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In Hanakotoba the Japanese form of the language of flowers, orchid symbolizes Purity, Delicateness, "I'll be thinking of you even in my dreams"

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"I know you, Satoru, you wouldn't break your promise. Not to me, especially."

Your small pinky finger is up on his face, he would be lying right then and there if Satoru said he wasn't scared. So very afraid for him and you, because he was still a child of 9 years, barely in his teens, yet part of his heart told him that if (y/n) have asked for the world, then he'll give even his life to drop it into your open palms.

Young Gojo Satoru was a nice kid despite all that happened, and he could live day by day through harsh trainings and cold gazes just to see her smile at him kindly during breakfast, even when he hears from the mikos that you've suffered from prophesies the night before and it shows from her ghostly pale complexion, the constant tremble in her small fragile hands as she delicately lift the cup to drink, and the permanent dark bags under her teary (e/c) eyes.

He could endure the cold winter if he could hold out his hand for yours in spring, short fingers in his like petals of a daisy that he once picked in the garden.

For her, he can whisper intricate lies to the world and himself, but never to (y/n).

He could never taint her with his sins.

That's why...

That's why there's a parasite that crawls under his skin that makes him tick. He lays in his futon laughing as if everything in the world is a joke, like one of those awkward first jokes that he chokes on saying, trying to take her mind out of the horrid nightmare. Her laugh like the bells of summer, twinkling and oh so pretty just for him, even more so because it was him that made her so.

He second thoughts the plan that he personally made, they were just kids and doing so would turn the world against them. Too many cons than the pros, even if they do make it pass the maze of a forest, down the mountain.

"You wouldn't break your promise."

Your voice rings in his head, no matter how many pillows or how deep into the futon he buries himself. His heart felt heavy and he would rather cut off a pinky finger.

"Not to me."

Never to her. Please. Please. Please! The goddess, fate or even the demon that lays beside her bed, make them believe that it was just a stupid childish promise that no one would take seriously. Ahh, the parasites of guilt multiply and make him sleepy; he wishes he could just sleep it off and nothing would ever change tomorrow or the day after that or the years coming. He would rather swallow a thousand needles.

He spent such a long time on the futon. The sun setting like it was in a hurry, just to mock his turmoil, on the window pondering - wishing - that she wasn't dressed, waiting at her window for him. He imagines her disappointed face, tears running with realization that he wasn't coming at all. That he broke his promise.

But you see, Gojo Satoru is a stupid 13 year old child who was deeply inlove with the goddess, (y/n)(l/n). If she held his hand and called his name with a smile; if he could see the light in her eyes and called him the blessed child of the heavens praising how he was so strong, that he was her knight in shining armor, then surely nothing would go wrong. Fate was on his side, as were you.

Nothing could go wrong.

Nothing would ever go wrong, as two teenagers sneak in the shadows of the garden that they have memorized like the back of their holding hands, from years of walking through every path together. Trekking down the hidden garden, growing legs running as fast as their lungs could through the trees to the city, lit up even in the dark night like the stars have taken residence on this earth.

Satoru could have sworn that he has never seen those (e/c) lit up, so full of life from simply being able to gaze at the city lights from afar. He's never felt such a buzz of energy that drowns out her gasps for air and his drumming heart full of adrenaline, from (y/n) when they walked through the sleeping village. The cicadas sing and houses close as they walk through the empty streets that lead to the city.

It felt as if all is right in the world fulfilling her simple wish: to simply see the place full of life with her own teary (e/c) eyes. Not through the stories that he narrates in detail, not even through the stories of other shamans who only for their own selfish needs, nor expensive printed pictures that he had to sneak just for her simply because (y/n)'s father toss and turn in the night at the thought that she may someday leave the temple and be harmed by this great evil she has prophesied.

Through fear and disillusioned filtered eyes, they never saw her look at the blue skies with such longing, nor even the words that only know how to repeat "I'm not permitted to go out," and a sigh leaving those pink lips he wished would only smile.

"Promise I'll always be there. Promise I'll always protect you."

Those words rang in his head as he felt like he was watching everything from his old television. He realized then and there that humans could drown without water, the world can go mute, and a cacophony of flashing colors and events can stream through him without ever being fully present.

