#sukthea

Thea couldn't breathe. Smoke and ash filled her lungs, every exhale ended with a croaking wheeze. Her kosode was stained with blood and dirt, a deeper rough than her hakama. The slashes on her chest were shallow, she was alive only because he willed it.

The shrine was on fire. The Honden groaned and trembled beneath the light breeze, tongues of flame licking the sky. Buildings that had stood for thousands of seasons collapsed in on themselves like a child cowering from discipline.

Grand shadows that belonged to the Haiden, the komainu, the stage, were either gone or smoldering. The torii gates had fallen atop one another, uprooted and pushed to the ground.

Blood roared in her ears. Her frayed nerves demanded that she sprint into the trees, that she run until her feet were bloody and the smell of burning flesh no longer scorched her nose. But she couldn't feel her legs.

He was still talking.

“Not going to heal yourself?” he asked. Her only saving grace was that he decided to uphold the meager distance between them. Blood dribbled down her chin, but she was too tired to wipe it away. Turning her back to him was idiotic, but she needed to find her blade. Where had he thrown it? “Don't be boring. Stand up.”

Her fingers sank into the dirt, trembling with exhaustion. She dragged herself forward, in the direction of her naginata. Tears, sweat, and dirt marred her face. How pathetic she must have looked, crawling on her hands and elbows towards a blade that he could snap between two of his fingers.

She could heal herself; she could siphon the energy that was oozing from him and use it to stitch up the gaping wounds on her body.

The thought of using his cursed energy, the image of his curse sinking into her skin and pumping through her veins made her nauseous. That same cursed energy was the reason for the pile of bodies near the great hall. Every person, every priest, every shrine maiden, every wanderer, had been reduced to carcasses haphazardly tossed out of his way.

When she was close enough, she reached for the hilt of her naginata. As soon as her shaking fingertips grazed the wood, it exploded in a hail of splinters. He had been watching with vague amusement as she desperately tried to reach it, waiting for the right moment to squash her hopes.

Her hands curled into fists, arms quaking with effort. Tears fell from her eyes and landed on the upheaved ground. The dirt swallowed them eagerly, offering no comfort.

“This life that you cling to,” Sukuna said, walking closer. He crouched down next to her broken body, tilting his head to the side. His presence was oppressive, smothering. She didn't lift her head. “You said you find purpose in helping them. Those broken, weak creatures.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to block out his voice. Desperate to ignore the truth that he spoke.

“Maybe if you gave enough, if you sacrificed your dignity, they would come to appreciate you?” One of his massive hands seized her upper arm and rolled her over onto her back. The movement made her wheeze. Her eyes, golden and misty with tears, finally met his gaze. “It would never be enough. To them, you'll always be a tool, nothing but a useful pet to cower behind when they need it.”

His mouth curled into a sneer.

“And here you are, still trying to be weak like them,” he hissed. “Trying to roll over and die.”

She gritted her teeth and swung her left arm up, a piece of the shattered naginata lodge in her palm. She aimed for his eye, but never got the satisfaction of landing a blow.

He caught her wrist and squeezed until the shard slid out from her limp fingers. Then, his grip softened. His thumb pressed against her inner wrist, feeling her pulse. A foreign emotion softened his face and it terrified her.

“You'll understand eventually,” he said. Her vision was beginning to go dark. The stars overhead blurred together, fading until all that she could see was his four blood red eyes. “Or not.”