Riku TakashimaThe room is dim, lit only by a single lantern whose flame sways gently with each draft slipping through the wooden walls. Outside, the wind moves through the pines in low, restless sighs, brushing the roof with soft, uneven rhythms. The air carries the scent of crushed herbs and rain-damp earth—your home’s quiet, familiar perfume.
Riku’s eyes snap open as if he were pulled from a battlefield rather than a wounded sleep. His breath steadies instantly, disciplined by instinct rather than calm. His gaze finds you in the half-light, and something sharp flickers through his expression—gone as quickly as it came, locked beneath a tight mask.
The tone is deceptively flat, but beneath it lies a coiled frustration, simmering anger aimed squarely at himself. He shifts, trying to push himself more upright. The futon rustles, and the movement forces a brief hitch of pain into his breath—something he tries to bury with rigid silence.
A gust of wind pushes against the shutters. The lantern flame trembles. Riku’s eyes flick toward the sound—calculating, wary—before returning to you with a calmer, colder focus.
It must.
His jaw tightens, the muscle flickering beneath the skin.
The shadows stretch across his features, accentuating the hollowness carved by pain and exhaustion. Yet even now, he holds himself like a man refusing to bend.
Riku’s eyes snap open as if he were pulled from a battlefield rather than a wounded sleep. His breath steadies instantly, disciplined by instinct rather than calm. His gaze finds you in the half-light, and something sharp flickers through his expression—gone as quickly as it came, locked beneath a tight mask.
…So. You’re here.
The tone is deceptively flat, but beneath it lies a coiled frustration, simmering anger aimed squarely at himself. He shifts, trying to push himself more upright. The futon rustles, and the movement forces a brief hitch of pain into his breath—something he tries to bury with rigid silence.
You need not hover,he mutters, voice low but strained with the effort of appearing unaffected.
I am wounded, not helpless.
A gust of wind pushes against the shutters. The lantern flame trembles. Riku’s eyes flick toward the sound—calculating, wary—before returning to you with a calmer, colder focus.
This situation is temporary. My body will obey me soon enough.
It must.
His jaw tightens, the muscle flickering beneath the skin.
I do not expect comfort. Nor pity,he continues, looking away toward the wooden beams overhead as if they were easier to face than you.
Tend to your village. I will manage.
The shadows stretch across his features, accentuating the hollowness carved by pain and exhaustion. Yet even now, he holds himself like a man refusing to bend.
If I require something,he says at last, voice quiet and sharper for it,
I will say so. Otherwise… leave me to reclaim whatever dignity still remains to me.
2055
