#manuscript fragment

[insidemyfavoritemanuscript]

Episode 8: Eric Johnson on manuscript fragments, Ohio, and the ethics of collecting

Folio 1r of a bifolium from a Missal, from the collection of Eric Johnson

In Episode 8 of Inside My Favorite Manuscript, Lindsey and Dot chat with Eric Johnson about two manuscript fragments from his own collection. We talk about the ethics of collecting fragments, Ohio’s place in the history of book breaking, and how manuscripts were used - both in their own time and through their afterlives.

Listen here, or wherever you find your podcasts.

Below the cut are more page images from the manuscript, and further reading.

The first fragment, from a Missal (book used for the Mass)

The Missal bifolium is two attached leaves, formed by taking a sheet of parchment and folding it in half down the middle. The front (recto) of the first leaf is on the right, and the back (verso) of the second leaf is on the left.

Here the bifolium is flipped over, so the verso of the first leaf is on the left and the recto of the second leaf is on the right.

Leaf 1 recto

Leaf 1 verso (little face drawn in the red Q at the top left column!)

Leaf 2 recto (with water stain)

Leaf 2 verso (with water stain and floppy-eared pig-dog on the top right)

A close up of the floppy-eared pig-dog on Leaf 2 verso.

A close up of the little face in the red Q

And here is Eric holding up the second bifolium. It’s much smaller than the Missal fragment, from a manuscript that was designed to be carried around.

Leaf 1 recto on the right, Leaf 2 verso on the left

A slide that Eric put together pointing out all the various texts written on this bifolium. Even if you don’t know Latin or Paleography, you may be able to tell that a few different people wrote different sections of text.

Leaf 1 verso on the left, Leaf 2 recto on the right. On these two pages the different scribal hands may be more obvious (note the lighter areas on the top left of both pages)

And here are the texts identified.

Leaf 1 recto

Leaf 1 verso

Leaf 2 recto

Leaf 2 verso

Some projects mentioned during our conversation:

Fragmentarium: Laboratory for Medieval Manuscript Fragments

Lisa Fagin Davis, Reconstructing the Beauvais Missal

[upennmanuscripts]

Ms. Oversize 33 is featured in the video loop for THE MOVEMENT OF BOOKS, an exhibit about all the ways that books move. Ms. Oversize 33 is notable because of its... wait for it... large size! It's a section (5 gatherings) from the middle of a choir psalter, in order for liturgical use. Originally the manuscript would have been held upright in front of a group of singers, so they could all read it at the same time. You can watch the whole loop on YouTube!

Ms. Oversize 33 🔗:

The Movement of Books Video Loop 🔗:

The Movement of Books exhibit information 🔗:

[muspeccoll]

Sometimes our #ManuscriptMonday posts are beautifully preserved specimens, and sometimes they're survivors that have persisted for centuries against all odds. This is one of the survivors.

After they outlived their usefulness, many medieval manuscripts were cut up and recycled into book covers, binding reinforcements, and even linings for clothing, shoes, and musical instruments. Parchment is durable, flexible, and expensive to produce, so it makes sense that people found ways to reuse it instead of merely throwing it away.

Reuse of Hebrew parchments like this one, however, can bear witness to both medieval recycling practices and religious persecution. This fragment is from tractate Menachot, part of the Talmud, which was subjected to confiscation, censorship, and public burnings in medieval Europe starting in the thirteenth century. We don't know whether this specific fragment was taken from its community by force, but many like it were.

Some medieval Hebrew texts are all but lost, known today only through surviving fragments. Read more about "The European Genizah" in a recent article by Simcha Emanuel in Tablet magazine.

Tractate Menachot, 33-34. Part of a very large 3-column manuscript of the Talmud, in Hebrew, Tractate Menachot, 33-34, Ashkenazi, presumably Germany, approximately thirteenth century, red stains. University of Missouri Digital Library.

[classics-cassandra]

Hey I’m so sorry, but your boyfriend was on my papyrus last millenium and someone used it to stop a wine bottle. They’ve excavated some fragments but he was in a lacuna. I’m so sorry.

[didnt-hear-cold-as-you-live]

the way i think of it, ttpd is the main album, and the anthology contains the “vault tracks” (not as strong as the main album and not chosen to be on it for a reason, but still chosen for release after her having positive experiences releasing vault tracks for her prior work)

Yeah I agree w this completely! I actually have a sort of hot take that the anthology tracks were the “secret I’d been keeping for 2 years” end of her speech announcing TTPD - I think she’d been sporadically working on and writing (a lot of) those songs and it hadn’t taken the shape of anything yet, then Everything Happened, then TTPD was formed and she was like why don’t I just release the other tracks too (like you said, in a very “vault had worked out well before” sort of thing). Which is why the anthology songs sound very demo-ish to me I think!

[yiddishlore]

Fragments like this feel like they’re taunting me…

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

Child's Writing Exercises and Doodles, from Egypt, c. 1000-1200 CE: this was made by a child who was practicing Hebrew, creating doodles and scribbles on the page as they worked

This writing fragment is nearly 1,000 years old, and it was made by a child who lived in Egypt during the Middle Ages. Several letters of the Hebrew alphabet are written on the page, probably as part of a writing exercise, but the child apparently got a little bored/distracted, as they also left a drawing of a camel (or possibly a person), a doodle that resembles a menorah, and an assortment of other scribbles on the page.

This is the work of a Jewish child from Fustat (Old Cairo), and it was preserved in the collection known as the Cairo Genizah Manuscripts. As the University of Cambridge Library explains:

For a thousand years, the Jewish community of Fustat placed their worn-out books and other writings in a storeroom (genizah) of the Ben Ezra Synagogue ... According to rabbinic law, once a holy book can no longer be used (because it is too old, or because its text is no longer relevant) it cannot be destroyed or casually discarded: texts containing the name of God should be buried or, if burial is not possible, placed in a genizah.

At least from the early 11th century, the Jews of Fustat ... reverently placed their old texts in the Genizah. Remarkably, however, they placed not only the expected religious works, such as Bibles, prayer books and compendia of Jewish law, but also what we would regard as secular works and everyday documents: shopping lists, marriage contracts, divorce deeds, pages from Arabic fables, works of Sufi and Shi'ite philosophy, medical books, magical amulets, business letters and accounts, and hundreds of letters: examples of practically every kind of written text produced by the Jewish communities of the Near East can now be found in the Genizah Collection, and it presents an unparalleled insight into the medieval Jewish world.

Sources & More Info:

Cambridge Digital Library: Writing Exercises with Child's Drawings

Cambridge Digital Library: More About the Cairo Genizah Manuscripts

[physalian]

How to make your writing sound less stiff part 2

Part 1

Again, just suggestions that shouldn’t have to compromise your author voice, as I sit here doing my own edits for a WIP.

1. Crutch words

Specifically when you have your narrator taking an action instead of just… writing that action. Examples:

Character wonders/imagines/thinks/realizes

Character sees/smells/feels

Now not all of these need to be cut. There’s a difference between:

Elias stops. He realizes they’re going in the wrong direction.

And

Elias takes far too long to realize that it’s not horribly dark wherever they are

Crutch words are words that don’t add anything to the sentence and the sentence can carry on with the exact same meaning even if you delete it. Thus:

Elias stops. They’re going in the wrong direction.

I need a word in the second example, whether it’s realizes, understands, or notices, unless I rework the entire sentence. The “realization” is implied by the hard cut to the next sentence in the first example.

2. Creating your own “author voice”

Unless the tone of the scene demands otherwise, my writing style is very conversational. I have a lot of sentence fragments to reflect my characters��� scatterbrained thoughts. I let them be sarcastic and sassy within the narration. I leave in instances of “just” (another crutch word) when I think it helps the sentence. Example:

…but it’s just another cave to Elias.

Deleting the “just” wouldn’t hit as hard or read as dismissive and resigned.

I may be writing in 3rd person limited, but I still let the personalities of my characters flavor everything from the syntax to metaphor choices. It’s up to you how you want to write your “voice”.

I’ll let dialogue cut off narration, like:

Not that he wouldn’t. However, “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

Sure it’s ~grammatically incorrect~ but you get more leeway in fiction. This isn’t an essay written in MLA or APA format. It’s okay to break a few rules, they’re more like guidelines anyway.

3. Metaphor, allegory, and simile

There is a time and a place to abandon this and shoot straight because oftentimes you might not realize you’re using these at all. It’s the difference between:

Blinding sunlight reflects off the window sill

And

Sunlight bounces like high-beams off the window sill

It’s up to you and what best fits the scene.

Sometimes there’s more power in not being poetic, just bluntly explicit. Situations like describing a character’s battle wounds (whatever kind of battle they might be from, whether it be war or abuse) don’t need flowery prose and if your manuscript is metaphor-heavy, suddenly dropping them in a serious situation will help with the mood and tonal shift, even if your readers can’t quite pick up on why immediately.

Whatever the case is, pick a metaphor that fits the narrator. If my narrator is comparing a shade of red to something, pick a comparison that makes sense.

Red like the clouds at sunset might make sense for a character that would appreciate sunsets. It’s romantic but not sensual, it’s warm and comforting.

Red like lipstick stains on a wine glass hints at a very different image and tone.

Metaphor can also either water down the impact of something, or make it so much worse so pay attention to what you want your reader to feel when they read it. Are you trying to shield them from the horror or dig it in deep?

4. Paragraph formatting

Nothing sticks out on a page quite like a line of narrative all by itself. Abusing this tactic will lessen its effect so save single sentence paragraphs for lines you want to hammer your audiences with. Lines like romantic revelations, or shocking twists, or characters giving up, giving in. Or just a badass line that deserves a whole paragraph to itself.

I do it all the time just like this.

Your writing style might not feature a bunch of chunky paragraphs to emphasize smaller lines of text (or if you’re writing a fic on A03, the size of the screen makes many paragraphs one line), but if yours does, slapping a zinger between two beefy paragraphs helps with immersion.

5. Polysyndeton and Asyndeton

Not gibberish! These, like single-sentence paragraphs, mix up the usual flow of the narrative that are lists of concepts with or without conjunctions.

Asyndeton: We came. We saw. We conquered. It was cold, grey, lifeless.

Polysyndeton: And the birds are out and the sun is shining and it might rain later but right now I am going to enjoy the blue sky and the puffy white clouds like cotton balls. They stand and they clap and they sing.

Both are for emphasis. Asyndeton tends to be "colder" and more blunt, because the sentence is blunt. Polysyntedon tends to be more exciting, overwhelming.

We came and we saw and we conquered.

The original is rather grim. This version is almost uplifting, like it's celebrating as opposed to taunting, depending on how you look at it.

—

All of these are highly situational, but if you’re stuck, maybe try some out and see what happens.

*italicized quotes are from ENNS, the rest I made up on the spot save for the Veni Vidi Vici.

[cuties-in-codices]

i was hoping one of y'all would know 😭

astronomical illustrations

from an astronomical-astrological codex for king wenceslaus iv. of bohemia, prague, shortly after 1400

source: Munich, BSB, Clm 826, fol. 13v-25v

[tkingfisher]

So I write all sorts of things (fiction, fanfic, screenplays) and my mind is cluttered garden of flowers and weeds and shiny ideas, and I'm wondering how to form a writing practice to clear it into tidy rows? Is it possible to shepherd untamed ideas into order?

How do you manage all your wonderful worlds, characters and inspiration and not feel haunted by the story bits and pieces in your head? Any practical tips beyond dark magic?

Thank you, you are such a constant inspiration for me, both prose and just your presence. <3

*laugh* Oh god, Nonny, if I ever find out, I’ll tell you! When you read books, you’re getting the Instagram-filtered view of a writer’s brain, all the flowers that grew out of the compost heap, carefully composed and shot in optimal lighting. The real inside of my skull is a magpie nest of Neat Shit I Read/Saw/Thought Up While Lying Awake At 2 AM. There are characters and ideas in there that I’ve been trying to get into a manuscript since I was twelve and typing on an Amiga 500.

But, that said…really, I think it’s okay. Creativity is inherently untidy. The compost heap can be corralled into a very pretty box made of sustainably harvested materials, hand-stained by traditional artisans being paid a living wage by an employee-owned company, but as soon as you lift the lid, it’s all worms and coffee grounds and old potting soil and cow shit and the vegetables you swore you were gonna eat this time before they went bad. That’s what compost is.

