Chapter Text
Beautiful, isn’t it?
Pardon, it wasn’t my intention to startle you. It seemed you were done with your prayer, so…
Oh? What’s that, that you’ve left? No, no it’s fine. He accepts anything, as long as it’s precious to you. It’s simply not a…common sort of alms.
Ha, ha… Though this isn’t a common sort of shrine, either, so far be it from me to think it odd. Do you see this red, on the hair and lips? It’s made from the shell of a beetle that vanished long ago, because it survived off a peculiar rose you can now only find etched on ancient palace walls. And the coating on these horns, here—go on, it’s alright. You can touch it, so long as you’re careful. We receive too few pilgrims for it to matter. Do you feel that? The velvet of a young buck’s new crown? It’s always fresh as the day it tore--never recedes, never dries.
It would seem almost everyone has forgotten this place of worship, but the worshiped himself.
…Well. And its priest. But I’m one of a thousand lonely keepers scattered across these lands. Millions, if you think every creature is a temple unto themselves.
Forgive me. When you have visitors as infrequently as I do… Good to know my voice still works, at least.
Could I pay you for your kindness, friend? You weren’t expecting to patronize an old hermit on this trip, I’m sure. You don’t wander to the depths of the jungle if you want company. A meal, perhaps? And a tale, if you’d like entertainment as you eat. I have it ready just over there, by the fire.
Ha, ha, yes, that’s what you’ve been smelling. …Hm? Ah, no, that’s not… I’m afraid this isn’t a spice you can find outside the bushes you passed to get here.
Anyway, come. I hope a stone is seat enough. Drink, and this bowl… No, don’t worry about me. There are leaves plenty to use. I don’t find myself in the position to host many dinner parties. I only need one set of place settings and I’m happy to share. Please, serve yourself.
…Oh… Ha, ha. There is a lot here, isn’t there? Funny.
For the second half of my promise… You don’t have to leave soon, do you? Ah. Good.
Well.
This isn’t a place you stumble into by accident, and you came prepared. I’m sure you know the god you came to see—or, at least, he knows you.
I won’t ask how you found it. There’s something sacred about secrets, after all. But to track down such a remote shrine… You’ve earned some of the stories behind them don’t you think?
I do.
…Everyone knows the children of Gandara have nine tails at their back. All servants of Inari bite and trick and steal, and though this case is no exception…the fox that chases Lord Yomi’s bloodline is also protective, and wise, and will teach far more often than it will tempt.
Much like Lord Yomi himself, praise be.
But do you know why? Do you know when that began, that game of catch and release—not the casual play of gods and spirits, but an oath sworn between two mortals, like you and I?
Would you like to?
…Long, long ago, when the Abyssal War was fresh enough they were still tracking down the fallen, Lord Yomi was walking the world—not as the deity we kneel to nor the king he was before, but simply as a traveler of the wild plains, as he was wont to do.
To keep him humble, is what he told those around him…and they would not argue that it had that effect. He was gracious even then. But many suspected his sabbaticals were just that—a respite from the drudgery demanded of any public office, and especially one of his rank. Time away to center, and to think, without the buzz of parliament in his ears. He could hear them still, even when he was away…but at least he could pretend he didn’t.
No, he spent his time listening for other things—the beasts and bugs creeping about, deciding which would be best to eat and which would be too much trouble. The air shifting hot and unfiltered around him, so unlike the iron-flavored winds of his home. The sounds of footsteps, little and small, if he decided to take any of his children with him. Shura had been the first in so many ways, and he paved the way for generations after him.
…Hm? Oh, yes, that one—the Prince, then King, then merely Shura yet again when he put down his crown, who gave all the others their namesake.
But on this trip Yomi—for he was no lord at that moment—was alone. Or at least, as alone as he could ever be. He listened always for a sharp claw, a silver tongue, hair as soft as lavender petals slipping through the underbrush, as they haunted him often on these trips.
You see, he and the fox that playfully nips at his kin had known each other thousands of years before. They worked together then too, back when their titles were naught more than prayers for the future—Yoko Kurama, the King of Thieves, whose long-tailed shadow still darkens our fairy tales today, trailed by the ram demon known only as Yomi. He took his name from the world around him, believing in his secret heart it would all be his one day, when he became king in his own right.
Ambitious, wasn’t he?
It was that ambition that soured their relationship, staining it dark and rotten as a forgotten grape on the vine, and all the trust between them withered into enmity. It was then, in a crescendo of ill will, Yomi suffered the betrayal that granted him half the title Unseeing and All-knowing.
Had you had the chance to ask him, Lord Yomi would tell you Yoko Kurama did it to him. And undoubtedly that’s true—it was an order from his merciless lips that plunged our god into perpetual dark.
Had you asked Yoko Kurama, though…he would tell you that Yomi did it to himself.
