Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When you touch me, my mind is gone. The only words I know are lost inside your body.

*

Kazuma does sting her, at first. Never badly enough to require an ablution, but enough to cause her pain. It’s a dangerously slippery slope - one twinge of guilt and Bishamon flinches, and then the discomfort on her face justifies his regret, and the cycle continues.

It is only at the end of a long road of reassurances and mental fortifications that they wind up here, with her hands in his hair and his tightly gripping her waist. The moment she kisses him his mind goes hazily, blissfully blank. There is no room for doubt, for guilt, for questioning the appropriateness of what he’s doing or how anyone would react if they knew; there is only the delightful feel of her lips against his and her hair brushing his cheek when she moves. She whispers his name against his mouth, assuring him with each warm breath that this is right.

This is right. It doesn’t matter what the heavens would say, it doesn’t matter that she is a god, it doesn’t matter that he is her shinki. It isn’t a sin if he feels no guilt, and why should he? She has gone to painstaking lengths to convince him that all of his desires are mutual. By some impossible chance, she wants to hold his hand, wants to nestle in his arms and fall asleep with her head tucked below his chin.

Perhaps as her guide he should have steered her away - put his foot down more firmly and insisted that she not waste her time and dignity on him. But Bishamon has always been stubborn, has never cared much for rules or reputation, and Kazuma could hardly argue when she held him close and whispered in his ear that everything a god does is right.

So he doesn’t think about it anymore. When she smiles at him, he buries any lingering urge to step back to a safe distance and instead smiles too, and feels more fulfilled than he has in centuries. When one of her hands drifts down his neck to gently scrape her fingers along his back, he thinks of nothing but the warmth of her body and the joy and comfort he can feel in every one of her movements. She pulls away only to kiss his cheek and jaw and then his neck, and he’s vaguely but blissfully aware that in these moments, the only word running through his mind is her name.

This is right. It feels right to both of them, and that’s all that matters.

Chapter Text

We talk in the dark as we fall asleep, and we are objects in the night sky outside of time. (it is the exact opposite of alone.)

*

Darkness and warmth are the first things Bishamon becomes aware of when she wakes. She blinks, and as her eyes adjust to the dim room, her gaze lingers on the faint, faint glow around the window, softer than the familiar light of the moon. She must have been asleep for several hours; dawn is not far away.

Something nags at the back of her mind, some fuzzy recollection more concrete and more important than her dreams, but it doesn’t occur to her what it is until she shifts her weight and feels something draped across her waist. An arm - white-sleeved, warm, heavy with unconsciousness.

Slowly, Bishamon turns onto her other side, careful not to disturb the gentle slopes of the blankets around her. Next to her, Kazuma is, oddly enough, still fast asleep; in the silence of late night, Bishamon can just barely hear his even breaths, and his eyes remain peacefully closed.

She stifles the rising urge to reach up and touch his face, and instead smiles. It’s not often that anyone gets to see Kazuma without that carefully-crafted facade of professionalism and composure he’s perfected over the last couple centuries. Asleep and without his glasses, he looks much more like the boy she took in so long ago, innocent and young and desperate to please - a boy she misses, sometimes, in his more distant moments.

But echoes of that Kazuma still remain, if only she can coax them out. He must have stayed with her again last night, letting her rest her head against his chest as she began to doze off. Minutes may have passed, or perhaps hours, before she fell asleep; time always seems not to exist in the dead of night, in his arms, while he rubs soft circles into her back. She could feel his voice reverberate through his chest as they spoke softly, an aimless conversation broken intermittently by long drowsy silences and shy nuzzling against clothes and hair.

This has quickly become her favorite bedtime ritual. Kazuma is as much an expert as she is at building walls, and struggles just as much to tear them down when they become hindrances. But in the evenings, in the confines of Bishamon’s room, she can see him start to shed his guard with his jacket and tie, and she revels in the almost foreign intimacy of casual conversation. For a brief moment, she ceases to be a master or a god, and finally begins to feel close to touching something below the surface, something real.