Nevertheless, having been in the business for…uh…fifteen years now? (@dduane is snickering at me, I can feel it) and having written nearly forty books, I can offer three bits of something less than advice. It’s what I do. It may not work for anyone else, but it’s what I do.

Un-Advice The First: If you get a shiny idea and you are super excited by it? Go ahead and chase it. Pull up a new page in Word or whatever and slap down a couple thousand words while it’s exciting. I know that this absolutely flies in the face of common wisdom, but quite frankly, my enthusiasm is a much rarer commodity than my time, so if I’m excited about something, I write it down until I’ve taken the edge off.

Then I usually save it into a big folder called “Fragments” and go back to work on whatever I’ve got a deadline on. (Usually. Sometimes the edge doesn’t wear off, and I wind up with another book. Which, y’know, darn.)

There are vast numbers of people who will tell you that a shiny idea is a sign that something is wrong with your current project and the solution is to knuckle down and work! through! it! And those people are probably right for them, and I trust they know how their own brains work. Me, though, I got ADHD like a bat has wings. My hard drive is a vast swamp of story beginnings, neat ideas, random scenes. And that’s okay because I still get books finished.

In fact, it’s better than okay. Not that long ago, my agent sent a novella to a publisher and they said “We’ll take that novella and three more novels. What’ve you got?” And I ended up plundering my hard drive and sending the editor a good dozen random beginnings until we found one that we both liked, and then I wrote the rest of that book. And then another one. If I hadn’t had all those fragments lying around, though, it would have been a miserable experience of writing book pitches and trying to think of stuff I could get excited about. (This may not be how some editors work, but it’s how my editor and I work, anyhow.)

Un-Advice The Second: Trust that everything will find a home eventually.

This one is easy to say and hard to do because sometimes you get that overload that if you’re writing the book about, say, werebear nuns, you aren’t writing the one about the alien crustaceans. Or worse, you feel guilty. If you don’t use that one cool thing, was all that time you spent on it wasted?

Breathe. Be easy. Every single cool thing does not need to go into a single book. There is no sell-by date on the neat character. You will probably write many books in your life and all those random characters will find a home. (Seriously, the werebear nuns were lurking for like a decade.)

For me, at least, when I find the spot where something fits, it often snaps into place like a Lego. Easton’s backstory as a soldier from a society where soldiers were a third sex had been kicking around in my head for a few years, derived from about three different sources, and then I wrote the opening to What Moves The Dead and all of a sudden Easton was there and alive and they had strong opinions about everything and I had ten thousand words practically before I turned around.

You can also stave off guilt by writing some of your ideas in as highly personal Easter Eggs. A couple of my books have references to a white deer woman, a heroic deed done by a saint and the ghost of a bird, and a woman with dozens of hummingbirds on tiny jeweled leashes. Those are all characters and stories I’ve had vague notions about, but haven’t managed to work in anywhere or learn much more about. Still, the passing reference is enough to make me feel like I haven’t abandoned them.

(The advantage to this is that once you DO write those in, the readers are all “oh my god, she foreshadowed this a decade ago, she must have planned this all out in advance!” Then you look really clever and well-organized and no one has to know that you have no idea what you’re doing.)

Un-Advice The Third: Write the kitchen sink book.

At one point, I had so many stray ideas that hadn’t gotten into a book yet—the tree of frogs, the dog-soldiers, the stained glass saint, the albatross and the shadow of the sun, and also I wanted to write something with Baba Yaga—that I hauled off and wrote a book where I just put in everything and the kitchen sink. It’s called Summer in Orcus. There are bits in there that I had been cooking in the mental compost heap for decades, but that weren’t enough on their own to sustain a whole book. The phrase “antelope women are not to be trusted” showed up in my head some time in college. It’s a fun little book and I’m proud of it, but it’s very much a patchwork quilt of weirdness. But it’s also written so that if later on, an antelope woman shows up in another book in another context, that just adds to their mythology, it doesn’t break canon or whatever.

(Pretty sure I’m not the only one who has done this, either. China Mieville has said that he wrote Perdido Street Station because what he really enjoyed was writing all the weird monsters.)

So yeah, that’s my advice, for what it’s worth. Some days I just tell all the fragments and ideas that I promise that I’ll get them a home eventually but I need to write this thing here now. Sometimes I throw down enough words to get the story stabilized and then I’m okay to move on. Sometimes I write multiple books simultaneously.

Any method you use to write the book, so long as it doesn’t hurt you or anyone else, is a perfectly valid method. If anyone tells you different, you send them to me.

(…god, I hope that was the question you were actually asking, Nonny, and that I didn’t go off on a completely different tangent when you just wanted to know how I keep track of a plot or something.)

[paiawon]

from november 2023 to may 2024 at villa caffarelli, part of the capitoline museums, an exhibit entirely dedicated to phidias, the famous sculptor behind the parthenon and the chrysoelephantine colossi of the athena parthenos and zeus of olympia.

the exhibit is composed of a selection of more than 100 works, from archaeological finds to paintings and manuscripts narrating the life and work of the artisan, with the support of reconstructions, multimedia installations and digital content.

the exhibition is the first of a series of five exhibitions, "i grandi maestri della grecia antica". in addition with the artworks coming from museums in rome and other italian institutions, the exhibit contains some extraordinary loans, items that have never left their museum premises, as for example two fragments from the parthenon frieze, from the acropolis museum in athens.

tiktok

[delicatebarness]

the manuscript | prologue

Summary: The first encounter.

Warnings: Age Gap. (Dr Barnes: late 40s & Reader: 18 in this part)

Word Count: 837

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A/N: Oh, hello Dr. Barnes. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as it is mine. - B

Tags: Let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list!

The university loomed before you, the ivy-clad walls and gothic spires stood as testaments to the centuries of academic excellence. Renowned for its rigorous standards, the prestigious institution drew in the brightest minds from across the globe. You stepped through the grand archway, the air humming with the energy of countless scholarly pursuits, each echoing through the hallowed halls. 

You haven’t long turned 18, now a freshman, driven by a passion for creative writing. Your nights were spent hunched over notebooks, pouring your heart into stories and poems. Determined to make the most of this opportunity, you reflected on your talent that earned you a place here. With the best and brightest. It was a new chapter of your academic journey, and it started today.

Dr. James B. Barnes is a brilliant literature professor yet, reserved. His reputation preceded him– known for his profound insights and standards, he was feared and revered by his students. As you approached his office, your heart began to race. 

Tucked away in a quiet corner of the library, stood a heavy oak door with a brass nameplate glinting in the dim light. You took a deep breath and knocked firmly. Creaking open the door, you revealed Dr. Barnes. Sat behind a cluttered desk, his gaze lifted from a pile of papers, meeting yours. Piercing yet thoughtful, there was a moment of silent assessment. 

You felt the weight of his scrutiny as you stepped inside. The room smelled of leather with a faint trace of whiskey. 

“Good afternoon,” you begin, trying to steady your voice despite the nerves. “I’m going to be joining your advanced English literature class.” 

“Ah, yes,” he responded, his tone measured. “You must be the freshman. Please, have a seat.” 

You took a seat in the heavy leather chair opposite his desk. The two of you exchange a few professional courtesies, keeping the conversation brief but charged with mutual respect. You could sense that he had recognized your passion, and you were determined to prove yourself. 

~

A week later, you found yourself attending his class, surrounded by fellow students. His presence was commanding as he stood at the front of the room. A masterful blend of critical analysis and profound insight, his lectures were delivered with authority. 

Your hand raised after a particularly challenging lecture, Dr. Barnes acknowledged you with a nod.

“Yes?” 

“I have to disagree with your interpretation of his work,” you say, your voice clear and confident. A stark contrast from your first meeting with him. “I believe his use of fragmented narrative serves as a challenge to the notion of a singular, authoritative voice, rather than to obscure meaning.” 

The room fell silent, all eyes turned to you. Dr. Barnes regards you with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. 

“Interesting perspective,” he replied, keeping his tone cool. “However, I would argue that the fragmentation serves more to reflect the chaotic nature of postmodern existence.” 

You don’t back down. “Isn’t that chaos a direct challenge to traditional narrative structures? He seems to be inviting readers to find their own meaning within the disarray.” 

Your heated debate ensues, intellectual electricity cranking the air. Your classmates watched, their gazes swapping between you and Dr. Barnes like they were at Wimbledon as you exchanged arguments. 

Initially, he was annoyed by your boldness, yet you caught a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. You thrived on pushing boundaries and testing limits, in particular, with those you found intellectually stimulating and authoritative. Leaving everyone, including Dr. James B. Barnes, captivated.

“Your argument is well-crafted,” he concedes, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I look forward to more discussions like this.” 

As the weeks passed, Dr. Barnes’ class quickly became the highlight of your week. A battlefield of ideas in each session, a place where you could push your intellectual prowess. Dr. Barnes, though initially reserved, seemed to relish the debates as much as you did. 

One chilly autumn afternoon, you lingered after another stimulating class as the other students left. The room fell quiet, as though itself was in thought and reflection. Dr. Barnes noticed and approached you.

“Good work today,” he said, his tone less sharper than usual. “You’ve brought a new energy to these discussions.” 

“Thank you,” you smile, a rush of pride coursed through you. “Your classes challenge me in ways I never expected.” 

He nodded, “To challenge and to inspire, that’s the point of academia. Keep questioning, you could go far.” 

You smiled again, your cheeks becoming flushed. “I’m glad you’re not tired of my questions yet.” 

“On the contrary,” he said as he leaned closer, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that caused your heart to race. “I find them… refreshing.” 

The flicker of something unspoken passed between you, a deeper connection yet to be explored. His words echoed as you left the lecture hall, the promise in his eyes lingered. 

What were the boundaries between student and teacher? And, could they transform into something more profound? 

- - -

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[upennmanuscripts]

Many - most - manuscripts survive only in fragments. Here we have three adjacent fragments from a large antiphonary leaf. Text on both sides is from Psalm 138 and one side also includes musical notation. Written in a large Gothic hand with red and blue initials. Because the style of liturgical manuscripts didn't change much through the mid to late middle ages, we can't say any date more exact than between 1300 and 1599.

🔗:

[wannabepoeticischiya]

fragments of caelum

It’s frightening��� a love with a time limit. When he was the right person, with all the time in the world… and she was nothing but a fraction of time he’d experience. Something you know will end before it can even begin.

ao3: fragments of caelum pairing: sukuna x f! reader genre: romance, angst, heian era wc: 15.4k status: completed art by: usobuki_jj on twitter

Songs of the spring echoed in the courtyard, domed by an eternal blue sky, bordered by the stretching forests. Vines circled the barks of the trees, reaching far into their branches with hopes to touch the heavens. Sun rays thawed the dewdrops, casting them far into the depths of the sky.

Cradled underneath it all was the vessel of the King of Curses. The falls of his steps were the only rhythmic clatter clashing against the silence that blanketed the lands.

Haze of the early morning remained, tying everything to peace. No noise, no curses, no Sukuna.

Itadori continued his journey to the library where he knew no living sorcerer would ever step foot in. For what reason? Why, to run an errand for his all-time favorite teacher, Gojo Satoru, of course!

That place was as horrid as the curses they were trained to exorcise. It didn’t help that it was riddled in eerie quietness, or that the principal had these thick black curtains covering every window because he didn’t want those ancient manuscripts to crumble to ash and be blown away.

Quite simply it was a place he would never enter if he could help it.

Itadori pushed open the heavy wooden doors, hearing an ominous creaking sound emanate from it, going on and on for what seemed to be forever until the back of the door crashed against the wall with a loud bang.

The young sorcerer gulped, putting a foot forward, and trod as quietly as he could to the farthest corner of the room, where those papers (written with ancient runes no one ever really bothered to read) were dumped. Why his teacher wanted those, he didn’t know—Itadori wasn’t even sure if he could understand what was recorded in those, they were probably older than all of them plus Principal Gakuganji combined.

When he reached the very back, a dusty table greeted him along with a few books stacked up in the middle of it.

The sight had him asking, when was the last time anybody’s been here?

He sighed and picked up everything that cluttered the table. Mumbling about how the school needed to stop being cheapskates and hire a janitor.

One by one, he placed them back on the shelves, pondering which section they should go to, but it proved to be for naught since he couldn’t understand what most of them said.

