Work Text:
The world was still, the kind of stillness that comes only at the edges of life. Matoba Seiji lay sprawled across the forest floor, the tang of iron sharp in the air. His blood soaked into the earth, dark and unyielding, as if the ground itself sought to claim him quickly. The moon hung high above, its cold light casting jagged shadows through the treetops.
He couldn't feel the pain anymore—not the sting of the wound that cleaved through his torso, nor the chill that crept through his limbs like a thief. It was strange how quickly everything dulled, even the roar of his thoughts, leaving behind only silence. Only clarity.
His clan's name, his title as head of the Matoba family—all of it felt so far away now, like a distant echo. He had spent decades playing the part of a cold, calculating leader, the man who would stop at nothing to ensure the Matoba name endured. But lying there, with death brushing against him like a familiar companion, those ambitions seemed empty.
What came to him instead was a face. Not his ancestors. Not his enemies. Not even the ayakashi he'd so often scorned and used.
It was Natori Shuuichi.
Matoba hadn't understood him at first. Natori was soft, a sorcerer pretending to be an actor, unwilling to make sacrifices for the sake of survival. Yet beneath that softness was something Matoba could never grasp—something that both intrigued and irritated him. Natori had a faith in people, a stubborn refusal to let go of his ideals, even when reality should have crushed him.
They had crossed paths so many times, always on opposing sides. Natori stood firm in his belief that ayakashi could coexist with humans, while Matoba saw their kind as tools, enemies, or nuisances. And yet, despite their differences, Matoba had never been able to look away.
Perhaps it was Natori’s light. A kind of warmth Matoba had lost long ago—if he had ever possessed it at all.
He had never admitted it, of course. Matoba Seiji didn’t indulge in sentimentality. But there were moments, fleeting and unspoken, when he had wondered what it might be like to stand beside Natori instead of across from him. To be the kind of man Natori wouldn’t look at with distrust.
The forest swayed around him, the trees blurring into indistinct shapes. He could hear the distant rustle of leaves, the faint calls of ayakashi circling somewhere beyond his reach. He closed his eyes, but Natori’s image remained.
Would he ever know? Would Natori realize that he had lingered in Matoba’s thoughts, not as an opponent but as... what? A rival? A possibility? A memory?
He would never know. Matoba’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile if there had been strength left in him. It was better this way. Natori had always shone brightest when unburdened by the shadows of men like him.
The moonlight seemed to grow softer, gentler, as if wrapping him in its embrace. His breathing slowed, his chest rising and falling like the final waves of a retreating tide.
And with his last breath, Matoba Seiji thought of Natori Shuuichi one final time. Of what might have been, of what never could be. The name lingered in his mind like a benediction.
The world faded.
And Matoba Seiji was gone.