Those moments are still rare, a triumph often accompanied by a strange fluttering sensation in her chest. As always, Kazuma moves one sure step at a time. It took months for him to become accustomed to her touch and to learn to touch her in return, hands still trembling and face still flushing at each new invitation. Even then he would accompany her to bed only with reluctance, and the next time she awoke, no matter how early or late, not a trace of him would remain - his shoes gone, his glasses removed from the nightstand, the sheets and mattress beside her as smooth as if they had never been touched.

It never surprised her. Kazuma is dutiful above all else, concerned about her image and the vicious habits of rumors, and Bishamon is used to sleeping alone. But the silence and pale sunlight that greeted her every morning were so often tinged with a specter of loneliness she couldn’t quite chase away on her own.

She abruptly wraps her arms around him and buries her face against his chest. He might still leave. Perhaps it was only an accident that he fell asleep here; perhaps he will still wake up with the sun like usual and vanish while Bishamon dreams into the morning. But his arm tightens around her waist, bolder and more sincere than anything he would dare to do while awake, and Bishamon relaxes.

There are scant few hours left in the night, but time passes differently in the heavens. Even while the seasons cycle in the near shore, consistent and unfailing, little changes in Takamagahara. Days blend effortlessly into centuries, a lifetime into an eternity, and there is a peculiar sense of comfort in the thought that time has no sway over them here. The sun can rise and set and rise again, but it will never take Kazuma away from her.

The light outside the window grows, bit by bit. Bishamon takes a deep breath against Kazuma’s half-unbuttoned shirt, already beginning to drift, and revels for the first time in a long time in the certainty that today, she will not wake up alone.

Chapter Text

I hate trying to put my desire into words when my body knows exactly what to say. Come home. (You can’t start a fire without a spark.)

*

Bishamon has never been the best with words. Fighting is what comes naturally to her, not eloquent turns of phrase or the lilting metaphors of poetry. She speaks most clearly through the sharp angles of weapons and the lines her fingers trace in the air when she bestows a name. So it simply does not occur to her to tell her shinki how she feels about them.

She loves them, of course. They are her precious family, her children, and she would do anything to protect them. Perhaps she had mistakenly assumed that they knew that - that they could see it in her eyes, in the smiles she gives them, in the very fact that she named them.

It is only recently that she has come to realize how devastatingly wrong she was. Despite Kazuma warning her for centuries that she must engage with her shinki more and in more meaningful ways, she didn’t really understand what that meant until she had lost too many of them.

Even now, she often finds herself at a loss for how to proceed. She studies the way her younger shinki interact, playing games together in the courtyard; she smiles and makes a mental note each time one offers her a handpicked bouquet of flowers and weeds, or an empty chair, or a glass of tea. It seems to come so naturally to them, these small but meaningful displays of affection, and she wonders with a weight in her stomach if perhaps this is simply a trait reserved for humans, for those who dwell in the near shore.

It is not in battle, or in her own shrine, or meeting with other gods that she is most aware of her divinity; it is times like these, when all she can offer in return for such a gesture is a choked “thank you” and a pat on the head. She is a war god. Every swing of her blade, every crack of her whip is for them. The fire in her eyes is borne of affection, and the desire to crush follows only on the heels of the desire to protect. Justice and guardianship are woven into her very core, the principles that define and sustain her as a deity. Surely they can recognize that, at least by now. Surely they can understand.

And yet, for all their centuries together, Kazuma remains the hardest to convince. Bishamon still senses a lingering doubt behind his words, a desire to pull away when she touches him, that almost makes her shrink back too.

She told him she needs him. She asked him to stay with her. She has forgiven him for all the crimes he thinks he has committed against her, welcomed him home with open arms after every mishap, and kept him by her side despite the heavens’ whispers and sneers. Why will he not believe her? What more must she say?

