Chapter Text
When Denjiro had imagined drinking alongside the shogun in the past, he had, understandably, envisioned drinking with his fellow samurai and Oden, celebrating their lord’s rise to the top.
His reality is far from that, however.
Kurozumi Orochi, the absolute bastard , is shogun. It is a title that feels vile on Denjro’s tongue, refusing to pass through his lips and enter the world. Wano’s usurper, one of Kozuki Oden’s killers, deserves a fate worse than death, not-
“Gyehahaha! Kyoshiro! Look at all the gorgeous women! Are they to your liking?”
-whatever this is.
Denjiro dons the mask of a powerful yakuza boss to cast away his disgust. “My personal taste is not relevant. All that matters is if they are to your liking, Orochi-sama.”
The mask isn’t working. He might puke.
Letting Orochi’s hellish shrieks fade to muffled murmurs, Denjiro carefully watches the movements of the dancers, his mind flashing images of a young girl with turquoise hair in their place. He shivers at the thought, but Hiyori is stubborn unwavering in her decision to aid him in destroying Orochi’s power, so he must learn whatever he can of Orochi’s… type.
He was shocked and relieved to find that she had survived the last seven years when they reunited just a few weeks ago. He had realized then that she is starting the process of becoming a woman. She looked less like the little Hiyori he remembers, and more like a young Toki. He only wishes his Lord and Lady could see the young woman Hiyori will be. He knows they would have been proud.
Perhaps all his thoughts of Oden’s daughter and her future released some sort of energy that summoned forth powerful heirs, because from the corner of his eyes he can see a young girl with suspiciously familiar purple hair.
No, it can’t be, he reasons to himself.
But his curiosity overtakes him.
“Orochi-sama,” he points in the direction of the girl. “Who might that be?”
Orochi’s gaze follows Denjiro’s finger, and his face lights up in a way Denjiro can only describe as “disturbingly domestic” as he lays his gaze on the girl.
“Ah! Ritsuko! Come, come, join us!” He beckons.
The girl, Ritsuko, shyly steps out from where she had been trying to hide and walks towards Orochi, pulling nervously on her long purple pigtail. Orochi speeds up the process by grabbing her shoulder and pulling her to his side, a wide smile on his face showing his crooked and discolored rodent-like teeth.
“This is my daughter, Ritsuko!” Orochi proclaims. “She’ll be the next shogun! The reign of the Kurozumi clan won’t end with me. Ritsuko will follow in my footsteps, making this country’s pathetic citizens pay for what they did to us! Isn’t that right, Ritsuko? You’ll slaughter any backstabbers and Kozuki sympathizers just like your Dad!”
Denjiro flinches. Such a claim, such a title , is reserved for Momonosuke, who Toki promised prophesied would return in thirteen years. This little girl has no right to take Momonosuke’s place as the next generation’s rightful shogun.
Ritsuko, who had previously been looking everywhere but at the stranger before her, catches the minute movement and Denjiro feels like a mouse in a trap as she frees herself from her father’s hold and steps towards him. All shyness has left her being. Her eyes are calculating, searching. Her face is void of any and all emotion. Her hand lifts from her side abruptly, pointing her finger in his face, so close to his nose that he crosses his eyes for a moment to stare at it, and Denjiro is flooded with dread.
The sensible side of his mind tells him he’s overreacting, but deep down he knows he can take no chances.
This is it. These past seven years have been in vain. This little girl somehow knows who he is and is about to reveal his identity not just to a room filled with high ranking officials, but to the current shogun himself. He’ll be killed.
I’m sorry Oden-sama, Toki-sama. I could not defeat this man in your honor. Please forgive me-
“You have pretty hair.”
Denjiro blinks.
What?
It isn’t said as a compliment. She states it as if it is a fact that all living creatures ought to know. As if it is an objective truth.
He gathers his wayward thoughts and smiles at her. “Thank you. I’m glad you think so.”
A small smile forms on her face as she meekly stares at her feet. Denjiro watches, a thorough feeling of whiplash overtaking him. She must have gathered all her courage just to say such a simple thing because she’s returned to the sheepish little child she had been before she opened her mouth.
One of the dancers ruffles Ritsuko’s hair fondly. “Don’t mind her, Kyoshiro-san. She’s a tad awkward but she is well meaning, I assure you.”
He gives her a placating grin. “No need to worry. I could tell that much.”
The woman nods and wanders off to continue dancing, this time even closer to Orochi than before in hopes to gain his favor. Ritsuko, having been left behind, stares at Denjiro with her big, brown eyes and assesses him carefully as she pulls at her fingers, knuckles cracking from the tension.
It takes a few minutes, but she eventually makes her way to sit next to Denjiro, moving slowly as if his slightest movement could scare her off.
It takes a few more minutes for Denjiro to speak up. “Do you enjoy festivities such as these, Ritsuko-sama?”
She looks up at him briefly before snapping her head away to stare at her lap. “No,” she says bluntly. “Dad is loud.”
Denjiro stifles a laugh. “He is, isn’t he?”
A bashful smile emerges on Ritsuko’s face. “The dancers are nice though…”
A comfortable silence in their conversation hovers over them as the music picks up tempo and Orochi wails in drunken delight.
“My birthday is soon,” Ritsuko blurts out, startling Denjiro.
“Is that so?” he replies. “How old will you be turning?”
“Ten.”
That… is not what he expected to hear. She looks far younger than that- seven or eight to be precise. This makes her just three years younger than Hiyori.
(Perhaps…)
Ritsuko turns to face him, a determined look upon her face. “Teach me sword stuff,” she demands. “For my present. Dad says you’re good at it.”
It’s not like he can refuse her.
“It would be my pleasure, Ritsuko-sama.”
She taps her hands on her lap in a failed attempt to smother her excitement. The grin she is trying to bite back betrays her.
(Perhaps if things were different, if their
families
had been different, Hiyori and Ritsuko could have been friends.)