Whether by accident or by fate, he knocked over a journal: weathered by the hands of time, pages golden with age. A compass was etched on its cover along with a name that had faded perhaps years before he was even born.

As he bent down to pick it up, an old picture slipped from one of the pages.

When his fingers grasped the object, Itadori realized it wasn’t a photograph, it was a drawing. One so detailed it deceived his eyes.

I guess cameras weren’t a thing back then, huh?

On its blotched page, a smiling girl could be made out. Her hands held up a peace sign over her closed eyes with one of her hands boldly slung over a man that only plastered on a ghost of a smile. Written on the side in messy little characters were:

'Ryōmen & (Y/n)' Auflage, 850

Itadori squinted, trying to see the face of the man—finding it strikingly familiar like someone he knew was tethered to the same features.

"Sukuna..." He called; eyes still glued to the sketch. Itadori wasn’t sure what to make of it all.

It was the King of Curses, feared by sorcerers and demons alike. But here, in this moment trapped in time he looked… human. As though he couldn’t be any farther from the names the world had called him.

"Oi! Sukuna! Do you know this lady?"

Itadori’s head remained free from thoughts. For a second he nearly believed that there was only a single soul inhabiting this body of his.

The silence remained, scattering like stardust through the stuffy and tense atmosphere. Itadori, who was once just curious began to worry about the demon king’s unresponsiveness.

It was strange. The oxygen in his lungs came in leveled breaths, yet his heart thudded so wildly in his chest he thought it would break free from its cage and start running to the ends of the world.

This woman couldn’t be any more than a stranger to him… so why?

"Where... where... did you get that?" Another voice, deeper in tune, laced with anger and sadness, broke the stagnancy.

It felt like his blood was pushing past its limits. His organs felt ignited, and his vision began to blur. This was Sukuna’s doing. To have him answer was rare enough as it is but to have him open the lid to his sentiments—have them pour in abundance that it became overwhelming for Itadori to handle—was never something so farfetched he couldn’t even dream of it.

"ITADORI!" Sukuna's voice echoed in his head, tearing apart his daydreams and bringing him back to reality.

 "Okay... Okay... Relax.” He breathed, coaxing his body to stop its trembling. “It just fell from one of the pages."

You kept it… even after all of that… idiot woman.

Itadori inspected the fragile piece of paper, careful to not let any scattered sunlight graze it for fear that it might crumble and fade for good.

He flipped past the cover of the book and carefully turned the pages. The words of the owner were inscribed in ancient text, one so archaic he doubts there were still records of it alive to this day.

It's old, that's for sure. Have other people seen this? It doesn't look like it's been touched for years.

"Sukuna. Oi! Sukuna!" Itadori tried to call, only to be rewarded with disregard.

SUKUNA!

The young sorcerer grumbled, knowing he wouldn't get anything out of the—now surprisingly quiet—demon. So, he pulled out his cellphone and snapped a shot of the drawing, careful not to use a flash. He would get answers even if it killed him.

He slipped the drawing back into the journal, placing the artifact on the table.

Auflage's Hero: (L/n) (Y/n), the Little Liar.

Itadori ran.

Out of the library, down the winding halls, over the cobblestone pathway; drowsiness being overpowered by his overwhelming curiosity. He rushed to find the person he knew that'd know the answers he so desperately wanted to hear, Gojō Satoru.

Was this the reason why he sent him there? To find that? To see Sukuna in a way he never would have imagined?

Leaves of springtime began to fall, littering the grey sidewalks and roads with silver and blushes of pink. Puddles from last night's apparent rainfall made the scent of warmth linger in the air.  

Glimpses of the open field slipped through the foliage, pushing him to hurry.

As he reached the final steps of the courtyard, he saw the person he was looking for.

"Gojō-sensei!" He called, trying to catch his breath.

The blindfolded man turned to look at the heaving form of his student.

"Itadori!" He enthusiastically bellowed before turning to face his students once more.

"See? You guys could learn a thing or two from him! You know... he can finish a 50-meter track within 3 seconds! Ain't that impressive huh? He could be a car!"

Itadori scrambled to his feet, approaching the happy figure of his sensei.

"Do you know someone named (L/n)?"

The albino-haired man seemed to be deep in thought, his pointer finger repeatedly tapping on his chin before joyfully declaring his knowledge on the topic. "I do! In fact, there's an entire clan of them! Bow-using priests and priestesses. Isn't that right, (Y/n)?"

"(Y/n)?" Itadori’s question rang, shadowed by a sonorous tune.

A mischievous smile plastered on Gojō's face, "You know her, Sukuna?"

Perhaps this was his plan all along, to rile the King of Curses into silence. Force him to relive a memory written down as one of the greatest achievements in sorcerer history.

"Tch. Who could forget?"

And it worked because the demon king never resurfaced for the rest of the day.

"What does he mean by that, Sensei?"

"Yeah. Why would someone as evil as Sukuna have ties with the sacred clan of (L/n)?"

"Why'd he suddenly get all chatty when he heard (Y/n)-chan's name?”

Question after question left the mouth of his students, flooding his ears, making his head spin.

"All right. All right, I'll tell you... just be quiet. Come on, let's all go inside."

---

Welcome to AUFLAGE.

The sign that welcomed visitors to the town was old, decorated in ivy and overgrown flora. Some of the white paint had already begun peeling off, and the wooden board where the words were engraved had its edges ridden by termites.

Please d i e slowly.

And that same sign gave travellers a very warm welcome.

Auflage was a little village near the end of society. Covered by thick forests of the west, flagged by towering mountains in the north and south, bordered by the sea in the east.

The isolation eased the nerves of its citizens, chains of brooks and rivers that circled around the town were considered a protective barrier by the old folks that resided there. They claimed that it was what protected them from the curses of the outside world.

In that same village resides a happy young woman. Easily swayed by strangers, fooled by travelers, and convinced by the shadiest of stories. (L/n) (Y/n) was what they called her.

The carefree girl that lived near the brooks. Always stuck in her own world. She came into town one day dressed like a shrine maiden.

None of the townspeople knew where she had come from, nor did they bother to ask. Perhaps she came from the next town over, or maybe even farther out in the cities. It didn’t matter. To have a new face linger for a few days was a delight, and they rejoiced at the news that she would be there to stay for a long time.

Her little home was far into the woods, a small humble hut littered with firewood, still, the people of Auflage accepted and loved her.

As the trees swayed to the rhythm of Mother Earth, her figure emerged from the thick mist. Her zori sounding in soft thuds as it hit the hardened earth. Thin golden armbands glinted in the faint light of the sun that slowly seeped through the cracks of the mountains.

The rest of her figure came into the scene, dressed in a pair of wide-legged, pleated trousers, dyed in bright red, a white kimono-style upper clothing held in place by a wide belt, with sleeves that flared at the wrists fluttering ever-so-softly in the wind.

Adults and children alike were scattered across the small village. The little ones chasing their friends around, laughing joyously without a care for the world.

It was a simple sight that she saw every day but every time she laid eyes on it, it grew more and more special.

The lady made her way across town and entered the local tavern, guided by one of the strongest shamans out there.

(Y/n) took a seat on one of the many unoccupied stools in the building.

"One mug of cider please."

Her forehead met the wooden counter, still drowsy from the early wake-up call. The sound of her plea got the attention of the flair man.

"Ah! (Y/n)-san! Always good to see you!" He cheered, wiping a glass to use for her request.

"Good to see you to Amaury-dono, how's the wife?" She raised a hand in greeting, eyes still rooted to the floorboards.

Amaury only smiled at the girl as he finished up her fill, "She's good, Arne is due in a few weeks so got to work hard."

He placed the mug of cider in front of her as (Y/n) mumbled a silent ‘thanks’.

Creaks of the opening door dragged Arne’s attention to the incoming patronage. "Welcome! What'd be for today Seizou-sama?"

Seizou shook his head and took off his sun hat, revealing his balding scalp and the wrinkles that etched themselves on his face, resembling the years that passed in his life. Hanging it on one of the hooks near the door.

"Nothing of the sort lad, just came here to issue a request."

Amaury nodded and smiled, nonetheless.

"Sure thing, let me just get some papers in the storage."

(Y/n) lifted her head to see Amaury's retreating form, his back getting further and further away until he disappeared around the corner.

Once she was certain he was out of earshot, (Y/n) faced the trembling man.

"What kind of request is it, Seizou-san?"

Seizou gave her a sad gaze, one where despair and hopelessness ravaged in those fading irises of blue. "Killing the king of curses."

(Y/n) pondered on the thought. In all her years living here, she only came across that title a couple of times when it was whispered amongst warriors and hunters or woven into a tale of caution.

Beware the demon king by night, With blazing eyes and fangs so bright.

The scrolls that the village owned were useless; moth-eaten, fading as the days passed. And even if they weren’t, the priestess wasn’t fortunate enough to know how to read—such a luxury reserved for nobility.

His whispers lure in dreams unseen, To snatch away the pure and clean.

Of course, rumors and stories flutter past her ears every once in a while. Parents told the tales of the demon king who will take you away to his palace if you don’t eat all your vegetables. Even depict him as a being with horns and wings with sharp jagged teeth. There were the occasional sketches that went around if a painter was visiting town, albeit (Y/n) doubts if they will ever ring true.

Walk the paths where lanterns glow, Stray too far and the dark will show.

"Say, what... what brought this on hmm? What makes you think that this 'king' even exists?"

It was difficult to believe that which you have not seen for yourself. Much more to fear a creature you have never once met.

The aging man only sighed, he couldn’t blame the young woman, really.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to the seat near hers.

"Be my guest."

Seizou situated himself on the stool only a few feet away from the girl.

"The king of curses is no mere legend, miko. Few of my kin have encountered him during the hunting season, saying there lay a creature in the woods far too fast for the eyes to see, resilient to the sharpest of blades—the strongest of swordsmen. But it was no forest beast… it was a demon. The vilest of them all. No shaman could bring him down. Calamity falls on the cities he ventures. Towns reduced to ashes from his wrath. He spares no one, not women nor children. They say that he has four arms and a mighty build. His body adorned in ink; eyes dyed red from all his bloodshed. Only he had four, prodding at you every which way; so deformed one would think he had two faces. My son... tried to... hunt him down and never came home. Soon, my youngest also attempted to do it, he too... never returned."

(Y/n) listened earnestly to his tale as she shifted in her seat, resting her cheek on her fist. "Say he really does exist...” she entertained, still skeptical of the demon’s existence.

“Surely, you can’t expect people to do this for such a noble reason as vengeance?”

"Of course not. I’m putting all my fortune into this. At the very least, if someone were to defeat him... It'd do great for the future."

The girl looked towards the window seeing the clouds swirl and darken over the once azure sky, feeling something creep up her spine. "Oi, Mr. Seizou..." she called.

His fading icy blue eyes clashed with her (e/c) irises. "I'll do it. I'll kill him."

---

At the rise of daybreak, (Y/n) prepared for her estimated lengthy adventure. From sharpening blades to making wards to stocking up on food and other necessities that she needed to live.

The priestess wrapped her things in a large cloth, hiding the little things in the pockets of her kosode. 

She barricaded her windows and finally locked the door. (Y/n) was sure she wasn’t returning here for a while. Although it was sad, for she had grown to love her humble home, it had to be done.

After grabbing the map (given by Seizou) that supposedly leads to the castle of the king, the priestess took off on what will be a year-long journey to the kingdom of the demon king.

As she walked the cobblestone path of Auflage—the last one for a very long time so it seemed—stores of all kinds and sizes that a great deal of things welcomed her vision. From bakeries to armories to the newly established livelihoods. For a town near the end of the world, it sure held a lot of variety.

Despite having been in town for a long time, the structures and the people still fascinated her.

(Y/n) decided to stop by one of the stores that recently opened.

A jingling sound flooded her ears, ringing all throughout the space, the moment she opened the door. A sign perhaps… that somebody entered the place.

The priestess observed her surroundings, weapons were fastened to the mahogany walls, huge beams of wood holding the building upright. Daylight streamed through the windows of the door, and there it lingered. Torches lined the posters, bringing luminescence to the room clouded in shadows.

What caught her attention were the odd-looking things lining the shelves. From swords to butcher knives to just rotten banana peel-designed wrappings.

(Y/n)’s stare drifted from one trinket to another, finding them so strange from the usual apparatuses used by the shrine maidens. What kind of shop is this? Is that a toenail?