Today, again, she stands by the door watching as Kuraha and the twins disappear down the pathway to the near shore. Despite Takamagahara’s perpetually moderate weather, today there is a bit of a breeze and a hint of oncoming rain in the air, and Bishamon crosses her arms to hug her robe more closely to herself. Beneath the fabric there is a dull throbbing in her ribs where her bruises still have not healed, and a sharper, more persistent ache deeper than that. Kazuma’s name yet remains inside her; it has been there so long, it feels etched into the very fabric of her being, engraved within her skin as firmly as his. Yet she feels nothing from it - no warmth, no fear, no tangible regret. Wherever Kazuma is, he has donned his mask and tamped down any emotion that might lead to him stinging her again.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps there is no mask, and this is truly his desire. It was his decision, after all, and not the first time he has wanted to be released.

The conclusion is logical, but it still summons a wave of nausea deep in Bishamon’s stomach. She turns to head back inside before the rain can start to fall, and curses the raw slash across her back that yet prevents her from patrolling with her shinki, even as she wonders in muted resignation if this isn’t for the best. After all, she has failed to protect her family so many times. She has caused Kazuma so much pain. If this was his choice - if he thinks it’s safer this way…

Well, he is her guide for a reason. Perhaps, in this as in all things, she should trust his judgment.

She shuts the door behind her, and the sound of the first drops of rain hitting the pavement outside turn to silence.

Chapter Text

“You’re going to take exit 139, right here. It’s on the right side, so make sure not to stay in the left lane too long. Two miles beyond that there’ll be a merge lane for the southbound freeway, where you’ll want to keep to the left because after that…”

Kazuma’s voice drones on against a backdrop of distant traffic, and Bishamon narrows her eyes as she follows his fingertip across the map. The wind tugs at the edges, but Kazuma keeps it pressed down to the picnic table with his other hand.

Exits, merge lanes, toll bridges… She gives up trying to decipher all the symbols and lets her gaze slide across the stretch of grass in front of them. Just outside the restrooms is an information board about local attractions, which Aiha, Kazuha, and Karuha are peering and pointing at. Kinuha is some distance away, lit cigarette in hand; beside her, Akiha watches the trucks go by on the freeway while he keeps her company.

That leaves Kuraha unaccounted for. Bishamon turns her head and spies him in the mostly-empty parking lot, stretching his back in front of the open side door of their van. Briefly she wonders if he’d like to switch to his vessel form for a few minutes to get his legs moving.

No, better not; someone might see him, and a lion at a rest stop could cause some alarm. They wouldn’t want to have to deal with animal control again.

“Veena?”

Bishamon’s eyes snap back to the picnic table, and then flick up to meet Kazuma’s expectant gaze.

“Do you understand?” he asks.

The map still looks like nothing but a jumble of lines and numbers to Bishamon. Her brow furrows, and she waves her free hand, clutching the car keys tighter in the other. “Keep reminding me as we go. I will figure it out when I see it.”

She can hear Kazuma sigh as he begins to put away the map in a series of folds she can barely follow. His fretting is unnecessary; he undoubtedly has the route memorized by now, and won’t let her miss any of the turns. He is an excellent navigator, after all. That’s why he always sits in the front seat with her, where she can hear all his directions and reminders and straight-up nagging.

(Well, that and his motion sickness, but Bishamon always leaves that part out when the other shinki ask. “Because he’s older than you” will suffice.)

Speaking of which…

“Are you feeling any better?” she asks. Kazuma turns back to her, eyes widening ever so slightly.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he says. “Like I said, it was quite mild. Went away as soon as we stopped.”

Bishamon smiles. “Good. Please don’t hesitate to speak up sooner next time you’re uncomfortable.”

“I won’t,” Kazuma says, sliding the map back into his breast pocket. Bishamon’s mouth twitches; she can already tell he will anyway. He always waits for someone else to ask for a break before he mentions that he’s feeling unwell himself.

