The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname



His friends come to the funeral.

Mikoto stopped next to Kusanagi, hands in pockets, radiating warmth in the chill but without expression. Totsuka stood on the other side, close enough to brush arms and shoulders, a frown on his usually cheerful face. Neither of them looked “free.”

They stayed through all of it, caging him in with their bodies and their wordless care. He wasn’t alone in this world yet.

Kusanagi sighed. “Let’s go back to Homra.”

They stayed there too, Totsuka talking lightly, Mikoto quiet but present.

Yes, Uncle. I have friends that might help me serve.

The Smoke


There was a raw empty space, gaping like a wound between them. (more…)

Soft Spot


Mikoto was like the kind of big cat that let kids crawl all over him. Particular kids. Just two really.

Anna could snuggle up right next to him and even tuck her hand into his without even a grunt of protest. Totsuka could make Mikoto his own personal blanket if he wanted and Mikoto wouldn’t do more than sigh.

He never failed to complain whenever Kusanagi encroached on nap space in an attempt to sit down, but then again, Mikoto may have been audibly put upon but he let Kusanagi sit down anyway.

“Softie,” Kusanagi teased.

Mikoto’s grumpy glare notwithstanding.



Izumo never used to mind butterflies. They weren’t important, pretty enough when one floated by on a breeze. Now, he looks at them like they hurt him personally.

It was just the three of them once upon a time, before Clans and Kings and the Dresden Slates changed everything. It was Tatara and Mikoto and Izumo—friends.

The butterflies he sees now aren’t made of fire and red aura. They don’t rise from Tatara’s hands like proof that flame can be beautiful and not deadly, wielded by the right hands. Everything is gone—Tatara, Mikoto—leaving only Izumo and butterflies.