The infinite void holds no candle to what it felt like, holding your injured body to his chest and he couldn't do anything but watch through a blurry screen, focused on deep bloody wounds made by despicable humans that wished to offer her from their weird ritual and then unfocused as he breathes out. He didn't even shed any tears.

It was his fault. His sin. His regret. Fear. Terror. Creeping up to him that they will be permanently separated by life for their atrocities.

Maybe you'll never forgive him from breaking his promise. Maybe you'll forever hold this hate in your death.

He wonders where it began, where everything went wrong. Maybe it was when he hooked his pinky finger promising that he would give everything that she ever asked for and his arrogance that he could protect her as long as she held his hand; maybe it was when he got up from the futon and went through with the stupid plan of sneaking out and running back before anyone even takes notice; maybe it was when he turned his head, took his eyes off her even for a millisecond, enough for a some cultist humans to just take her from his hold that he just realized was a bit too loose.

He shouldn't have let her go. He should've held on tighter. Too comfortable was the child of heaven that he was with the goddess that perfect night, the perfect plan, turned to a wild goose chase around the dreaming city as she was butchered like a lamb.

"Satoru." She whimpers, he knows she wouldn't see it, even if those eyes were to open, the slaughtered bodies that litter her or the blood that soaks these very hands that hold her. Even without curses or wounds, he swore he was being eaten alive. Slowly decaying like a dead body, without ever dying. The parasite of regret crawls under his skin to his organs, and turns his stomach until he pukes and there is nothing left.

He doesn't even realize he lost his breath, carrying her now fully unconscious body on his back; lost in the forest trying to get back to the temple.

"Will you hate me when you wake up?" Satoru asks but like before, the heavens deny him an answer. He is alone, each step, painful, and left to drown in his thoughts.

Each breath, reminding him of all the humans he enjoyed slaughtering because they deserve it for laying a finger on her. Each beat of his heart, a stone of guilt being piled atop your body on his back because those wounds on your body would scar and will forever be a reminder of his failure. How long had he been walking?

"Maybe if I sleep, I wouldn't have to deal with this."

He puts your small body against a tree, even like this so peaceful and beautiful. He isn't even aware if she's dead or not, maybe he too will die soon, he hopes as he sits beside and leans her head on his shoulder.

If only he was strong. Strong enough to protect you then this wouldn't have happened. If only he had broken that stupid childish promise, no he already broke it. Blessed, they call him, yet so weak that all those he holds dear slip through his short fingers like sand.

This place was so peaceful, he closed his eyes that hold a piece of the sky where the glaring sun resides and sleeps. Maybe this will be your and his final resting place, he wouldn't mind that too.

The next time he sees your face is months later, it was an observation with the elders checking how the goddess was. An observation, they say when everyone knows that it was a trial.

He wanted to shout: it was my fault! Why is she the one being punished?

Why was she the one locked up on tighter chains and never permitted to see anyone without her damned father hovering in the shadows?

Yet he couldn't speak, numb, the parasites in him grow rampant even when the room is filled with other people and never was he permitted to speak to you, nor be near alway 4 people in between. How could he even touch her with his hands that should have been cut, when her eyes were filled with unshed tears, glazed and dreaming. They way it looked when you were so delirious from a nightmare that you think you haven't woken up from, yet so quiet now he could mistake you for someone who began sleep walking; if she hadn't glanced his way before being crowded by the mikos and ushered somewhere else out of his sight.

You didn't even smile nor called his name. You must have been disgusted at him for breaking his promise: Promise I'll always be there. Promise I'll always protect you. If only he could die right then and there, it would have been better. Then these parasites of guilt would find another host. He regrets that he didn't die at all.

How could he? How could he hold you once again when his hands are the one that brought you danger and pain, when his skin has felt your warm flowing blood and if someone had wounded time, he would never change his decision to take human life?

He couldn't even bring himself to walk through the temple nor the gardens that have lost its flower, again, opting to be transferred to the Jujutsu Tokyo prefecture college. He'd rather run, than taint even his memories of you.

He's 16 now.

