#kny analysis: epithets

The cold solstice begets a dying hearth.

It’s not that he dislikes winter.

In fact, it was Tanjirou’s first memory. The rush of cold breeze, the warmth of his mother beside him, and the torches he feels alongside, its a sensation so prepotent, so memorable, he could almost taste the cold on his tongue. But the center stage of his reminisce is the man dancing on ice, surrounded by the ring of torches. His father, an embodiment of grace and strength, dancing as if his bones weren’t stuttering from the cold or bare feet aching from the time that clawed at him to wilt since he was brought into the world. 

A beautiful tradition; he cares more about how his father manages to dance all night long rather than why dancing at all.

His father told him that anything can be done without tiring yourself out. You have to know your body. What should be done and what shouldn’t. The dance is framed in a way of efficient movement, passed across generations after generations while ensuring no changes, additions or eliminations. The strictness wasn’t for decor—It’s by necessity, he was told. Struggling is part of the process, his father said after being told that he’ll soon inherit the responsibility.

Succeeding, is, too.

Winter was also the dusk when he died.

(Winter was also the dusk when everyone died.)

It became a reminder of his emergence as the new head of the family, tasked to shoulder the burden of setting the fire to the hearth. His father said that once the eldest began the tradition, that was their sign of stepping into adulthood. And he was more than ready to shoulder the fire he was left with.

Blood on the snow has often bothered him. When his father took the life of a bear threatening his family’s safety, the carcass falls heavy against the soft ground. Almost immediately, the alighting snow was ready to cover it all, blood and body. He almost couldn’t send it off with a proper prayer with how all his younger mind could think of was how easy the snow buried the blood, as if erasing all notion that death ever happened. The cold challenged his sense of smell too—blanketing his nose, masking the scent of death.

He immortalized that certain scent. The blood on snow. It eased him to know than otherwise.

(And it, too, was his omen to leaving his life behind.)

The sprouts of Taranome signified the start of Spring. It signified that snow no longer covered the ground and the breath of death melts into water that could bring life and nourish all of the living. He welcomes the bitter taste, one he could not appreciate when the winter numbed his tongue, and the company that it brings along—the warmth of the season, the chirp of birds, the start of a new beginning. He preferred spring than winter. Not truly a dislike of winter.

Time could never heal a weary heart.

The boulder was never part of the plan.

It was never part of his students’ training regime. It just… didn’t cross his mind, knowing that a read of their prowess was enough for Sakonji to send them off to their possible—actual—deaths and now that only one of his student remains alive, he wondered if he truly had the right to be called a master swordsman.

Said remaining student, now his pride as he donned the title of Hashira, sent him another student his way. A boy who could not challenge the fate of his sister being turned into a demon. Or so he thinks. Not because he was clumsy. Not because he couldn’t hold a sword properly.

But because he wore his heart on his sleeve.

He had the same shine in Giyuu’s eyes, that hopeful shade that screamed determination, so long as he had family by his side. He also used to be flimsy with his stances—Sakonji was quite worried to be sending him to the selection. And while now, he had become the master of his field, even surpassing his peak back when he bore the title of the Hashira, there was no longer that child who had stars for eyes. All that remained was a bottomless ocean across them.

The death of Sabito broke him.

Sakonji can’t handle bearing that blame anymore. As miraculous as it is for the demon to deny her endless hunger, he fears such determination won’t be enough. Both for the sister (if she succumbs to her true nature) and her brother (if he dies fighting for it). He has housed so many children with such vigor in their bearings, only for the only thing to return from their death sentence was the sword they honed and the pieces of the fox masks he gifted to them. 

Day and night, that child spends all his waking moments into etching all his teachings under his skin. He could feel the enthusiasm. The covet to hold the sword. The need to mold his hands around the handle. But the more the days pass by, the less the idea becomes appetizing. The more the kid ends up bruised, the less he pretends as master (and let his body heal on his own) and the more he plays as caretaker (making ointments to help his injuries). The more the kid memorizes (rather than learns), the less he corrects it.

He’s acknowledged that he’s an old man, worn down by time and guilt. The man isn’t a devout by any means, but when he came across that very boulder among his mindless strolls, where he search for answers he didn’t even know what he questions, he took it as a sign.

The boulder was never part of the plan.