"What'd it be for you, missy?"

Her curious gaze met the eyes of the man at the end of the aisle, clothed in a humble grey hakama and kosode.

"I see a lot of cursed energy pilling up inside you." He commented, eyeing the products he had for sale. Surely, he must have thought them odd, too.

"I beg your pardon?"

The tiny keeper laughed, clutching his stomach at how hilarious he was. His hunched form and disheveled appearance approached the weary figure of the priestess.

"You see that man over there," the woman looked to where his bony finger pointed to, "you're somewhat similar to what he is." He smiled, crossing his hands behind his back.

At the other side of the store was a muscular man, cautiously looking over the things that were on display. His ears catching patches of the conversation that was quietly weaving behind him.

"—could learn a thing or two from him."

The tiny old hunchback walked to the back of his shop, soon coming out with a bow and a case of arrows in his arms.

"I'll rent it to you," he casually dropped the weapon in her arms, not minding the clatter that followed as a few of the arrows fell to the floor, "if you come back alive, you can have it. If you don't, I’ll charge everything on your descendants."

If the wind could penetrate through the thick walls, (Y/n) was sure that it would blow everything away... everything including her.

She looked to the odd man; his posture, appearance—even just the fact that he was running some quack shop sent warning signals all over her head.

"Kill the king for me, too."

---

(Y/n) walked the final steps that would lead her to the ends of the village, one where the forest path lies ahead: the only entrance and exit to Auflage.

She passed through the large torii gate that welcomed travellers to the estranged town and soon, she also passed the broken sign that should've spelled drive instead of d i e.

Towering trees flagged her vision, the endless ocean of green and yellow littering the ground, accompanied by the rhythmic orchestra of the fauna made her head go into a frenzy of cautiousness.

(Y/n) had already made the journey through the woods halfway. If she kept at this pace, she would reach the town before eventide.

Still, it did not make her ventures a whole less eerie.

It's quiet. Too quiet.

The echo of a snap compelled her to turn her head towards the direction of the sound, to find a culprit for her startle.

The scene that greeted her was certainly, how do you put it...

Odd.

"Handsome, aren't I?" He smirked.

"More like strange..." The priestess countered cautiously, eyeing the man behind the trees.

"And handsome."

"It must be nice to have such vain concerns." She sneered.

The stranger emerged from where he hid behind the tree, his pink hair spiking in meaningless directions, clothes barely covering the areas it was supposed to cover. His body was packed with muscles, like he had all the food to eat with no one to share, yet he appeared somewhat wounded.

But what made (Y/n) halt her observations was the striking crimson pooling in his irises, as though every shade of red was made just so he could have it. It must be a trick of the light, surely. For what human could be blessed with such beauty that even the gods might envy him for it.

“If you draw me now, you might finish it by twilight.”

Alas, he had a foul mouth on him. And it irked the priestess—especially when he was saying such atrocities with that sickeningly haughty grin and a face drawn with ink. I’ll put you in your place, you pig!

"What're you doing in the middle of the woods?" She questioned, forcing her patience to reach further. "Almost naked at that."

(Y/n) gestured to his beaten figure.

"If you wanted a quick coin, you could at least have tried a town. You’re not going to sell much out here with tanukis and foxes."

Pinky boy tilted his head to the side, amusement glimmering in his red eyes. "Do you not know who I am?"

Taken aback by the sudden question, (Y/n) raised an eyebrow at him. "Am I supposed to?"

The stranger grinned wider at her retort, doubling over in laughter because to him, the tiny little priestess was oh-so amusing.

"Interesting..." pinky hair chuckled, wiping the water from his eye.

"I'm Ryoumen." He declared, spreading his arms out in a grand boisterous gesture.

"I didn't ask... but okay. I'm (Y/n)." The priestess bowed humbly.

Orchestras of birds hastily fluttering their wings and taking off interrupted their conversation. Soon, gray clouds blotted the sky, thunder echoing through every nook and corner of the forest.

“I can walk with you until the next village, it’s just around two hundred and twenty-five cho away*. If we walk now, we can reach it by twilight."

(*30 km or 18 miles)

“Heh?” He smirked, raising a brow at her bold offer.

“Or you can just stay here and freeze to death,” (Y/n) shrugged, turning her back to him, and soon started to walk away. “Either way, I offered so my conscience is clean~” she waved, “Don’t curse me if you die out here.”

---

"Gojō-sensei! Who's Ryoumen?"

"That's Sukuna's last name. Now shut up or I'll leave you all hanging."

--

"You want to kill the king of curses?" Sukuna laughed at her declaration.

(Y/n) forgetting all about her manners, hurriedly slurped every bit of noodle left in the bowl before slamming it down on the table. "So, what if I do?"

The man scoffed and flicked her forehead, "I think you're a hundred years too early to be trying that."

She slapped his arm away, ignoring his jibe. "I can do it. It’s what I always wanted to do ever since I arrived at Auflage. Besides, you wouldn't know until you try."

"Your optimistic attitude will be the only reason you'll make it to the gates of his temple."

His comment caught the priestess’s interest, eyes shining with wonder and admiration that agitated the pink-haired man. 

"You've been there, old man?"

"Don't call me that.” He glared at her. 

“And... yeah. I have. That's why you saw me in such a state." Sukuna crossed his arms over his—still naked—chest, defensively.

His statements were half a lie, half the truth. When he realized his hesitance, he briefly wondered, why in heaven’s name was he guessing over what words to say.

Sukuna had gone there, of course—it was his home, after all. And he got battered and beaten from destroying town after town, chased by some shamans who wanted to take his head.

Still, he lied just as easily as he killed. Finding that his resolve faltered when she looked at him with such shameless appreciation…

"Ain't that cool!" She beamed and flashed him a charming smile, "Hey~ teach me, will you?"

Sukuna broke free from his daydreams, shackling himself back into reality where he left no room for such foolish thoughts.

"No. I don't teach. I don't have anything to teach you."

The priestess deflated at his rejection, eyes watering and lips quivering. "You’re a real pain." she silently mumbled.

(Y/n) sniffed, intakes of breath growing more and more frantic by the second.

Then the tears came streaming down her face, gaining the attention of the people, and fast.

Oh... she's good.

"W-Why... why... WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?!"

His eyes widened at her yell, "Wha—"

"After all we've been through?!" She stood up and slammed her hands on the table, making the porcelain and silverware that littered the furniture clatter.

Murmurs erupted from the people who silently watched the scene unfold. To them, it looked like (Y/n) and the pink-haired man were having a lover's quarrel... but none of them could see the glinting mischief that pooled in the eyes of the priestess.

She's worse than me.

Sukuna didn’t know what to make of this silly little woman. It unnerved him so, he could have killed every single person in this inn, even burn the entire town to cinders… yet he remained—staring at her with unmanned wonder.

"YOU DID IT WITH HER DIDN'T YOU?"

Confusion rattled his soul, "I don't know what you're talking about—" he really didn't, they haven’t even spent one moon together!

One thing was clear, (Y/n) was causing a scene... and it was a very convincing one at that.

"YOU RAILED MY MOTHE—"

Before she could finish her sentence, Sukuna’s hand covered her mouth. Eyes widening to bowls at her supposed declamation.

"Fine, I'll teach you—just... be... shut your foul mouth." He harshly whispered in her ears.

The curse really didn’t know how he agreed… or why. Perhaps it was the lingering murmurs, or the boredom waiting to be tamed. Still, in the darkest corners of his soul… it remained, this little spark that soon will blossom into raging fire—casting his world alight.

Sukuna grabbed her hand and led her out of the varying gazes of the people inside the establishment.

"Now that wasn't so difficult, right?" (Y/n) placed her hands on her hips and laughed at the painted expression of annoyance that colored his face.

“For a priestess, you’re pretty scummy.” Sukuna sneered.

“Hah! Jokes on you, I’ve heard worse than that, Ryoumen~”

He stole a glance at her at the mention of his name, one of the many, he reminds.

Sukuna realizes it then… that it was the first time someone’s lived long enough for his name to be voiced in his presence. It had always been Sukuna-sama with him, or Demon king, beyond that there was nothing at all.

Despite having many titles, he was hardly called. As embarrassing as it was to admit, many years would pass without a living soul uttering his name. He would often forget about it, failing to recall that he had one in the first place.

So, to hear it now with his own ears felt strange. Sent him reeling back into the darkest corners where there was nothing but the familiar oblivion—away from that fickle flame.

Because how would he make of it when she lets it flow past her lips with such gentle familiarity? Like he was given that name so long ago just so she could call him that here at this very moment—that her voice will string with that title for every crimson moon to come. For every passing lifetime.

Silence covered the distance between them, leaving the faint rumble of people talking and laughing to echo in their wake. Flames that danced from the lanterns cast an orange glow over their faces, painting their shadows in elongating strokes.

(Y/n) exhaled loudly before she started prancing around him like a lost horse.

"What'll it be, huh? Martial Arts?" She ghosted punches over his form, pretending to kick the air.

Idiot.

"One of those fancy breathing techniques with the sword thing I keep hearing about?" She grabbed a stick and lightly hit the impassive man on both sides.

Sukuna, irked at her ministrations, grabbed the stick and broke it into two then threw it to the sides.

"Can I breathe fire?"

"What about water?"

“Hey! Wait up!” (Y/n) chased after the form of the walking man. 

"What about those chakra things? With the psschhooww and the wham and bam will I be able to do that?"

Sukuna dragged a hand over his face, silently questioning the decisions he makes whenever he had nothing to do with his time.

Man, she's annoying.

The priestess and the king of curses continued their journey, treading the path until the cobblestone faded into hardened earth and the midnight sun shone overhead.

They halted in front of a small hut on the side of the road, with shattered windows, fungi blanketing the roof of the small shack. No flicker of fire could be seen inside the humble house.

It kind of reminded (Y/n) of her home back in Auflage.

"We'll stay here for the night." Sukuna forced his way into the house. If this was compliant with the Shogun’s law, the priestess didn’t want to know. She just hopes that whoever owns this shack wouldn’t mind if they occupied it for a little while.

Clinks of glassware being broken, wood scraping against the floors, thuds of heavy objects hitting the ground. The sounds made her worry.

Soon enough, Sukuna emerged from the doorway, leaning his forearm against the threshold, his other hand holding an unlit lantern.

"There's no light though..."

"Really? You're gonna worry about lights when you're literally going across the country to kill the king of curses?" He stood to his full height and towered over the priestess.

The gentle breeze of the evening swayed the (h/c) threads that were planted firmly on her head, a shiver crawling up her spine as the cold wind bit against her body.

"Please don't kill me!" She wailed in mock panic, shutting her eyes tight.

"I'm not going to kill you, you maniac. I should be worried if you're gonna kill me." He defended.

"You don't have to be so defensive about it." (Y/n) ceased her act and rolled her eyes at him.

I want to kill her so badly... she's so annoying.

(Y/n) turned to face the man, the light of the imprisoned fire casting a faint glow of orange on her face. How he managed to set it ablaze, she had no clue.

For a moment she looked at him like she wanted to say something, but she held back. Probably something stupid, he thought.

Her pondering continued until she let out a laugh, eyes glinting with scheme and mayhem, smirking up at the tall man. "You're not going to take advantage of me, are you?"

A flash of fire rushed past her head and blew a hole through the wall of the already rundown shack. "WHAT WAS THAT?"

"I'm not gonna take advantage of you... you sicko!" Sukuna fisted his free hand, restraining every bit of anger in his soul. To think this—this demon spawn could even be the least bit grateful!

Oh, he's mad.

"That was a curse. That's what you'll be learning first thing tomorrow." He lectured, handing her the lamp and pushing her through the doorway, "NOW SLEEP!" before he slammed the door shut.

The King of Curses remained standing under the stars, trying his best to restrain the bubbling urge to incinerate everything in his sight.

What in the world am I doing? He sighs, walking further into the rice fields.

Sukuna sat under a tree, a great distance away from the hut. The cicadas sung their melodies into the night, frogs croaking from the side. He watched aimlessly as the curses circled around the area of his energy, seeing them lurk around the edges of the forest, or peek from the foliage yet remained a means too far for them to be harmed.

If only that idiot priestess was the same.

The light from the lamp gradually faded, a sign that she was yielding to slumber. Curses weren’t tethered by such earthly needs. Sukuna had no need for food or water either. He simply indulged in the flavors they brought but he held no obligation to them.

