Archive of Our Own

Itaku knows youth, knows how it looks and how outsiders think of it and how to fake it, in a pinch. Though it’s not his favorite trick — oh, strength is important, he won’t argue or deny that, but Itaku has never been fond of deceit on a purely personal level — he’s nothing if not a studious pupil.

As a matter of fact, Itaku is many things. Youthful could be one of them, if you were foolish. Observant, certainly, as he often wishes some of his comrades might try to be once in a while. Serious (too serious, as Awashima often whispers loudly behind his back), studious, sharp of tongue and slow to trust — all manner of things.

But stupid, he has never been. 

Which is why, even as he works hard to train Nurarihyon’s grandson and internally bemoans the boy’s utter lack of awareness, Itaku isn’t so shortsighted as to forget that Rikuo, unlike himself, is technically a child. Not just one of those gifted (or burdened) with a youthful appearance, but truly and utterly a child, by his mother’s standards. Considering how yōkai blood matures relative to that of humans, the boy likely looks a bit older than his natural age. He’s wide-eyed and guileless, even as he tries to wrap his mind around a Fear that is the very definition of guile and slight, and were Itaku a softer person he might even find himself worrying about the boy.

He isn’t, of course. While there is nothing wrong with emotional connections, on some level it becomes necessary to divest oneself of some in order to become more efficient. To eliminate weaknesses. To worry is to not trust in a comrade’s strength, and ability to persevere. It is not the way, in Tōno, to worry.

And even if it were, there is simply no time. Nurarihyon had made it very clear to Akagappa, when he reached out on his grandson’s behalf to request training, that they are working under a heavy deadline. The rise of the nine-tailed fox, and the rebirth of her accursed half-breed son, are unfortunately dire enough that even Tōno can not afford to simply be idle. It rankles their pride, Itaku knows — his as well, down to an ache that he feels in the very core of his bones — but what is their strength, if they do not rise to this threat? What is their pride worth, if they do nothing but hide and wait until the enemy arrives on their doorstep?

They can maintain an image, a guard and reputation, without abandoning their kin. And that’s what they do — Itaku and anyone who’ll follow him, the younger generations with idealistic eyes and a whole lot more hope than he’s ever managed to muster.

They follow Rikuo to Kyōto, to the fox’s waiting jaws. Fight at his side, as he breaks and bleeds for them and for his clan and friends — and Itaku knows loyalty, knows devotion and honor like the trees of his home. But for the first time, he understands how terrifying it can be — the kind of devotion that lets a boy break himself to pieces, tear his body and soul to ragged, exhausted shreds, that lets Rikuo fight and fight and continue fighting until his body gives out beneath him. This is what they taught him, but it isn’t. It can’t be. Itaku has always expected to die in battle, but he’s different. He’s a full-blooded yōkai, he’s more than 500 years old, and Rikuo is—

—is so, so young.

“I’m sorry, how old did you say you are?”

Resting on the deck of Takarabune as the ship sails slowly back towards Edo, Rikuo — human once more, as he has been since the Nue’s retreat into hell — eyes Itaku in innocent confusion. “Twelve — well, I’ll be thirteen soon, later in September.” He laughs, a little self-conscious, so utterly guileless. “I know, my yōkai form looks a bit older. I still don’t really get why, myself. Zen says it’s something about yōkai aging faster, but Tsurara’s at least twice my age and still looks young so I call bull on that.”

Itaku stares. His eyes trace slowly across Rikuo’s round, yet-pale face (he’d lost quite a lot of blood, even without the lack of sleep and whatever happened between him and Hagoromo-Gitsune), finding the signs as his mind attempts to catch up. Because what the hell, Nurarihyon, this wasn’t what Itaku had thought he was signing on for.

Under the age of human maturity was one thing, because eighteen is a ridiculous number and humans are generally useless no matter their age.

But under the age of yōkai maturity as well, not even an adult by their standards? 

What. The. Hell.

“—ku? Hey, Itaku, are you okay?” Rikuo’s face is suddenly very close to his, eyes wide and concerned. “It’s not like you to space out. Something wrong?”

Fucking hell, no wonder that string assassin had tried to tear him a new one. Coddling a mature yōkai, as Itaku has assumed was the case, is a wildly different action than trying to protect a still-growing child— especially a claimed child, good gods. If his pieced-together perception of the inner clan is accurate, Kubinashi seems to have internalized the responsibility of helping raise Rikuo after the Second’s death — in that light, and with respect to Rikuo’s proper age, his pursuit of Itaku’s head was almost too reasonable. After all, it isn’t like yōkai are allowed to be children for long, so most parents among their kind have every right to be fiercely protective of their young. Gods, it’s a lucky thing the boy is at least close to maturity, otherwise...

Well, trying to force an immature Fear can have disastrous consequences. It’s why so many young yōkai either hide away until adulthood, or follow more powerful figures; without full control of their abilities, they are incredibly vulnerable.

And with succession on the table since the Second’s death... there’s no way Nurarihyon hadn’t known his grandson was underage.