He seems fine now, though, gazing across the little park to where Kinuha and Akiha are laughing together. When he notices Bishamon watching him, he tips his head in Bishamon’s direction and asks, “Shall we get going, then?” She can’t help but answer his smile with her own.

“Yes, we might as well.”

The shinki gather quickly and file back into their seats with minimal trouble, thankfully - no repeats of when they first set out and no one could decide where they were going to sit. Bishamon climbs back into the driver’s seat and leans back, stretching her legs one last time.

“Just tell me if you get tired,” Kazuma says over the click of his seatbelt fastening. “I can take over for you any time.”

Bishamon glances at him out of the corner of her eye and starts the ignition. She’s grateful for the offer, really; it is strangely exhausting to drive too many hours in one day. But, well… Kazuma is a safer driver than she is - which is to say, it usually takes him twice as long to get anywhere, and Bishamon would like to be at their destination before sunrise. Luckily he never seems to mind her determination to hold onto the keys for as long as possible.

It would be nice to take a nap, though, if it gets too late. If nothing else, Kazuma is an expert at driving smoothly enough not to wake anyone. She knows she shouldn’t leave him to drive and navigate by himself, but sometimes she gets so comfortable in the passenger seat beside him, listening to the hum of the engine and his occasional quiet remarks, and she knows he won’t do anything reckless if she happens to nod off, and…

“Ane-sama,” pipes up a voice behind her. Karuha leans forward between the front seats. “When are we stopping to eat?”

“Fasten your seatbelt,” Bishamon says.

Kazuma twists around to answer for her. “Are you hungry? It would be nice to get a little farther before we stop, but…”

“Kuraha can pull more snacks out if we need,” Kinuha says from farther back. Kuraha only snorts. “Let’s just keep going.”

Bishamon ignores the murmurs of assent and dissent from the others and backs the van out of its spot. Kazuma is already working out a plan that will keep them on schedule and keep everybody happy; all she needs to do is what he advises.

As they pull onto the freeway, Kazuma turns around again and leans his head back against his seat.

“Follow the road for now,” he says in answer to her unspoken question. “Don’t worry, I’ll warn you a couple miles before the exit.”

Bishamon smiles and hits the gas. It hasn’t been without its trials, but she can see now why humans say the journey is half the fun.

Chapter Text

--

moved to here

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Chapter Text

There's something almost eerie about the halls of the manor in the middle of the night.

There shouldn't be, Bishamon thinks. This is her home, has been for decades upon decades. She knows every hallway and every door by now, if not intimately then at least well enough not to be frightened by what may lay inside. It is a large residence, but never an empty one; even at this hour she's sure at least one shinki is awake somewhere within these walls.

But in the corridors she walks, the only thing that moves is her own shadow. The soft padding of her bare feet against the floor seems to echo off the walls, and there is nothing but solid darkness out each of the windows she passes.

It's a curious but not unfamiliar feeling, to be utterly alone in a house full of people.

The discomfort nagging at her dispels only a little when she arrives at her destination. The room outside her office isn't as cozy-looking as the living areas where her shinki regularly spend their time, but there's a comfort in the familiar decorations on the walls. She has met with many friends here, spent plenty of hours working and simply resting on these seats.

She sits on the sofa, takes a deep breath, and waits for some sort of fulfillment - something to chase away the images that linger even now in the back of her mind. There's a stark realness to the harsh light illuminating the room, and yet it fails to make her dreams feel any farther away. They were reality once, too.

For a moment she closes her eyes, letting the lamp light paint a softer picture against her eyelids. A clock ticks across the room. Perhaps she would feel better somewhere noisier, where music or conversation might make her forget the voices she wakes up to. But that's a whole new set of complications, ones she doesn't quite feel up to tackling right now, so she sits in the silence and remembers too much.

The knock at the door is soft, but it still makes her jump.