She held a striking difference to him.

Long after she had passed from the memories of every person she had met, their children, and their children’s children, Sukuna would live on for the centuries to come.

The priestess was so painfully mortal. A hand from him would send her soul to the borders of death. A slip—a mistake. A burst of anger, an annoyance, if she were to be at the end of his temper…

Sukuna pondered then, if he should leave.

This has been nothing but a simple detour. A way to kill the time he just had so much of.

But she shone like fire through the abyss that it made looking away impossible. Because when you’ve known nothing but resentment, you’ll latch yourself to any form of kindness that shows your way.

---

Light of daybreak refracted the early morning dews like prisms, casting the colors of the sun into the haze of dawn.

"WAKE UP RYOUMEN!"

(Y/n) banged together a metal ladle and a metal pot while repeatedly saying her new favorite phrase, 'WAKE UP RYOUMEN!'.

"I'm up! I'M UP WOMAN! STOP YOUR DAMN NOISE!" He grabbed the utensils out of her hand and threw them out the window. “You’ll wake the entire village with your racket!”

In the end, Sukuna returned before the break of sunrise, telling himself that he’ll play along until the act gets old, or he grows too tired to keep up—until his patience wears thin, or she dies. Whichever comes first. He didn’t know then… that those were all just excuses.

For a priestess, she has such a terrible attitude.

“Hey, um…”

Sukuna looked from the broken window (a lot more broken than last night) to the priestess.

Her cheeks were dyed as scarlet as her hakama, hands behind her back as she bit her lip.

“I just… wanted to say… that—”

Irked by her stalling, he snapped. “Spit it out, miko!”

“THANK YOU FOR COMING ALONG!” Startled by her words, (Y/n) quickly covered her mouth like she could hardly believe she had said those words of her own free will.

“What I meant was that… that… uhmm…”

A firm hand covered the expanse of her head, ruffling the already unkempt threads.

“I said I would, didn’t I? I don’t break promises.”

The king would never know how his simple truth would tether the priestess to him. How the words he spoke on a whim would be the frail vow that would shackle her until the day she dies. That it would latch onto him as tightly… just like he had held onto her.

(Y/n) beamed at him from under his arm, grabbing the shoulders of the tall man and shaking him back and forth, "Teach me then, o great one."

Sukuna led the priestess to a large clearing. Far from the prying eyes of any other mortal.

Reaching the area with a large tree (the same one he had idled under last night). He told her to stay a few steps back.

Sukuna spiralled his focus in a single breath—

“Ready when you are!”

“Be quiet!”

Once more, he breathed in, his posture upright and relaxed yet brimming with intensity. Sukuna’s eyes narrowed sharply as he channeled his cursed energy, hand rising with fluid grace. His fingers parted in deliberate gestures, steering the power that sparks and swirls to take the shape of a fiery arrow. In a controlled motion, he draws his arm back, the flames burning brighter every passing second.

Then he fired, sending the arrow straight to the tree, burning through it, and blasting open a boulder on the other side of the field.

Pleased with the small display of destruction, he turned to the priestess with sheer delight. Finding that she had her jaw dropping to the ground from shock.

“You’ll be learning that miko.” Sukuna smirked, jutting his thumb at the fiery wake of his technique.

Snapping out of it, she shut her mouth and readied herself to protest, “Are you kidding me?! I can’t do that!” (Y/n) crossed her arms, glaring at him all the way from where she stood a hundred feet away.

“It’s the only beginner trick I know!” He hollered, silently snickering at her predicament. “Kids could do twice as much if they tried!”

“You cheat! That’s a lie and you know it! You’re the worst teacher ever!” The priestess fumed, snarling at him from the distance, shaking a fist in the air from sheer annoyance.

Sukuna slowly crossed the distance between them, taking in her angered image. It amused him seeing her so riled up from a single comment. Human emotions were truly as fickle as their lives. 

The sun glared brightly over their heads. Still, its rays fell warmly for what seemed to be the first time in half a century.

As he drew closer, he craned his neck to catch her gaze. “You’re already giving up?” He teased, shaking his head in disappointment, “What happened to all that hope? Come on~”

“Why you—”

“OI! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU SCOUNDRELS ARE DOING? YOU BURNED MY TREE DOWN!”

The priestess looked to the raging villager in panic, getting ready to kowtow for forgiveness while Sukuna didn’t even spare a passing glance as he stood uprightly.

“I think… we should…” She looked to Sukuna with a diabolical grin, finding that he did not even show the slightest bit of emotion on that inked face of his. With a shake of her head at his indifference, the priestess intertwined her hand with his and tugged him forward breaking forth into a—“… run.”

“Hey! Get back here!”

She laughed, the melody echoing between the borders of the valley and his ears, feeling his soul calm at the sound.

The unusual duo ran from the angry man, stopping only once they heard no footsteps chasing after them.

Sukuna has never run from something so obscenely foolish—he reckons he never ran away from anything at all. There existed no creature who could make him fear for his life or sweat from nerves.

Still, even as he tried to deny, he could not shake off this excessive thrumming in his heart—screaming that getting dragged by this human was just a teeny tiny bit fun.

---

For days and weeks on end, that became their routine: wake up because of the loud banging (whether it be a broken sword, a wooden stick, or an out-of-tune biwa), eat (mostly just for the priestess), go to a clearing, practice techniques that can easily be done by a kid if the teacher wasn’t such a jerk to his student that obviously wasn’t a kid but a priestess who could only try so hard!

If they were lucky, angry mobs of people wouldn’t come chasing them out of the village… that was very rare. It had them sleeping in marshes, openings of an old tree, caves.

(Y/n) didn’t mind. In her heart, so long as Ryoumen was there for her every waking moment she was certain that everything would be alright.

But it could not be said for the rest of the world.

Soon enough, tales of the king of curses traveling with a priestess began circulating from town to town. Undoubtedly originating from the folks they startled half to death, given their flashy explosions and endless bickering.

In twilight's glow, the priestess strides. The demon king at her side.

They knew nothing. All those foolish humans and shamans conjuring their own truths to soothe their fear, to vanquish uncertainties, to pin their accusations on whoever was close enough to be suitable.

His eyes aflame, her heart of grace. Souls entwined in a wicked embrace.

But if the world ran on scales being tilted to fair and unjust then there would be no need for rulers. Reality remains: the truth can be muddied and lies can come as clear as water. If people in power put their faith in that notion, who were the unfortunate as to question them so?

Calamity awaits this dark dance, A fate in ruin, a cursed chance.

Stories of the king’s companion reached the ears of power, binding the unknown priestess in a place far from where she actually stood. It was simple, really. If one cannot get to the root, you stick the poison in the bark until it seeps in and kills it from within.

For those who lived in torment of his existence would stop at nothing if it meant eliminating him from the lands.

O priestess pure, who dared to scheme, With demon king, forsake your dream. In shadows deep, your light shall wane, A traitor's fate, eternal pain.

Bound to the fiend, your soul will weep, In eternal gloom, your spirit keep. For conspiring with the devil's might, In endless night, lose all your light.

“Curse the traitor who dares to walk the shadows.”

Wades of grass swayed from the broken gale, leaves rustling until the breaths of their life got carried into the blue ether.

“Oi, get up.” Sukuna loomed over the hunched form of the tired priestess, looking down on her with bordered patience.

The woman panted and tried to catch her breath, pushing her palms against her knees to hoist her body upwards. “Yeah… just… give me a… second.”

“I can see the sun go across the sky, that’s how long you’re taking.”

“That’s so rude—” her body was suddenly shaken by violent coughs, sending her crumbling to her knees. "I think I might be coming down with something." She laughed, looking up and flashing him a forced grin.

"Yeah, the wrong idea." He jeered, poking her forehead.

"It might be a cold." The priestess tried to put forward, grabbing the hand that continuously knocked on her head to help hoist her upright.

"Don't be ridiculous.” Sukuna scoffs, prying his arm from her once she’d found footing, tucking it under his battered kimono. “Idiots are too dumb to catch a cold."

“Right? That’s why you’ll never have to worry about getting sick!” She laughs, walking past him and onwards the path they had to tread.

Sukuna, frozen where he stood, could only stare and watch as her figure got further and further away. Draped over by the daylight that lingers around her, loyal as they come. Clothes that fluttered in the wind like waves crashing against the shore. Eyes that looked back at him when she noticed his footfalls weren’t anywhere near hers.

He wasn’t so sure if he was angry at her comment… or relieved that she was alright.

Even now as she waved at him from so far away, her sleeves waltzing with the breeze, Sukuna couldn’t see any of those hurtful resentments—the ones that he was most familiar with—as though they had not existed at all.

“I’m leaving you if you don’t hurry up!” she yelled, cupping her hand near the side of her mouth to have her voice reach him.

Foolish little human, he would think. He could cross that distance in the blink of an eye, even appear at the gates of his home without a single breath passing. Still, he chose to walk alongside this priestess… wasting the time he just had so much of.

But deep down, he knew. He was happy that he was wasting all his time with her.

---

“If you don’t feel well just say so, idiot miko.” Sukuna knelt beside her heaving form, his shoulder being the only thing stopping her from falling to a crumpled heap on the floor.

“No… I’m… I’m fine.” She caged the fabric of his clothing between her fingers, chasing the breath she kept on losing even from a simple exercise like walking to a clearing. “I just… need—I just need to catch my breath… that’s all.”

Sukuna shifted in his position, slumping on the hardened soil, allowing her weight to fall on him completely.

“You’ve been saying that for the past week.” He reminds, planting a hand to support both their weights.

“You don’t seem to be getting better.” Sukuna’s fingers carded through her hair, wanting to untangle them… only they stuck to his digits like glue, bunching up in his hand like he had yanked it straight from her scalp.

“Yeah… sorry about that.” Her chuckles sounded tired, as though it took everything in her to even force it out. The priestess loosened her grip on him, letting her hand fall.

Time felt warped in those few arbitrary seconds, perhaps he was just imagining that it did; never quite admitting the bothersome whirring his heart would emit when he saw her struggling all this time. It was fine when he was the one to cause her little setbacks, because she, too, took part in riling him up. But it was an all too different matter when it was caused by something else.

Still, in those few passing moments, the pieces seemed to gravitate together. And he yells at himself for ignoring the warnings. His agitated energy, the flutter of his power, the unsettling gloom trailing past her shadow. The coughs, her hair… the patches of green and violet decorating her skin.

Even from a few moons ago, he shouldn’t have brushed it off. The priestess would wake in the dead of the night screaming—yelling that something was out to get her. She’d jump at the slightest rustle, asking if Sukuna felt it too… that someone was watching them. Her sadness from the hostility of the animals from the villages, or that she wasn’t as happy as she used to be… that it probably killed her inside just to pretend that she was alright.

Sukuna pushed the priestess, not enough to get her to let go, but far enough for him to be able to see the dark circles under her eyes and within them, the hazy reflection of the one that had been cursing her.

---

“Your wife seems to be in terrible condition.” The shaman from the village inspected the priestess, squinting his eyes in what looked to be pretend observation. Of course, anybody, be it human or curse, could see that she wasn’t doing well.

Sukuna rolled his eyes, not even bothering to correct that the woman was not his wife—he’d rather eat his own fingers than be bound to her for eternity.

“Well, let her stay here for a few days to get her energy back. It’s a long way from the one hexing her so she should be alright.” The human excused himself from Sukuna, leaving him to stare at the bedridden form of the priestess.

With every stutter of her breath, the twitches in her closed eyes, even the faintest mumbles that slipped past her lips, Sukuna found himself clinging to the moments when her laughter would ring in his ears, that she’d poke fun at him and say he was walking like an old man, or when she’d complain and say she was tired… that she wanted to sleep and eat until she couldn’t breathe.

Back then, it all looked so foolish; annoying if nothing. On days like those, he wished she would just cease her endless chatter—even if it was for less than an hour—or that she would tire herself out from running around like a child, or that she would stop asking all those unnecessary questions.

Why is the sky blue?

What’s your favorite season?

Where do you want to live once this adventure is over?

But one would never really know the value of a moment until it’s forced to become a memory.

He drew closer to her, raising his arm in a languid manner, a spark of blue flame dancing on the tips of his fingers.

Sukuna’s hand lingered above her body, hesitant to cast the spell that would end her torment. He wouldn’t have admitted it, and he knew that he never will, but in that space in time—a little rift that belonged to him alone—he trembled in fear.

