Heart Of Fire; Veins Of Ice | Kimetsu No Yaiba Fanfic (Kyojurou's POV)

Chapter 8

He tries.

He tries so hard to move his legs, or to try his breath of flames.

He can't do either.

No matter how he places his feet on the ground, he can't stand up. He can't. He can't. He can't. As his hand grips the lacquered wooden surface of the bedside table, his nails digging into its surface, he knows he can't let his condition overcome his own will. He takes several deep breaths, testing out his breathes, and only when he tries to use them, he finds his throat constricted, and his lungs burning, and he can't breathe.

He nearly falls into a state of hyperventilation, before he opts for leaning against the wooden backing of the bed and staring out at the falling snow instead.

He massages his temples to ease the pain of the slowly growing migraine as he tries to distance himself from his pain, and slowly growing fear that he would never use his legs again.

It's always there, ever present, nestling itself at the back of his mind, a cruel reminder of reality and the price of surviving death. He knows it will haunt him, and he tries his best to erase it or push it out from his mind, but he cannot. He cannot push out the truth, veil it from himself, for it was the truth. His mother had taught him, the truth was always constant, unchanging and ever present. She just hadn't told him how it was both a blessing and a curse.

His lungs drown and rob him of his breathe each time he tries to use his breaths to heal his pain, his wounds, alight with a freezing and yet burning pain, akin to the sharp shards of ice which hand down from the roof ledge over his window in the freezing snow, as each droplet of water from its tip, eats away at his resolve and his body. His legs are numb, and he can't feel, just like frostbite in a harsh snowstorm, which would leave one helpless and for dead.

But he would never let his passion die out.

He could not.

He takes time to recollect his thoughts, opting to think instead of attempting more actions. He runs his left hand over his left eye, wondering when he would be able to remove the bandage and ascertain if he could see through his smashed left eye. His heart aches when he realises that he might be permanently blinded in one eye and left without the use of his legs.

When the sun begins setting, only then does he open the drawer of his bedside table, finding a bowl of cold soba and sauce, as well as several side dishes.

The food seemingly tastes blander than before, and he wonders if it's because of the biting cold, and freezing isolation.