how you inspired him to become a swordsman. Said it was part of the lineage, part of the family legacy, to defeat Muzan and his Demons.” She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “I always thought he was crazy before I learned everything. Turns out he was in the Corps and adorned this haori and blade before me.”
Tanjuro wipes the snot from his face, eyes red. “So all of you went into the Corps?”
“No. Just him and I.” Makomo sits there next to him, staring at the sword on the ground rather than the one in his hands. “People… recently have been confusing me for a man. I wanted to ask…” She clears her throat and stares at him with those cerulean eyes of hers. “Do I look the way you used to? Back before you were… Kamado Tanjuro .”
He laughs , but it’s not normal. He laughs the way her mother used to: throwing his head back and laughing for the whole world to see. Tanjuro sighs softly afterwards, gazing at her the way he would at a child. “You’ve still got a little bit of your childhood in those cheeks of yours, and your eyes are blue, but… yeah. I’d say even the spitting image.”
In that singular moment, all of her questions had been answered. “That means Muzan will fear me as much as he feared you.”
“You shouldn’t go after him.” Tanjuro shakes his head. “You’ll only get hurt.”
“I was given this sword for a reason. I’m alive for a reason . You can’t tell me what I can or cannot do. That right died with my mother and father.”
Tanjuro’s face softens, and he runs his hand over the bridge of her purple blade. “I suppose that’s correct, but would your parents be proud of what you’re doing? Would they want you to get hurt like this?”
She recoils as he reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder. “They’re not here to say anything. All that’s left of them are the particulates that flow in the wind.” Makomo picks up the black blade, nearly fooled by its dark sheen until the sunlight strikes it just once. “I am to be Muzan’s executioner. It’s set in stone.”
“What do you think you will get when he’s dead? Solace?”
Makomo stands up and sheaths her blade. “Clarity, I might think. It’ll probably give me an opening to explore new hobbies. Maybe I’ll take up painting.”
“Painting?” Tanjuro questions.
“Yeah.” She holds out her hand, and he gently releases the purple nichirin sword back into her grip. “I quite like painting.” Makomo begins to walk back toward his home, sheathing her other sword before turning back to him. “Are you coming? I’m sure your wife has some questions. Surely you can just say I’m a distant relative.”
Kamado Tanjuro stands there and stares. There’s a moment that flows in his mind, where Makomo looks nothing like who he used to be, but rather the brother who turned for the worst. He sees Michikatsu then, with his bangs in his face and his far away smile before it fades into the expression of a scrutinizing near-teenager.
“Right, right.” he laughs, wiping the remaining tears in his eye with his sleeve, and walks toward the thin veil that is the remains of who he was a long time ago, before reincarnation seemed plausible.
He leaves Tsugikuni Yoriichi and his story in that forest. It just concludes with someone else picking up that mantle and wearing it toward the future.
Makomo doesn’t think she’ll ever forget that day. The laughter, the relief, the ever present feeling of family; it all sticks in her head like glue.
Before she leaves, she looks Tanjiro in the eye and kneels before him. She wonders if he’ll remember her in a few short years, when his family has died and the sun has shown brightly upon him. “Take care of your family. Always . Even if you head out on your own for a short night, or journey of some sort, always take care of them.”
He blinks at her owlishly, as if he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but his nose twitches. Makomo wonders if he can smell her melancholy.
“Promise me that?” she hums, patting his tiny head.
Tanjiro nods, cheeks puffing out as he says, “I promise, Cousin Makoto!”
“It’s Makomo, Tanjiro!” Nezuko shouts in his ear.
“Oh, sorry! I meant Makomo.”
Makomo feels a grin crack onto her cheeks, and nods. “I believe you.” She turns toward Tanjuro, the joy never leaving her face. “Teach them that dance , will you?”
“I wouldn’t dare not to,” he replies, eyes soft as he gazes upon his family. “Take care of yourself, Makomo.”
She stands, taking in the full view of the Kamado family. She wonders if Tanjiro will heed her words, or if even a hope of survival exists for the rest of the family. Either way, she turns on her heel and begins her trek into the future.
“Wait!” Kie calls, dashing from the innards of her home with a pot in her hands. “I have a gift!”
“Darling-”
“Shush, Tanjuro.” Kie laughs, dark purple eyes gleaming as she hands Makomo the pot. “A gift from our family.”
It’s a simple clay pot, not as special but Makomo can see the love, and in the center is a horsetail weed. “Uh… thank you?”
“It’s not a horsetail weed if that’s what you’re thinking. It blooms only two to three days a year, but trust me when I say you will find it to be the most beautiful spider lily you’ve ever seen in your life.” Kie tucks a strand of hair behind Makomo’s ear and smiles at her softly, motherly. “Take care of yourself, my dear, and feel free to visit if you ever get the time with that samurai job of yours.”
Makomo stares at the potted plant with wide eyes, and wonders so many things just at the sight. “I… don’t know what to say other than thank you.” Her eyes feel misty as she looks up at Kie, young and afraid for a mother that is not her own. She holds the pot with one hand, and grabs Kie’s hand with the other. “Never open your door at night, alright? No matter who knocks, just… don’t open it.”
Kie nods, and from behind her, Makomo can see Tanjuro’s crestfallen face appear for half a second before it disappears. “I will, Makomo. Travel safe.”
The hollering and joyful shouts of the children echo as Makomo reenters her trek down the mountain side, the pot in her clutches, and she hopes she will always remember them as this than as what they will become.