What would she make of him if she ever found out? That the king she had so desperately sought was the same being walking alongside her. The same one who was at the receiving end of her kind smiles and warm affection. What would you think of me… if you knew the truth?

It was easier that way. To hide. To run. To cower away from all that he deserved from the one person he didn’t want to look at him that way: In fear, in hatred, in contempt. Because beyond that, Sukuna didn’t know where to be. He couldn’t bear to know what would become of him if the priestess would see him the way humans did. The vile curse who killed anyone in his wake. Sukuna. Calamity bringer. Demon king.

But the sight of her in pain, plagued by the nightmares conjured by a wicked sorcerer, weakened by the spell wrongfully placed on her, haunted by the waking thought that it would never get better.

No. that’s too much.

Sukuna let the fire fall, burning away the remnants of harm thrown at her. Swearing to himself that he would not let her suffer for his sake.

If she were to wake one day and realize her mistakes, then it would just have to be the monument of his retribution. He would take it, so long as it was not right now… here, where the fervent longing in his heart blazed for nothing but the priestess. Burning so fiercely, blinding any other thought, because he didn’t want anything, not the humans or the curses, to take her away from him.

Not the human who fearlessly led him through the forest, clung to him like he was the one who held all the answers, looked at him like he had hung the stars in the sky.

Not when he wished for nothing but to stay by the miko’s side.

---

A hundred million lights shone on the midnight canvas overhead, illuminating the world in a soft glow, casting faint drizzles of warmth to cover the face of the sleeping girl—no longer running from the darkness.

Sukuna never left the room. For if she was here, then there was no need for him to be anywhere else.

Yet once more, the world—or rather, his subordinate—begged to differ.

"Sukuna-sama."

The demon king spared not even a passing glance at the sudden entry of the white-haired servant, choosing to keep his crimson stare pinned on the priestess.

"Oh, Uraume." He acknowledged emptily.

"I have been looking across the country—"

"Get lost. I don't need you right now." He was quick to dismiss his servant’s urgency with a wave of his hand.

Uraume placed a foot in protest, although hasty to rescind when a sharp glare emanated from the eyes of the demon king. "But Sukuna-sama, the sorcerers..."

Fed up with the useless rambling, Sukuna let out an exasperated sigh, "What? Are you so weak that you can't take care of a few little humans?" he ridiculed.

"They are dabbling with the forbidden arts, Sukuna-sama." Uraume tried desperately to raise even a grain of attention in the king’s heart, yet he remained impassive to the situation all the same. "One was recently sighted to have cursed a few nobility—"

Sukuna leaned back in his chair even more, resting his cheek on his fist and glancing at his servant from the corners of his eyes. "Since when have I cared for others, Uraume? Let them die."

His words were cold, uncaring, and cruel… but not once has he torn his gaze from the soul resting on the cot.  

Uraume thought it to be strange. The king of demons had spent so long treating the lives of others as nothing less than dirt under his foot, yet he held this fleeting human he’s known for less than six full moons as a treasure he could not look away from.

It wasn’t any of the servant’s business. How Sukuna chose to spend his time is out of Uraume’s concern. Uraume merely has to report to Sukuna and take care of all the things he didn’t want to concern himself over.

"She did from the grounds of her home, Sukuna-sama." Uraume tried not to falter from Sukuna’s heavy stare, choosing to bow instead of facing the angry expression painted on the king’s face. The servant did not want to be at the end of his wrath.

"Pink eyes? Blue hair?" His footsteps echoed within the small room, and Uraume was soon looking at the seams of a white kimono.

"Yes, Tsukumo Ren, are you perhaps acquainted with her—?"

"Kill her." Sukuna’s hostility forced the servant to the floor.

Now that Uraume has confirmed it, Sukuna had no doubts. Tsukumo Ren was the sorcerer behind those pools of (e/c) staring back at him that day. The same ones that used to look at him with all the hope in the world. The same ones that were glistening in pain—begging for him to put her out of her misery.

"Kill that sorcerer. That's an order."

The sound of fabric rustling had Sukuna withdrawing his energy, looking down on his servant in contempt before he tore his gaze and walked away.

“Leave.”

Uraume wasted not a single breath and teleported away. Either the servant obtains the sorcerer’s head, or Sukuna would be the one to take Uraume’s.

After what felt like eternities dragging on, the priestess had finally woken.

Sukuna pushed the gnawing sensation of relief down the depths of his soul.

He felt silly… feeling like that, for a human, no less.

"Were you… talking with someone… just now?" She rasped, hoisting herself to sit up.

But he would admit to it just once that in this moment, Sukuna was happy to be the one who stood here. To be the first thing she saw, the first voice she heard. To be the first person she thought of.

“No.” Sukuna was quick to deny, as he handed her a cup of water. “You were hallucinating.”

After being the object of contempt for many, many centuries… it was nice to know that beside her, he was wanted. Above all else, beyond rhyme and reason, when he was with her… he felt seen.

The priestess downed the liquid, feeling her the tightness in her throat diminishes. “I see. Have you eaten yet?”

“Worry about yourself more, idiot.”

He felt loved.

---

The demon king, in twilight’s glow, Found solace in the priestess he’d come to know.

Not a week later, the renowned shaman who could curse anybody from a distance was proclaimed dead. Shards of frozen water bordered her home that had exploded into splinters. Sorcerers investigating under the command of the shogun found her body sliced to pieces, her blood painting the walls.

For her, his heart would fiercely burn, And vengeance swift would soon return.

Soon enough, rumors emerged from town to town. Iterating the tale told by one folk to the next, each one a lot more diverted from the truth than before. Still, it would not matter. For the chants written down in history would prove every other legend wrong—yet this one will always remain true, even as the world is raised to ruin.

To those who dare to bring her pain, His wrath unleashed will reign like rain.

---

"Who ever knew I'd be so famous that others would want to curse me?" (Y/n) walked joyously, swinging her arms back and forth divergent to the falls of her steps.

Sukuna trod alongside her, as he told the priestess the truth, finding no need to withhold it from her. If his servant held life second to Sukuna, then the sorcerer would be no more.

"Yeah, waste of a perfectly good incantation if you asked me." The king shrugged nonchalantly, purposely saying the words that would add fuel to the fire flickering in her.

Sukuna could feel the sharp glares she was sending his way all while he pretended not to notice them, suppressing the laugh that threatened to burst from his throat.

The priestess huffed in annoyance, turning her head away from him and walking at a much faster pace, leaving him behind.

“Oi! I was just joking!” He yelled in protest, hurrying his strides to catch up with her who was now turning the next corner of the street.

Sukuna stopped moments before he could collide with her back.

People walked past them in every direction while they stayed stagnant in the midst of it all, like an iceberg adrift in the vast ocean.

"So, how do you intend on paying the healer?" The priestess turned to face him, inclining her head to meet his stare.

Her question took him by surprise. They had to pay? For what? That quack doctor didn’t do shi—

"Uh... I wrote my name; they can ask for something in return when they want to." Sukuna looked away, scratching the back of his head. Like hell he’d do something for a lowly human—

"You know how to write? That's so cool!" She looked to him in adoration, the same one she had always worn before that sorcerer took it away—and heavens was he elated to have the light of those eyes end its journey behind his own.

"What you don't?" Sukuna smirked, flicking her forehead.

"Nope! Not even my name!"

Sukuna was left staring at her, at a loss for words, like he had seemed to be for the past twilights. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, how this little human squeezed through the tight crevices in the walls he built so high—or perhaps it was him who tore them down.

"You wouldn't even know if you're a national criminal." He laughed, tucking his hands in his sleeves, and continued to walk.

"Right?” She grinned, skipping every now and then to match his lengthy strides, “I do know how to write Auflage."

Sukuna scoffed, slowing his pace so he could poke fun at her from a nearer distance. "That's useless."

"Correct again! Wow, you're really smart, Ryoumen!"

There it was again, that little stutter in his breath at the mention of his name. One of the many, he continues to remind.

Even with the chatter of the townspeople, the clatter of their sandals hitting the cobblestone path, the late afternoon breeze singing their melody, he feared that knocking of his heart would be too loud—that it would overpower all the resounding restrictions he so desperately tries to put on himself and he would end up giving in to all this… all this happiness.

"You're just an idiot..." He whispers halfheartedly.

"Hey! Teach me how to write your name." The priestess bounced on the balls of her feet as she looked to Sukuna with a heart full of hope and stubborn determination. 

"Shouldn't you be more interested in yours?" Sukuna raised a brow at her, pushing the priestess to move with the rest of the crowd towards the river.

"No. You probably know how to write that but it's not fair that I don't know how to write yours." She shook her head and pointed an accusing finger at him.

"What?"

They halted near the bank of the river. The setting sun sank behind the horizon, painting his face golden; striking the priestess with shadows.

Then she turned to face the rushing river, half her face dyed in aureate light, casting the illusion of eternity.

"How am I gonna find you if you go disappearing on me? I can't write. I can't read, and I can't draw."

Slowly, humans came occupying the fields of grass, scattering their laughter in the once silent atmosphere.

"At the very least, if I know how to write your name, I'll be able to look for you in the future... and find you again."

As the last rays of daylight faded into the earth, she looked to him for what should be no-less than second nature… so why? Why did his soul scream at him to go to her? To be near her no matter what life she lived? To be the one within arm’s reach… to be the one she looks for, the one she asks to see.

How ridiculous her words were. To him who ardently believed that he was born and reincarnated to be the object of everybody’s contempt, that he lived only to hurt other people.

Still… why does she look at him like those didn’t matter? As though they never held importance to begin with. She was the one being ridiculous! Not him!

“Hello? From the magnificent miko of the land to Ryoumen? Is anybody home?” The priestess waved a hand over his face, the one who stared at her unblinkingly.

But Sukuna realizes then that he too was accountable for some of the blame.

“Sit down and pay close attention.” He grabbed a small branch and sat on a log away from the rest of the crowd.

Because even as he harbors these doubts, he still finds himself looking for her. Everywhere. In everything. In everyone.

Through fire and flame, where darkness holds its sway, The demon king feels something start to sway.

When Sukuna turned to see if the priestess obeyed his command, his soul nearly descended to the depths of hell as he sees her sitting so painfully close to him, staring at the undisturbed earth with such fervor.

As moonlight dances on her gentle grace, A flicker warms his cold and distant face.

The king began drawing lines on the dirt, glancing at her from the corner of his eye to see if he still had her attention. He did.

兩面

“How do you read that?” She gazed at him in wonder as she pointed to the characters on the ground, written so neatly it would have passed as a calligrapher’s penmanship (the priestess has never seen a calligrapher’s penmanship. This is the first handwriting she has witnessed).

“Ryoumen, you idiot. Now you try.” Sukuna flicked her forehead and handed her the stick.

In her presence he sheds his ancient rage, And finds his soul anew free from its wretched cage.

As the priestess glanced back and forth from Sukuna’s writing and to her own, the king finds himself sinking more and more into the warmth she gave. When he looked at her, he would often think to himself, how lucky am I to have been right here where you existed. Even now as he drowns his crimson irises in her image, in this time, in this life… he finds himself wishing for this moment to last just a little bit longer.

“There. All done.”

Sukuna peeked an eye open. He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting to see from someone who hadn’t written anything in her whole life. But it certainly wasn’t this.

“What’s with the scrambled sticks? These look like summoning runes!”

The priestess inhaled a breath of offence, holding a hand over her heart. “I haven’t written anything in my entire life! You’re supposed to be encouraging me to do better.”

He desperately tried to hold back the harsh criticisms flooding his tongue as he grabbed the twig from her hand and erased the characters they’d both written.

“I’d be lying to your face if I told you that you did a good job.” Sukuna gave the stick back to her, looking at the priestess with a deadpanned expression.

“You’re supposed to follow certain strokes not write whatever you want wherever you want.”

He moved closer to the priestess, holding the hand she used to write and guiding it to draw on the ground.

The priestess held her breath for all the seconds she felt him so close to her. She could have sworn her vision dotted from the lack of oxygen flowing in her lungs, but she feared her heart would crawl out of her mouth if she so much as let out a sound.

His hand felt cold over hers, like he was plunged in eternal frost before coming to wake in the vernal freshness of the sun.

Yet to the priestess, he was like a cool breeze during the summer heat, or the anchor in a raging storm, the moonlight in the illusions of midnight.