Which means the old trickster had lied to them. More importantly, he’d lied to Itaku. 

Some in Tōno, certainly, wouldn’t have cared either way. The elders, so far from their youths that trying to imagine the experiences of a child is like trying to imagine the existence of extraplanar life — they wouldn’t have cared, and Nurarihyon must have counted on that to get the rest of the village to agree. Likely, the elders hadn’t bothered to ask and Nurarihyon hadn’t disclosed, and the rest of the village — like Itaku — had assumed that Rikuo was of age and simply naïve due to his human upbringing.

Some bundle of fools, they’ve grown to be. 

Because damn it, Itaku knows youth, Awashima and Reira as well, one of them should have known to ask. Why the hell did none of them ask?

The answer tastes unpleasant and bitter in the back of Itaku’s mouth, even as he bids Rikuo farewell and extracts a promise from the boy to continue training before leaving. None of them had asked, because they took Rikuo at face value and trusted that Nurarihyon wouldn’t have shipped an underage child to them for training. That he at least would have informed them, because a child can be trained but not in the same ways an adult is trained — because usually, the parent or guardian yōkai can set those boundaries to ensure their child’s safety. 

But Nurarihyon chose not to. And judging by the way Rikuo’s Hyakki Yakkō reacted to the situation, neither the boy’s mother nor his yōkai guardians seem to have even been informed, let alone included in the discussion.

Time-sensitive issues were an important matter, yes, but — what the hell, that didn’t mean you just throw a child at the problem and tell them to fix it!

Anger coils in the pit of Itaku's stomach the entire way back to Tōno, tight and twisting. Actual, honest children are a rare gift to yōkai, with the vast majority of their kind coming into existence already with the forms and minds of adults regardless of lived experiences. To treat the safety of a child so callously — and a child of one's own blood, no less — is outlandish, the stuff of horror stories told by monsters. Rikuo should not have been leading them in Kyōto, and if Itaku's recollection of the boy's stories serves him, this wasn't even the first time he has had to take the initiative where numerous other adults should have stepped forward.

And worst of all, Itaku can't even remain angry at that part, because he knows — just as assuredly as the sun rises and the moon falls — that there is no-one else he would have followed out of Tōno and into battle. Because Rikuo lead them, they were there. And because they were there, they were able to make a difference.

It sickens him, the thought of it all. How that old trickster played them like fiddles, played into Rikuo's most human qualities and used him like a string to pull Tōno into a fight they would have never otherwise seen. Nurarihyon knew exactly what he was doing, that much is certain — knew that sending established members of his clan to Tōno would result in outright failure, and knew that sending Rikuo as a child would receive only rejection.

So the wily eel sent them a grandson whose yōkai face masked his true age, told them to train him without holding back, and then simply sat back and waited for the boy's earnest determination and stubborn loyalty to win them over. Itaku hates, bitter as the taste of blood on his tongue, how well it worked.

They were conned, every last one of them, into following behind a child in battle — and damn it all to hell and back, because Itaku knows already that he would not chose any differently.

Because that boy, that boy who is yet a child, with barely a quarter of a yōkai's blood running through his veins, knows more of honor and strength than many yōkai a dozen times his age. Understands better, better than so many who have tried, just what it means to Itaku and the rest of Tōno, to have their strength and their traditions and to hold those things tight. That boy knows victory and defeat, and Itaku cannot resist slicing vicious gashes into the trees along his way, though it does nothing to quell the dark feelings welling up.

Does that boy know that he should have been allowed childhood? Has he ever felt as though those around him are prepared to protect him, and nurture his growth, until he is of age to stand on his own? Did anyone tell him how these things are meant to be?

Itaku flashes back to the string assassin, the Yuki-Onna, the long-haired woman and the monks of destruction. Yes, his memory reminds him, Rikuo did have adults around to protect him — but the one who should have coveted his safety most, failed to, and perhaps that outweighs all the rest. If Rikuo couldn't rely on his own flesh-and-blood to care for him, what reason would he have to place such trust in others not related so deeply?

It is a sharp, cold thing to recall how Nurarihyon had described his grandson to Akagappa, back then. At the time, the complaints of how Rikuo denied his place among yōkai and resisted his rightful place as the incumbent third head had seemed wholly reasonable.

Yet now, all Itaku can feel is weary disappointment, that a yōkai so great as Nurarihyon should be so eager to abdicate his responsibilities to his clan that he would push a true and honest child to take his place. Is this the Lord of Pandemonium that the tales have made so grand? Is this the yōkai who defeated the fox four hundred years past, who lead his Hyakki Yakkō out of Kyōto and into new lands to establish his own territory? Who was so powerful that even the heads of Tōno grew to respect him, and his ways?

How disappointing.

Rikuo may yet be a child, but now Itaku finds himself eager for the day when the boy comes of age and takes control of the Nura clan. A new leader, it seems, is sorely needed.

And he knows, even through his anger, that Rikuo will make a good one indeed.