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In winter, Omokage's thoughts turn to fragility.
Icicles hang from the eaves of the citadel's roofs, reaching down towards the earth like cold and spindly fingers. He touches one as he passes and it fractures and falls, shattering into a million sharp pieces against the frozen earth. And he wonders, if he was to fall from a roof during battle, would he too break against the unveiling ground? Would he smash into a million rumours and stories, melting away into the dirt before he could begin to think of pulling himself together?
It's painfully cold. He feels the chill seep through his skin, through his ribs, aiming for his heart.
(That afternoon, Heshikiri Hasebe calls him by his name and by evening the icicles have thawed just a little).
In spring, it's strength that he ponders instead.
Working the fields with Tomoegata, he is studying the green shoots pushing up through the dirt when the naginata asks him a difficult question. Is he strong because he has so many stories within him? He's strong, that's true, the other swords have been teaching him about when to be humble and when to accept praise, but he couldn't necessarily say why. It's just what he does. What he's always done. Fight and reflect and steer the course of history, steadfast as a solitary sapling reaching for the sun. His stories don't make him stronger. If anything, speaking with most of the other swords have left him feeling more fragile.
Tomoegata is different. He has no story, no legend, nothing of his own. In that sense, Omokage thinks he can understand him a little better. And he wants to be stronger, to protect a master he thinks he's failed. They all carry that hurt within them, he knows. It's not something he can help with. Because of that, it hurts him too.
(He trains with Tomoegata every few days after that, marvels at his strength and elegance, and little by little they grow stronger together).
In summer, Omokage's thoughts are warm and turn slowly to matters of worth.
He watches Hasebe discussing cleaning arrangements with Shokudaikiri, the both of them smiling at one another. He watches Kasen and Ichigo arranging flowers with calm elegance, never rushing. He watches Yagen and Namazuo joking around in the gardens together, sharing fond memories of younger siblings and easier times.
Omokage wonders what it must be like, to walk around with that many happy moments in your heart. He's been gathering them since he came here, slowly collecting them day by day, but still they pale in comparison to the splintered stories that make him whole. But he's learning, he's trying. Yagen helps him more than most. During one balmly summer night, he tells Omokage that he likes his smile, insinuates that he's part of their family, this citadel's heart. Back in his room, he smiles into the mirror he usually doesn't like to use, tries to get accustomed to the sight.
(That night he's so warm he sleeps on top of his blankets. As warm as it is outside, this sort of heat comes from within).
In Autumn, loss is everywhere he looks.
The leaves wither and fall from the trees. With the harvest in the storerooms, the fields slowly grow sparse and then empty. The short nights fade into long grey evenings, most of every day seeming to be spent in limbo, a twilight on the cusp of darkness. He's not the only one here who feels it, many others seem lower in energy, more focussed on the risks of battle than the gains of victory. It seems as if there's a thrumming melancholy in the air, one that grows louder with every hour of daylight lost.
Not so for Tsurumaru. At least, that is what Omokage thinks at first. He's as loud and chaotic as ever, flapping his sleeves in Ookurikara's face when he looks even surlier than usual, leaping out at Yamanbagiris Kunihiro and Chougi to stop them from arguing. Sometimes he's difficult to be around, almost too lively, but in this season Omokage finds his energy comforting. It's only when they begin to talk a little more that he begins to wonder why Tsurumaru is the way he is.
Omokage knows his mimicry ability is unique, useful. He has, however, never thought of it as 'fun'. Tsurumaru suggests that he would use it to pull even more pranks, wreak even more well-meaning havoc on his comrades, and Omokage doesn't really understand. Sometime later, when the nights are beginning to get very long indeed, Shokudaikiri tells him quietly more of Tsurumaru's past, of all the loss he carries with him behind that smile, of cold stagnation and years of waiting, of being alone. It troubles Omokage, though he can't place why. He doesn't know what he can do to help, other than assist in a little misbehaviour.
(He acts surprised when Tsurumaru leaps at him after that, even when he sees him coming. It doesn't seem right that someone who creates so many smiles in others should be hiding behind their own).
Sometimes he feels cold. Sometimes he feels weak. Sometimes he feels lonely. Sometimes he feels lost. But while unpleasant, none of these things strike as deeply as they did before. He banishes the cold with warm blankets and hot drinks shared. He works to become strong through the help of his comrades. He chases away loneliness with conversation and new memories made. He tries to alleviate loss with laughter, and levity, and love for every little quirk of every sword in the citadel.
He still doesn't feel whole. He realises he might never feel that way. He's a collection of stories and battles held together by skin and bone that is slowly learning to be more than a weapon, bit by bit.
And it's okay. It's okay to be made from broken parts. Maybe they all are, in their own ways. But together they can make something new, something strong, something...that'll last forever.
He hopes so, at least. As winter descends on the citadel once more, it's the hope of spring that keeps him looking forward.