"Y-Yes?" Bishamon says, finding her voice slightly hoarse.

The door creaks open and Kazuma's face appears around it, eyes wide. Upon seeing Bishamon, he steps all the way into the room and quietly shuts the door behind him.

"I thought you went to bed hours ago."

Bishamon tucks a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. "I did, but..." She looks him over; he's still fully dressed, apart from a missing jacket and tie. "Don't tell me you're still working?"

Kazuma glances down at his clothes. "Oh, no, I was actually just heading to bed, but I saw the light on and thought maybe I forgot to turn it off. I didn't think you were awake."

"You need not keep yourself up on my account, then," Bishamon says, but isn't at all surprised when Kazuma ignores her and crosses the room to her side instead.

He doesn't say anything as he sits down next to her. He doesn't need to; he is probably as accustomed to her nightly terrors as she is at this point, and can easily imagine what haunts her. Briefly she wonders if he has ever been plagued by similar nightmares. He has lived through his share of violence as well, of course - but it's difficult to envision her steadfast Kazuma so shaken by mere thoughts. Bishamon returns her gaze to her lap ruefully.

"You didn't come here to work, did you?" Kazuma asks, doubtful.

"No, simply as a diversion," Bishamon says, and hugs her robe a little closer.

She can feel Kazuma's eyes on her. "Is there anything I can get you? Tea, a bath?"

Bishamon pauses, then shakes her head. When she closes her eyes, the images flash in front of them again, and she frowns. She is intimately familiar with these nightmares by now, and yet she still has no foolproof method for dispelling her disturbance when she wakes. Kazuma's remedies do soothe her nerves most of the time, but tonight her bones feel heavy and the thought is unappealing.

"Will you sit with me a while?" is all she asks.

Kazuma's voice is soft. "Of course."

He settles back on the couch beside her, his thigh almost but not quite brushing hers. One hand rests on top of it, and Bishamon is struck with the sudden pressing urge to reach out and take it.

Instead she remains still, silent, lost in thought again. Kazuma says nothing, waiting for her to steady herself enough to talk. But no words come; she simply feels tired, heavy, as if she's been swimming in cold water, searching for her lifeboat to keep her afloat.

Now that she's found it, resignation sets in and she slumps over to lay her head against Kazuma's shoulder. Somehow it simply seems the best thing to do. The easiest, and the most comfortable, she must admit, even before Kazuma leans into her, too. There's a warmth to his response that chases away any trepidation she might have felt about being too forward.

But the force of the exhaustion that crashes over her is nearly distressing. Immediately her vision is swimming in shades of black, and almost unconsciously she curls in a little more and moves her forehead closer to Kazuma's neck. The rest of the world is quickly fading away, and yet a few moments later she feels him shift his body, turning into her, and then a soft pressure against the back of her head - his hand, she realizes dimly, running gently through the strands of her hair in a repetitive, soothing motion.

Seconds pass, maybe minutes. There's a weight behind her eyes that pulls her down, makes her chin droop and her arms go limp. The feeling of Kazuma's hand in her hair fades almost to nothing, less real touch than the mere concept of comfort, and when he speaks his voice sounds as if it's coming from far away, even though she can feel it vibrate in his chest.

"Veena. If you're that tired, you should go back to your room and sleep properly."

It takes a lot of energy for Bishamon to force her eyes open, but once the light hits them the fogginess in her head starts to evaporate and she pushes herself up.

"Right..."

Kazuma's hand presses against her head for a moment, as if reluctant to let go, but as she blinks herself back awake he releases her and stands up. She has time only to scoot to the edge of the couch before he's turning back around and reaching out to help pull her to her feet, where she sways only a little bit. His hand tightens around hers, and she doesn't let go as he leads the way to the door.

