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Time is a very odd concept.
Whether you crawl in wordless agony or run with your lungs out, It follows you with its same regal pace. Not a hair out of place.
It is terrifying.
It seems like it was just yesterday when Shoto had stepped out of his village, his clothes stained with drying blood and a heavy knife firmly gripped in his trembling fingers. The feeling of cold snow between his toes and the sorrow weighing his every step as the event of the massacre finally registered into his brain is a distant memory, one which he chose to nail into his very core as a reminder of what made him the man he is today.
The images of terror and desperation are something that's been following him ever since. Darkness chaining him to the sand as he march forward towards his final destination.
There are days when it would fuel his fury, lightening his feet as he jumps and swings his blade against his enemies. Other days it would weigh him down, rendering his whole body immobilized as he let himself mourn for the friend he had lost.
But time, Time is a very odd concept.
It had graciously shed the weight he's been dragging along with him, slowly, with its same regal pace.
Today he woke up and it wasn't very dark anymore.
Today, he realized that his vision clears and he can suddenly see everything around him, clear as day. Time had shed the weight he's been dragging along with him and the darkness that comes with it.
He is not alone.
He's made friends during his journey, sure. But has there always been this many people before?
When he looks back, Bakumori is not the only thing he sees.
Footsteps of those who have walked along him and those who have chosen a different path, trails of stuff he has gained and left behind, memories that was created and put away—
Today, he realized that he is the man he was and more.
And suddenly, time is not so terrifying anymore.
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Shoto stares at the sheathed blade sitting on the table in front of him, a glass of wine in his hand as his finger trails along the rim mindlessly.
"...Ether."
He calls out silently.
When nothing happen, he frowns to himself. what was he expecting anyway?
The frown slowly melts with every passing second, a small smile replaces it before he bites his bottom lip at his own realization.
The knife is a manifestation of his dead friend, a reminiscent of his tragedy, a constant reminder of what he had sworn to do to those who had attacked his village.
It was also something that had defined him. A symbol of his whole being.
It still is something that defines him. just... not all of him.
He's been focusing on his purpose so much that he didn't realize that he is more than a boy who lost his whole village to a group of vicious demons. He is a friend, a lover, and a protector.
There are so many things that he has achieved and so many things he will achieve.
He is Shoto.
He is no longer just a boy who is stuck in the darkness of his own sorrow. No longer the boy who would hold his knife with such determination, as if it was everything in his life.
He let his lips curl into a wider smile, one that he would give Ether if he was sitting in front of him.
He stares at the knife as he raise his glass, whispering to himself,
"to an old friend."