He felt like home.

And she swore she could have stayed like that for all the eternities to come, caged in his hold, safe from the cruelty of the world, seen amidst ten thousand people.

If only her lungs didn’t burn from the breaths she didn’t want to take.

“On—On second thought…” The priestess broke free from his half-embrace, standing up and fisting the fabric of her clothes, “you—how… how about you find me instead!”

Sukuna’s eyes widened at her yell, he thought for a second that the miko was giving up, that is until he saw the scarlet coloring her cheeks all the way to the peaks of her ears. 

“You’re smart, and you know how to read and to write. So—uhm, I’ll just wait for—for you to come and get me… if I get taken away.”

“Okay.”

“It’s more of a situational condition anyway, it’s not like I’ll be—wait, what did you say?” The priestess ceased her pacing and faced the man still sitting on the log, watching her with radiant glow.

“I said okay. I’ll find you in the future.”

She broke out in a face-breaking smile and sprinted to where he sat, beaming down at him with all the happiness the world could offer, “Really?” She spoke in a joyous, hopeful tune.

Before Sukuna could berate her for asking too many questions, something shone from the corner of his eyes.

The king watched as the villagers, one by one, then all together, lit up the objects they held, letting them float into the midnight ether. The lights flew into the sky, disappearing as though they’d become one with the stars.

He once deemed the festivities foolish, looking at them from far away, alone in the courtyard of his temple. Humans throwing their trash into the sky or letting them sink into the rivers. What was the use of such fleeting moments, he would think. For what good is there to laugh and cry knowing it will come to an end sooner or later?

But the humans remained happy either way, even if they knew their lives were as fickle as the lights they set off into the night.

Sukuna looked away, not liking the feeling of something brewing in his chest. He turned to tell the miko that they were leaving, away from all this frolicking, only to find her holding one of those lights.

Ah, why am I like this?

“Hey, c’mon hurry. The light’s gonna burn out.” With haste, she grabbed hold of his hand, placing it parallel to hers on the lantern.

For so long… it was all so strange to him. How do humans take it? All these happy memories will crush them one day, he knows it. What greater heartbreak is there than realizing that these will pass… just as everything else does.

That you will pass… just like all you mortals do. Scattering the lands with all your laughter that it echoes even after you’ve gone. Long after your death, for many centuries to dawn.

“Now make a wish. If the light reaches the heavens, then your wish will come true. Ready?” The priestess closed her eyes, squeezing his hand with ardor.

The light of the lantern painted her face in a warm glow, setting alight the fervency of her desire.

But Sukuna only had one wish.

“Now.” He felt her hand push his to raise the light afloat. “Look at it go! Our wishes are definitely going to come true.”

She watched the lantern ascend to the heavens and Sukuna watched her. For what good was the promise of paradise if heaven was right there.

---

Beneath daylight, the demon found, His heart for her was tightly bound.

As the days of their journey neared its close, the very last meadow they stepped foot into was half a wasteland.

"Hey, Ryoumen..." The priestess sat under the shade of a tree that had miraculously survived, watching as the clouds drifted by in shapes and sizes blotting the earth with shadows painted in their likeness.

Sukuna sat a little ways off, in the middle of a small patch of flowers. He looked out of place, or so he had believed. To be embraced by life when he only brought death.

"What is it?" he asks, not tearing his attention from what he was doing.

The priestess, innocent and kind, Knew not the feelings within his mind.

"A shop owner gave me this," She pulled out a large bow and a case of arrows, one she had forgotten about until she was so painfully reminded of their existence (tripping over it as she was packing her things), "he told me that I was somewhat similar to a person nearby at that time..."

Sukuna faltered in his activity, thinking back to that moment she spoke of. One that transpired nearly eleven—no, twelve full moons ago. Once, he would have thought of the time passed as nothing—if you’ve lived long enough, everything starts to blend together at some point. But all these days to him have felt like a lifetime, a lifetime that wasn’t nearly enough.

Similar to me, eh? Very wrong, filthy sorcerer. She's nothing like me.

The priestess threw the weapon at Sukuna, thinking that perhaps he had the answer. But the moment it made contact with his skin, a sharp hissing sound emanated from his skin.

Her eyes widened at the scene, standing up so fast and rushing to his side to cast the bow elsewhere.

"Hey—what... why is there... steam? What? Are you okay—"

Sukuna held up a hand and that stopped her from reaching out for him, "It's nothing."

Sukuna rose from his position and returned the weapon, feeling his hands burn from the contact.

“Hey! Wait just a moment, Ryoumen. You’re hurt, aren’t you?” The priestess tried to catch up to him when the sun had mysteriously gone out, and the scent of flowers invaded her nose.

"Let's go to the village. Might be the last time you'll see a human. You never know..." His voice echoed in the wind, coming from everywhere all at once until it faded to a distant buzz.

In silence deep, his truth concealed, For she knew not what love revealed.

Her fingers found solace in the circlet he draped over her eyes, a wreath of flowers.

When her vision narrowed to search for his presence, to call his name—ask what he means for every gentle touch, warm smiles, and kind undertakings—she found he was already up over the hill, standing there… waiting patiently for when she’d be ready to depart.

Perhaps then, it all became clear…

Under the azure canvas overhead, painted over with the silver water of light, surrounded by the passing zephyrs, she knew.

The hustle and bustle of commerce from the town strung from one corner to another. Streets were littered with people. Children ran around, keepers and vendors opened their businesses for travelers and residents alike. Banners that vary in size and color were hung all over the place. Laughter and chatter of everyday life danced in the happy and uplifting atmosphere.

It made the priestess smile; it was exactly what she missed most about her town.

"Get yer Ambrosia here! Buy one get one free!"

"Rat poison for sale! Up for free taste!"

"Expired milk! Fit for your cheating husband! Get two for the price of one! Limited time only."

The demon king and the priestess walked through the lively streets. Her hand clutched firmly against the cloth of his light-colored kimono that he only got after the rest of his torn and beaten clothes crumbled and got taken away by the wind.

"Get your portrait drawn by the greatest artist around! 50% off on people with companions!"

The priestess dragged Sukuna to where she heard the calls of the advertiser. His hand intertwined firmly with hers as she dodged and avoided people as much as she could.

"Hi there, onee-chan! Here to get drawn?"

She nodded her head, and the little boy beckoned her to follow him. The priestess tugged at the unwilling hand of Sukuna who stood firmly and unmoving outside the venue. 

"C'mon Ryoumen! It's to commemorate the finish of the training thing! This may be the last thing we'll have to remember each other... never know..." She tried to use his own words to convince him, continuously pulling at his arm trying to get him to agree.

Still, he refused.

The priestess sighed, ultimately deciding that it was her pride or this absolute need for remembrance, and she wasn’t going to leave with either so she pulled out the greatest weapons any girl could have... the look.

"Pwease~"

The pink-haired man showed a look of disgust and shivered from the image engraving itself into his head and slammed a hand to cover her horrifying face. 

"Alright, I’m going. Just—just stop it with that face."

"YES!" She cheered and circled around him—the space she occupied for herself.

Sukuna silently watched her, a faint smile gracing his usually annoyed face.

What a weirdo...

"Onee-chan, Onii-san, this way please..."

---

"It looks so cool!" The priestess gushed, ogling at the portrait that took almost 3 hours to make.

"It's not half bad. I guess..." Even Sukuna couldn’t put it in himself to deny.

She turned to the little artist, "Do you have a quill I can use?"

The little boy nodded and handed her a spare.

“What for? You don’t know how to write.” Sukuna smirks, looking over her shoulder to see what she was up to.

“Currently not entertaining the jeers of bashers.” She swatted him away and continued to write albeit in slow, messy strokes.

'Ryōmen & (Y/n)' Auflage, 850

Sukuna took notice of the writings she engraved at the bottom of the paper. Had she been writing? All those times she had her back to me… she was practicing?

"Why Auflage?" He found himself asking. Sukuna knew it was one of the three things she knew how to write: her hometown, her name (which he demonstrated after many, many pleas and cries from the priestess), then Sukuna’s name. But she could have easily asked him to write it for her. The priestess would have only needed to say, and he would have made it so.

She looked up at him and flashed him a beaming smile, "Because that's where we first met, silly."

When did I start seeing you like this?

The gentle breeze of the early afternoon danced around her body, rays of the bright sun highlighting the curves and bumps on her face.

How can you still look at me like that? After knowing me… wasting so much time… on me—

"I will treasure this for years to come! Maybe when we meet again, I can laugh about how you showed up in front of me half-naked!" She lightly chuckled at her suggestion. “The great Ryoumen!”

When did I start thinking that my name had a ring to it whenever you would say it?

"Thank you." The priestess handed the quill back to the boy and continued to wander around the town with her companion.

She held the portrait up and inspected it for the hundredth time that day, "Wow! We look like a couple here."

That I'd do anything for you over and over again if you'd ask me to—if I knew it will make you smile.

Sukuna stole a glance at the drawing with mock disgust, and an evident flush of red dusting his inked face, "A couple of jackasses."

"HEY!"

---

What Sukuna said had rang true. No, not the 'couple of jackasses'. The part where he said that that'll be her last human contact for a while.

It had been three full moons since that last village, twelve since she had set foot in her home. Still, the seconds ticked by as though they were but a grain of sand in the endless desert.

Sukuna and the priestess traveled for a long time, passing by a long, deep ravine, walking through dark, creepy forests, and eerie swamps. As they crossed the distance to his castle, the more he began to feel the heaviness in his chest grow.

The curses lingering in the shadows began to act more unpredictable, fearing nothing, believing themselves to be the strongest.

“What is going on in that head of yours…”

Sukuna diverted his attention from the darkened borders of the woods and towards the priestess who had her hands supporting her head as her elbows rested on her knees.

“You always look so out of it ever since we came here.” She pointed out, tilting her head in question. “If you’re scared, we can just go back—”

“Whoever said I was afraid?”

“You don’t have to say it when it’s written all over your face.”

Sukuna scoffed. Why would he need to be afraid of himself? He could care less. At least, that’s what he wanted to believe.

Still, why didn’t it cease this hurricane of sadness wreaking havoc in his soul?

Crackles of the fire permeated the space between them. There existed no cicadas’ orchestra, no rustles of the foliage, the king even doubted if the zephyrs dared to venture into his domain.

It was just him in a place far too big for a single soul to inhabit.

“Do you think the king ever feels lonely?” The priestess stood and walked near him, not knowing that the person in her question was already at the receiving end of her words.

“So vast a kingdom for there to be no citizen.” She sat next to him, keeping her eyes on the dancing flames.

Sukuna didn’t know what to say. He was the king, renowned in all the lands. Demon king. King of curses. Calamity. He has had so many titles for the past century, be it as a curse or as a human. But he never chose to be labeled by any of those.

He had a name once, just like the rest of them. He once turned to see who uttered it so long ago, he would know he was needed at the mention of it, and he would be reminded of his own self—breathing, living—just like the rest of them.

“Maybe that’s just his fate. To be the abomination in everybody’s eyes.”

But now, his name was buried under the titles he was bestowed, woven in tales of terror, burned in history as the vilest demon to have ever been born. Perhaps he was far too gone in the oceans of his sin to be called by his name.

“No one is born to be hated, Ryoumen.” The priestess nudged his shoulder with her own, “I would know, the head priestess in the shrine I used to work at told me. And even if she didn’t, I’d still think so.” She smiled, seemingly proud of her belief.

“The same way no one is born to be revered by the heavens, no one is born to be the basin of everybody’s anger.” The priestess tossed a few sticks into the fire, watching as it burst forth to blaze once more. “Because that’s just cruel, isn’t it?”

“How do you bring yourself to love a world that did nothing but reject you?”

Sukuna stared at her in wonder. For so long, he lived his days believing that there was nothing in this world for him to have, nothing for him to hold dear, nothing to be blessed with. So, he took what he wanted… even if it already belonged to someone else. It wasn’t fair. Why does everyone have something while I’m here with nothing? Yet here she was, wholeheartedly believing otherwise. As the light of the fire painted her face golden, Sukuna found himself thinking, how could anyone… be as marvelous as her?

“That’s why I’m glad… that I met you. It really feels like a stroke of luck! After years and years of nothingness, nothing but this spiralling darkness, all of a sudden—there was you. I didn’t really know why I was born all those moons ago, but now the answer just seems so simple. Maybe, just maybe… I was born so I could meet you.”