The hallways are just as empty now as when she awoke. Though before the silence was somewhat intimidating, now it somehow feels like a blessing of sorts. The steady click of Kazuma's shoes against the floor and the warmth of his hand around hers are familiar, reassuring, and she's almost disappointed when they reach the door to her bedroom.

Kazuma's hand starts to slide away; Bishamon's fingers tighten around it. "Stay for a while," she says softly.

Her mind is much too drowsy to decipher the emotions that flicker across Kazuma's eyes before he tamps down any stray feelings. Not quite discomfort; uncertainty, perhaps. A gentle refusal on the tip of his tongue, borne not of disinterest, but a fear of impropriety.

Bishamon tugs on his hand and pushes open the door, and he follows her inside.

She doesn't let go until she reaches the bed, the covers still rumpled and twisted where she had thrown them back when she jerked awake. Kazuma reaches out to grab one corner of the blankets and effortlessly straightens them out, then sits down and begins to untie his shoes.

Behind him, Bishamon lays down and draws the sheets up to her chest. Head against her pillow, she watches Kazuma through half-focused eyes as he straightens up again. His glasses glint in the pale moonlight when he turns his head back to look at her, but he smiles, and automatically she smiles back.

Without a word he settles down next to her on top of the covers and she nestles against his shoulder, pressing her forehead against the crook of his neck. When she inhales all she can smell is Kazuma and clean fabric, and she can already feel herself relaxing before he wraps his arms around her and gently rubs her back.

For a moment she imagines how nice it would be to wake up this way, too. Kazuma asleep next to her, his glasses on the nightstand and arms still holding her, at peace in the soft morning light. But he is always gone by then; he is always gone by the next time she wakes, no matter how early it is. She can only assume he slips out as soon as she falls asleep, like a ghost, leaving her to wonder if she only dreamed him there beside her, kissing her forehead as she drifted off.

Right now, morning is too far away to dwell on for long. She'd rather just enjoy the sensation of his fingers threading through her hair, the gentle pressure on her back that relaxes her muscles. The disturbing images from her dreams aren't quite gone, but somehow it's always been easier to push them away when Kazuma is near. He is alive; she can touch his skin and feel the warmth of his body. She has not lost everything, yet.

Chapter Text

By the late evening, wine and whiskey bottles litter the table in front of the couch. Sometime in the last hour or two it's grown dark outside, and the indoor lights reflect in the window, obscuring the scenery around the manor. Bishamon isn't looking anyway; she's too busy scowling into the empty cup in her hands.

Faces reflect back at her, but not her own. Nowadays she sees only the members of the Ma clan, and only at their lowest. Angry, distressed, fearful - she can remember perfectly the pitches of their screams in her nightmares, and in the quiet of the empty room the sounds bounce around and seem to magnify in her head. She must be tired; she hasn't gotten much rest lately. The visions don't fade with sleep.

Dropping the cup on the table, she reaches for the most recently opened bottle and tilts it against her lips, farther, farther, until it's upside-down. It drips three times, no more.

In one quick motion it goes flying across the room. There's a deafening crash as it shatters; the silence thereafter rings in her ears, but she ignores it, sinks back to her seat, and places her head in her hands.

Some moments later there's a knock at her door, and it creeps open before she can reply.

"Bishamon-sama? Is everything all right?"

Between her fingers Bishamon can see Kazuma's immaculately-polished shoes in the doorway, and it feels like all the alcohol is about to rise up her throat again. Don't call me that, she wants to shout. Not when we're alone. Not now.

Instead, she stands, wobbling just a little. Instantly Kazuma's hands are on her shoulders to steady her. Somehow they feel too warm - he is dead, but alive, human, real in a way she might never be. His eyes light on the broken glass by the wall, and his forehead starts to crease.

"How much have you had?" he asks. His tone is disapproving, another stab to her chest that has nothing to do with being stung.

She answers, "Not enough."

