Word of my wailing spread through the household in no time. And, as usual, it was passed along twisted into something outrageous.
The head of the house, scorned as a fool, broke down weeping over his guardian's death without caring who saw. That was all it was, and yet somehow it was told like this:
"Our lord... that Great Fool of a lord, so beside himself at Lord Masahide's death."
"Aye. I heard. They say his weeping was like the roar of a beast. The attendants were too terrified to go near him."
"The man who flung powdered incense at his father's memorial tablet at the funeral and did not so much as twitch an eyebrow... wept fit to shake the earth at his guardian's death."
"...I cannot understand it. What in the world is he?"
The retainers whispered to one another, their faces pale.
"Cold and unmoved at his father's death. Yet at a retainer's death, frenzied. He cannot be measured by our common sense. That is... not the young lord we knew."
"Beneath the fool's skin, there is something unfathomable. Something we cannot hope to gauge."
And someone, lowering his voice, said this:
"...As if he were something not human."
No.
I'll say it as many times as it takes: that's not it.
I wasn't cold and unmoved at my father's death. I was scared, I shook, and I ended up throwing the incense. That's all. I wept like a madman at Masahide's death because my cowardice had killed that kind old man.
There's nothing unfathomable in me. All there is is a cowardice far too big for one person, and a weak heart that goes on and on regretting every time it hurts someone.
And yet everyone takes that—
They misread my extraordinary weakness as extraordinary strength.
They fear my tears as unfathomable proof of something not human.
The only one.
There was just one person who saw my tears for what they were.
Kicho.
That night, alone with her in our room, I was still crying. The tears wouldn't stop.
Kicho sat in front of me and simply let me cry. No comfort, no encouragement. She just let me cry as much as I needed to.
"...I killed him," I finally forced out.
"Because I didn't tell him the truth. That old man died. I didn't cut him with a sword, but I killed a man."
Kicho quietly shook her head.
And then she laid her hand against my wet cheek.
"My lord."
Her voice was gentle, endlessly so.
"You weep because you are kind."
I looked at Kicho.
"The household fears your tears as something unfathomable. But I understand. You are only sad that someone has died. You only regret it, because you believe it was your fault. I know of no one else who grieves so over a human life."
Kicho's hand was warm.
"You are no Demon King. You are only kinder than anyone. It is just that no one will believe it."
I laid my hand over hers.
Me, who was supposed to be afraid of people. Me, who hated, more than death, letting anyone within reach. Just this once, I didn't want to let go of that hand.
"Kicho."
"Mm."
"How... how am I supposed to live from here on? I don't want to kill anyone. And yet I was born into the warring age. From now on, how many people am I going to—"
Past that, it wouldn't come out in words.
Kicho just squeezed my hand back.
That night, I decided one thing.
I would not let Masahide's death be for nothing.
My eyes, which that old man had staked his life to open.
With those eyes, I would live letting as many people live as I possibly could.
Carrying this wish of not wanting to kill anyone, a wish far too ill-suited to the warring age.
That was the only atonement I could make.