He believes it then, if the world had so selfishly kept it all from him, letting him believe that it didn’t need him… Sukuna will just have to keep living for someone who does.

---

Her words shone like daylight in this never-ending darkness. At the falls of twilight, in the wake of dawn, mists of the afternoon, shadows of midnight, there existed not a single second where her warmth had ceased to be near him.

Sukuna recalls the tender falls of his name from her lips, and all her kind affection. All that happiness, all those adventures, and everything in between. He treasured them all, carving them deep in the shrines of his soul, promising himself never to forsake them, resent them, or throw them away. Even if the sorcerers of the future were to damn him into eternal suffering, he would never forget.

I would rather be pained by the reminder of you, in every corner and every turn, than to live a life without a single memory of you.

Because he knew that after this, there was no going back. There would be no tomorrow. No lanterns to keep the roads alight. No fires to keep them warm. No nagging miko to keep him company.

It would just be him all over again. A single soul in a world that was far too big.

"His place certainly fits the description." The priestess looked up from the sketch and towards the looming temple in front of her.

Towering pagoda-like spires, carved with serpents and grotesque faces, reached for the skies. Beams of darkened wood stood at held the obsidian tiles covering the expanse of the roof. Screen windows were sealed shut, leaving no room for glances as to what secrets it held inside all that ancient malevolence.

There existed no clear route to the palace-like structure, for it looked to be as if there was no need for one. Not a single soul had ventured here in one piece, nor had anyone been fortunate enough to leave with it intact. The grounds were overgrown with thorny brambles, shadowed by the foliage that left no room for the gale to weave through.

An eerie, dim sunray streams through the dense canopy, painting the cracked stone pathways with unsettling patterns.

The priestess looked to be hesitant to go through the thresholds of his home, although Sukuna guesses her reasons were far too different from his. She had probably feared for her life, much like many mortals do… yet he feared that beyond this, nothing would exist. Just like how it had been before he had come across her being.

“Ryoumen I—”

“Move forward, miko. The king is ahead.”

Sukuna led her through the winding corridors of the temple, finding every torch ignited to a fault, leaving no room for shadows to linger. Crimson and obsidian tapestries depicting the waking nightmare of mortals hung from the walls. The air was heavy with the scent of incense blended with something acrid.

"Who knew he was such a collector huh?" The priestess jested, trying her best to give him one of her grins—yet she, herself, found it difficult to perform such a gesture when she was walking under the ceiling of the place serving as the foreboding citadel of demonic power, within the realm where the demon king reigns supreme.

“Listen, Ryōmen—" she faced him and looked at his weary eyes, "maybe we should leave.”

She gave him a halfhearted smile as silver began to brim the horizons of her lashes. “We can just tell everyone that they were mistaken, that the king doesn’t exist. Or that we killed him—anything!” The priestess drew closer to where he stood, clutching the fabric of his kimono, scared of letting go.

“I thought this was your dream?”

"Please…" her words were silenced by the sound of doors sliding open, crashing against the walls with a resounding bang.

No… it’s not. It hasn’t been for a long time now.

The priestess felt her chest rise and fall as her breath slowly dwindled. With a guilt-ridden heart, her gaze trailed upwards, like those lanterns from all those moons before. She found herself desperate to trace the contours of his inked face, memorize the shade of crimson dyeing his eyes, see the hints of warmth decorating the plains of his cheeks. The priestess treasured them all knowing that after today… she will never get to see them again.

You were my new dream.

A searing pain flowered from the beds of her stomach, casting her vision to tunnel to the image of him—so profound, so out of reach… so pained.

“Su…kuna… ah, I finally… got to call… you that…”

In his bewilderment, ropes of blinding white erupted from the shadows of the corridor, binding the king in a heavy hold.

Sukuna clenched his fist in protest, desperate to break away—to catch her before she fell in a crumpled heap on the floor. Only to falter when it dawns on him that this was her scheme all along.

For so long, people called my name in fear, resentment, like I was the very scum that walked the earth.

Sorcerers emerged from the corners, flooding the halls in numbers. Dressed in white kosodes and black hakamas.

“Well done, girl.”

A man rounded the corner, his hair shaded in the likeness of snow, eyes refracting the color of the sky. Sukuna recalls those features, having been inherited from the clan they labeled Gojo.

Sukuna looked to where the miko lay, a hand clawing the floors to reach where he stood, bound beyond escape, while the other was dyed red from holding her wound. A very prominent arrow nock blooming past that kosode she so devotedly wore.

Beneath the stars, the demon grieved, For love was true, yet hearts deceived.

The stranger knelt to where the priestess was, face down and holding tightly onto her wound as her blood flowed out of her body like waterfalls.

The man fisted the threads on her head and held it up, forcing her to witness the fruit of her crafted scheme.

The priestess, pure, in love so deep, Had no intent for harm to reap.

Yet to Sukuna, it remained clear as daylight, that she wanted no part in this. Even as her life is held at the palm of another, ready to be taken away, she remained looking at him… like she had always done.

“Your precious demon king, about to be sealed away.” Seizou shook her head back and forth while the priestess could do nothing but clench her eyes and endure the pain.

“Finally, after all these years.” he dropped her to the floor, choosing to draw closer to where Sukuna was bound, “Your reign will finally come to an end—”

Seizou’s words were swallowed by the white-hot pain searing through his chest, blood pooling in the back of his throat.

“Too bad yours will, too.” The priestess twisted the knife, imbued with a thousand curses, deeper into the heart of the man, hilt painted crimson—the color of her life… the color she had come to love so ardently.

“SEAL HIM AWAY!”

But darkened plots from hidden hands, Sealed his fate with cruel commands.

“It’s over—demon!”

The binds burned brighter, forcing him to revert to the form he was known for. One whose face was so deformed that humans were quick to conclude that he had two, his four arms tearing through the fabric of his kimono—the same one he recalls that she had held on so fervently.

Ah, the miko…

Everything slowed down. Her fingers freed the knife from her bloodied grip, staggering in her place and Sukuna closed his eyes.

As cowardly as it was, he didn’t want to see her turn away in resentment. He didn’t want to see the light, he had once been the center of its orbit, dim to leave him in the darkness. Sukuna, above all else, didn’t want his last memory of her to be one where she looked at him like he was anything but himself.

Humans prayed with their lives clutched so tightly, afraid that I'd be the thief that would take it away. Did they really deem themselves so precious that I'd steal their breath? It's kind of arrogant, really. The ones who declared themselves to be the humblest in the lands had held their souls higher than the heavens.

He was ashamed. Over and over and over again, he believed himself to be foolish—to have fallen so low as to crave the affection of a human. The priestess who was so painfully mortal.

But it remained. Every fervent thought. All the waking daydreams. Glimpses of heaven in you.

When did I get strung in such sappy things?

When did I...

Sukuna, feeling his fingers be burned from his limbs finally raised the curtains of his irises.

The hallways were free from noise, not a single breath in place.

“…hey.”

Aside from the priestess who lay beside his feet, tugging weakly on the seams of his clothes.

"Pretty... aren't I?" She laughs weakly. 

"More like strange..." Sukuna could have sworn he heard those words before.

"And pretty." 

"Sure, and pretty."

“I’ll… write your name. I promise… and they… won’t look like… summoning runes.” She coughed, casting away the substance that gave her life, no matter how painfully short it was.

How do mortals bear such anguish, knowing all that they loved would meet this end?

Sukuna spoke her name, one tethered with such earnest longing—a desperate plea for her to keep her life—to keep living, far longer than any other human. To outlive these sorcerers who gave him such a fate, even if it was just for a second longer.

“You… finally… called me… by my name.” The priestess smiled, letting her hand fall to the ground.

As the binds grew brighter, encasing everything in white, Sukuna caught the sight of a lone tear falling from the side of her eye, along with the words… “find me in the future.”

---

In realms where twilight meets the darkened sea, A priestess loved the demon king, though doomed to be.

Their passion burned where stars and shadows blend, Yet destiny decreed their hearts would never mend.

She fell to darkness, he was bound in chains so tight, Their love a fleeting spark in endless night.

[mask131]

The missing Arthurian knight - rediscovered in 2019

Well the title is a slight lie - the missing knight wasn't rediscovered in 2019, it was earlier than that, but he didn't became public until 2019.

So what's this "missing knight" about? Well as the title says. There was a knight part of the Arthurian myth, and he had been missing ever since the Middle-Ages, and he was only recently rediscovered.

Or rather, to be exact - there was an Arthurian novel centered around a knight that existed and was a famous and well-known part of the Arthurian literature in the Middle-Ages, but that completely disappeared, and was forgotten by culture (as much popular culture as the scholarly one). Until very recently.

This rediscovered novel has been a hot topic of all Arthuriana fans in Europe for a few years now - and yet I do not see much talk about this onto this website, despite Tumblr being a big place for Arthurian fans?

So I will correct this by doing a series of posts about the subject. And this post will be the first one, the introduction post presenting to you "Ségurant, le chevalier au dragon" ; "Segurant, the knight of the dragon". A French medieval novel part of the Arthurian literature (hence the "chevalier au X" title structure - like Lancelot, the knight of the cart or Yvain the knight of the lion from Chrétien de Troyes), the reason this story was forgotten by all medievalist and literary scholars is - long story short - because it never existed in any full manuscript (at least none that survived to this day). It was a complete story yes, with even variations apparently, but that was cut into pieces and fragments inserted into various other manuscripts and texts (most notably various "Merlin's Prophecies").

The novel and the Knight of the Dragon were rediscovered through the work of Emanuele Arioli, who rediscovered a fragment of the story while looking at an old manuscript of a Merlin Prophecies, and then went on the hunt for the other fragments and pieces scattered around Europe, until he finally could compile the full story, that he then published in 2019, at the Belles Lettres publishing house, in 2019.

Arioli reconstructed the text, and translated it in both modern French and Italian for scholarly and professional editions (aka Honoré Champion in France, a reference for universities)...

... But also for a more "all public, found in all libraries" edition - the famous 2019 edition at Les Belles Lettres.

And not only that, but he also participated to both a comic book adaptation with Emiliano Tanzillo...

... and an adaptation as an illustrated children novel!

Finally, just a few weeks, the Franco-German channel Arte released a documentary about the reconstitution and content of this missing novel called "Le Chevalier au dragon: Le roman disparu de la Table Ronde". (The Knight of the Dragon - The missing novel of the Round Table). The full documentary is on Youtube in French for those that speak the language, here. And in German here for those who speak German.

Unfortunately there is no English version of the documentary that I know of, nor any English publications of the actual text - just French and Italian. But hey, I'll try to palliate to that by doing some English-speaking posts about this whole business!

[scotianostra]

St Madoe's Stone , Perth Museum.

The most complete of all the pictish/Celtic stoones I saw on display on Monday, this was found lying down in St Madoes Churchyard, Perthshire during 1830's. . In the 1920s it was moved, in its base, to stand against the wall beside the church door. In the 1990s it was taken to Perth Museum & Art Gallery.

One side, as seen in my gif, is dominated by the ring-headed cross that fills what we can accept as the front of the slab. It is surrounded by biting dogs and with two lion-like creatures facing each other across the top of the stone.

The other side of the slab shows three cloaked and hooded riders, probably churchmen (possibly a reference to the road and its users between St Andrews and Scone) and below them three Pictish symbols: a crescent and v-rod, a double-disc and z-rod and a Pictish beast. The symbols are much worn due to exposure to the elements when it stood in thechurchyard.

In the first thousand years AD, the country we now call Scotland was dominated by changing groups of Celtic peoples, most notably the Picts. From AD 250-900, they controlled most of Scotland north of the River Forth. We do not know what they called themselves. The Picts – meaning “the painted ones” – is the name the Romans gave them. Their language has disappeared and no Pictish manuscripts are known to have survived. But their art does survive on over 300 pieces of carved stonework and a much smaller number of portable objects such as jewellery.

There at least 17 sites around the Perth area, they include Stone Circles, a Pictish Free-Standing Cross, Pictish Symbol Stones and stones with cup marks, cup and ring marks are by far the most common motif, if you remember, or have ever inspected the Caiy Stone, at Oxgangs, which I visited and posted pics of last year, there are 6 of thes type of marks on this stone.

Perth Museum has several fragments of smaller stones which I shall post at a later time.