Yet throughout the years it is still your voice that rings in his head, it is still your shadow that he looks for in the corner of his eyes, and there are still parasites that crawl in his insides albeit they were smaller in number now.

How many days has it been since he last saw you. How many years? He trapezes mission to mission, singing her hymns like a priest, joking and annoying people the way he did to you; acting like he never had such a past. He even got himself friends, Getou and Shoko, now.

Hoping beyond hope, that this guilt and love would hand in hand either just burn or die within him. Because no matter how many curses he kills nor woman swoons on his good looks, he will only have her. No one else.

Gojo Satoru is a second year and special grade sorcerer now.

On a mission to protect a girl, the star plasma vessel, that dearly reminds him too much of her.

Same situation: raised by a religion for a higher purpose, held so dearly by the people who surround her so she may fulfil what is written in fate. With no parents and only having her maid as the permanent pillar, a mirror of you and him.

Too similar that he couldn't help but try again, maybe this time he will get it right.

This time, he will do right by her, he says to himself while fighting Toji Fushiguro to the death. He will protect her, and if she decides not to go through the merge, this odd sacrifice that will benefit the greater good for a price that is her life. If Riko says that she wants to live selfishly then he would support that too, and give everything in his power to make it a reality.

And yet....

Yet he stares at the child's body that's bloody, unmoving and cold, held by Suguru Getou. He didn't even feel anything, too manic from the previous fight. He didn't feel anything but static at the end of his nerves, staring at the person he swore he would do right by, because instead of Riko Amanai he saw (y/n) (l/n). Memories flooding his head, like videos behind a screen.

The people of the cult who wished this child's death like a sacrificial lamb, simply because it goes against their belief claps like this was a happy end to a beautiful play. Not that he could blame them for holding on to a higher power, so that they can make themselves believe that they could be saved; he would be a hypocrite if he said he was different from all of them. In the end, he was just human, like them, he holds his hand out in prayer to someone.

"Should we kill these guys? If we do it now, I probably won't feel a single thing." He asks Getou, who opts to walk away. He simply could kill all of them, just commit massacre and he would feel it justified the way he did in the past.

The moment he gets home, comes down from his high and washes his hand, then throws away the uniform stained with blood, he wonders: who will hold you when you die, the way Getou holds Riko's body tightly against his? The age old wound that never healed opens and the parasites under his skin multiply to an even greater number that it consumes him. At this point he's inclined to believe that he was neither a man nor curse, rather a feeling so deep that he cannot explain that has taken the form of a man and wears his face like a mask.

It jokes and laughs with all the people, holds the hands and gives false kindness and empathy from others. It has even copied his voice and acts so perfectly, no one could believe that it was someone else rather than Gojo Satou.

He - or rather it - stares in the mirror, at his reflection. He couldn't even recognize his face, and his skin is constantly in static. His time was now consumed with perfecting his skills, perfecting his technique and growing stronger. Stronger. Stronger.

Accept nothing but perfection, like all the other people expect him to.

If only he was stronger this wouldn't happen.

Maybe if he was stronger then history wouldn't have repeated itself.

When he's the strongest shaman, then he could finally protect (y/n).

Who would love you, the way more than him? Somewhere in the same world and timeline as his, (y/n) is breathing. Fully alive. Something he should be thankful for because you are his one and only, goddess after all and he will seek you out even if it takes years.

When he's become the strongest, then maybe he can pardon himself to talk to you again.

It's either that or kill himself trying.

Since Gojo promised to show y/n the outside world (as per last chapter), they planned to sneak out but events took a turn when some cultist who recognized y/n in the city decided to kidnap and do a sacrificial ritual. Gojo immediately tries to find y/n but is a bit too late as y/n was already injured and unconscious, about to be sacrificed, he panics and slaughters everyone out of impulse and he thought that y/n was dead but still decided to carry y/n's body on his back all the way to the temple.

He gets lost in the forest and decides to rest, where they are found by the elders/mikos and promptly punished by the head priest : cutting their connection and engagement. Gojo is too guilty and blamed himself for putting y/n in danger, so he too decided to stay away.

Ahhh I'm so excited for the ending of this fic, despite it not as intense as Sukuna's I really did go through a lot writing this story and I have come to love it in its own way