There's a lecture on the tip of his tongue and questions in his eyes, but Bishamon ignores both. She is a god, and dammit, if she wants to get drunk alone in her room, not even Kazuma can stop her. She doesn't need him to tell her that she gets depressed when she drinks, that alcohol always deadens her inhibitions but never deadens the pain. She knows that perfectly well already.

Kazuma releases her and steps back, eyeing the bottles on the coffee table. "I can bring you some water, or coffee. You should rest."

She's not sure why the question comes to mind now, but it's out of her mouth before she can stop to think about it.

"Why do you lie to me, Kazuma?"

There it is, the flash of surprise across his face that makes him look so much younger, more human, more like he was in the old days. It lasts only a moment.

"I don't-"

"Yes you do! You do not tell me where you're going when you leave. You never tell me when something is wrong. You can call it..." Bishamon squeezes her eyes shut. "...'Omitting the truth,' or whatever you wish. You're not honest with me anymore. I want to... I want to trust you."

There's a long several seconds where Kazuma doesn't answer. But before he does, his face hardens into an expression almost bitter.

"Are you honest with me?"

Bishamon blinks. "Of course! Why would-"

"Are you?" he asks again, and Bishamon pauses.

She takes a tottering step forward. "You have to understand," she says. "It's for your own protection-"

Kazuma's eyes narrow into a glare so cold Bishamon almost flinches. He doesn't say anything, but she already knows. It's a tired excuse, the same one he uses on her, and she hates it just as much when he says it, but- but-

With growing desperation, she tries, "There are things shinki aren't supposed to know. There are things shinki can't know," and before she can go on, Kazuma bows.

"Of course," he replies, perfectly neutral again. "That is the way of things between gods and humans, and the way it always will be."

He turns back toward the door, and Bishamon wants to scream. With every step he takes she can feel the gap between them widening. What may have started as a line has become nothing less than a chasm, an impassable void on the sides of which they walk parallel paths, always together and never, never touching.

She wants to reach for him, grab his hand. For one brief and terrible moment she wants to kiss him, if only to see how he reacts - if he reacts. But then he's gone and the door clicks shut behind him, and Bishamon is left alone with the ache in her chest for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

There is no one else around when they arrive at the vast manor for the meeting of the gods. A broad and impressive staircase leads up to the veranda and the entrance to the main hall, and distant voices drift out from deep within, signalling that most of the participants are already inside. Bishamon is about to ascend the stairs to join them when she notices Kazuma is not beside her.

She turns to find him several paces back, gaze fixed on the first step and body tense.

"Kazuma?"

"I don't deserve to be here," he says, barely audible despite the near-silence.

Both of them are aware of the whispers, the rumors, and both of them are aware that almost all of them target Kazuma specifically. After all, it is the guide's job to prevent the god from straying; any failure of conduct on the god's part can surely be attributed to a lapse in judgment on the part of the guide. Why, then, has Bishamon not replaced hers? After his betrayal, after his exile - what reason could there be to reinstate the pathetic fool who harms her so?

Bishamon brushes past the whisperers with simmering fury and a calm resolve. But Kazuma has always been more sensitive, more careful. He has always had more to lose. 

In contrast to his own voice, Bishamon's is sharp, and Kazuma nearly startles when she says his name again. He looks up at her, meek and wide-eyed - a look she hasn't seen on him in many decades. She wants to rip that expression off his face, replace it with the confidence he deserves.

"That kind of talk is not becoming of the strongest war god's guide," she says.

For a moment he looks abashed, guilt flickering across his eyes before they turn away. Then, suitably chastised, he straightens his back and says, "Yes, Bishamon-sama."

Bishamon's lips almost curve into a smile, and she lifts her head toward the mansion. "Good. We shall go together."

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Kazuma nod, but he remains rooted to the ground where he stands. Bishamon reaches a hand back to him, waiting patiently as his eyes widen, his fingers twitch, he fails to move - again. 

"Kazuma."

The single word is all the order he needs. He raises his hand to place it in hers, and she rubs her thumb once against the name imprinted so soundly there before pulling him up beside her. There is still resistance in his body - even now, he tries to default to his place behind her, where he still thinks he belongs - but Bishamon does not let go until he stands even with her in front of the staircase. 

Her fingers brush against his one last time, almost imperceptible. "I would not be here without you," she says, more quietly. "And so I will not come here without you. Understand?"

Kazuma swallows, but he replies faster this time. "Yes."

This time Bishamon does smile, and begins to walk up the steps. 

"Hold your head up high," she instructs, eyes fixed at the top of the stairs. "You are a blessed vessel, Kazuma, and my guide. They cannot take that away from you."

He nods again as they reach the doorway. She enters, and, as ever, he follows.

Chapter Text

She finds him at the edge of town in the early morning, when pale sunlight shines through clouds of mist and the world is still quiet.

He looks human, but as a god, Bishamon can tell immediately that he is not - at least, no longer. His hands are folded in the sleeves of his robe, and he stares out along the path, as if there is anything to be seen but fog over an empty dirt road.

He barely seems to notice Bishamon's approach. "Good morning," she says, and he turns his head slowly.

It takes him a moment to respond. "Good morning."

"Are you waiting for someone?"

That's the first thing to get a reaction out of him. His brow furrows, and he says, "I... I don't know."

"I see." Behind her, the guide's feet shuffle against the ground. Bishamon gives the boy a once-over. He is young - not a child, but not quite an adult, either. He thinks he belongs somewhere, yet he does not remember. She can already make a few guesses as to what may have happened.

"Then you are alone?" she asks softly. The spirit nods. "But you do not wish to be?"

A pause. He shakes his head.

Immediately Bishamon raises her hand, pointing two fingers forward. "You, with nowhere to go and no place to return...." The guide frowns, but Bishamon closes her eyes. "Grasping thy true name, I bind thee here." As she continues the ancient incantation, her fingers move in the air as if on their own, carving a glowing path: one stroke, two strokes, seven. The name shimmers, and her eyes fly open. "Come, Chouki!"

There's a flash of light; the boy disappears, and Bishamon falls to her knees, crying out. The guide is at her side in an instant.

"Master! What's wrong? Does something ail you?"

She sees, then, the nail: small, rough, piercing through Bishamon's earlobe. A drop of blood hangs off the point.

Bishamon also seems to have realized the source of her pain, and she raises a hand gingerly to her ear. In her mind's eye the guide sees the boy, Chouki, drop to his knees and fold into a deep bow.

"P-Please accept my humblest apologies! I did not mean to..."

And yet Bishamon smiles. "A nail...? Hmm... But do not worry, Chouki. It is not your fault. Revert, Kazu."

As the nail returns to his human form, still knelt on the ground in front of them, the wound becomes clear: a hole through Bishamon's ear, clean and now bleeding freely, though not profusely. Bishamon presses the excess fabric of her sleeve against it.

"Master," the guide says sharply, before Bishamon can make any plans of her own. "You must cast him out!"

Both the boy and the god look at her with wide eyes. "But he has nowhere else to go," Bishamon objects.

"That is not your concern. He has hurt you. This vessel form is a curse, and will continue to cause you pain if you let him remain your shinki."

The boy looks like he wants to defend himself, but the moment Bishamon turns her gaze back to him, he drops his head forward again, visibly shaking. Bishamon rises to her feet.

"That has yet to be seen," she says, and the boy looks up, surprised. She offers him her hand. "Come, Kazuma. Let me show you where you will live."

Kazuma stares at her hand blankly for a few seconds, at the smooth skin and the bloodstain on her sleeve, before accepting. As soon as he's standing he drops her hand and bows his head again, and the guide watches him with unconcealed disdain as they return home. She has already sized him up, and she already knows the kind of shinki he will be: polite, unassuming, eager to please - and a danger to Bishamon as long as she holds him dear.