And that, too, in a sense, is true.
It was one of many thousands of things they could never agree on—before, and then, and in the millennia to come.
But this is common knowledge, now—at least to any who have made space for the horned fox in their heart. Perfidy is the refrain of the first hymns you learn as one of our faith.
Truly they hated each other, in those days. Whisper with anyone who shared a room with them for mere minutes, and they would tell you such outright.
But they knew their own worth, and knew one another better than anyone else. After all, to betray someone you must be privy to all their greatest strengths and weaknesses--it’s quick as a trick of the light to uplift them instead, honing their power to a razor’s edge. And they could wield one another with all the finesse of a master swordsman.
Together, they were terrifying, and unstoppable. They weathered the maelstrom that it was to be in the other’s presence to reach common goals—and surely, what’s saved many a land from their greedy appetites was simply that they wanted nothing more than to see each other dead. Preferably, by their own hand.
…I am sorry friend, am I making you uncomfortable? Such a trepid little laugh… No one should fear talking so frank about those they’ve given themselves up to. Is it alright that I continue?
Ah, wonderful. I’m glad. It does a believer good to have their god flayed before them. Everyone should know what they’re made of.
They had tried to kill each other often, until it may as well have been a greeting between them…and perhaps it was. Hatred is, after all, one of the deepest kinds of intimacy. But because they needed to be always on guard, they always knew where to find the other. If you wondered aloud to either of them at the whereabouts of their erstwhile partner, they would give an answer as frivolous as honeysuckle…but stare a mite longer and you would see them tallying track marks behind their smiles.
It was no surprise, then, for Yomi to smell a familiar sweetness on the air, and hear the grain split around a careful foot. Kurama—because by then he was no longer the yoko he once was, nor the lord he would become—had been running tandem to his journey for hours.
What was a surprise was for him to cut through the moss and bramble to stagger graceless into Yomi’s path. Each pant dripped of pain, but it was not due to the blood that seeped from all over his ragged body—this pain shattered his voice and choked his lungs, until he could barely cry out the name of the one he’d been searching for.
Kurama was not one to be honest about his vulnerabilities, nor to announce them besides. It was deeply unnerved, I’ve heard it said, that Yomi answered him.
(…How do I know this? Oh, traveler. All the world keeps count. Every word you speak tumbles from your mouth and soaks into the ground, where the grass and grasshoppers become their keepers. You can find anything, if you know where to listen.)
“Kurama,” Yomi called, both suspicion and dread in his voice. “What happened?”
“I lost him,” he said, and you could taste the salt of sorrow alongside the sweat on his neck. “I lost him,” he repeated, stepping closer.
Yomi did not need to ask who. An ache surely blossomed through his chest, cloying and suffocating as much as any of the fox’s deadly orchards. This was his oldest enemy, yes—but it was also his oldest companion.
“Poachers tricked him, trapped him… He had his father’s pride. He wouldn’t let them take him. He used the blade I gave him. Yomi,” he cried again, as if beseeching him for the son gone, “I was too late. I could do nothing but bury his body.”
Yomi stood still. The scent of the blood made sense, then—Yomi knew what the fox’s smelled like, tasted even, and it was not all his. “Kurama,” he asked, because it is all you can say when gifted another’s misery, “What do you need from me?”
Kurama gave his strange barking sob. It was a rare sound, and Yomi was one of a handful who’d heard it enough times to recognize it. “I cannot do this again. He was the last. He was the last. I could barely say goodbye. I kissed him as I laid him down, and my mind refused to accept why he was cold. I can’t go through this again.”
“So different, from how you once were,” Yomi said, waiting for his friend to approach. “I’m happy you’ve learned to love.”
“And to mourn. To ache. When I took a human’s body I gained a human heart, and I don’t think it’s ever left me.” He stepped forward, fists tight at his sides, as if he were holding a rope. “I can feel it tearing me apart, but I can’t rip it out.”
“You’ve tried.”
He came closer. “Yomi, I have no one else.”
“No. You don’t.” And that was true. Yomi could file down ranks of family that he could visit at a drop, but Kurama had only epitaphs to turn to if he wanted to greet his loved ones.
“And I trust no one more than I trust you, for this favor. I couldn’t ask anyone else.” He came closer still, enough that the Yomi would have felt the heat radiating off his overtaxed body. “I owe it to you.”
But before Kurama could say another word, Yomi told him, “No.”
The fox froze. “No?”
“No.”
“You would refuse me this?”
“All these years, and you still cannot handle being turned down. No, I won’t. Kurama, you’re not in your right mind.”
The old thief bristled, fox fire whipping from the greenery around him. “How dare you?”
“If I know anyone to survive beyond all else, it’s you. I will not kill you while you’re mad with grief.”
“I am sick with it. I’m infected with it! Every other person I’ve loved has slipped through my fingers, but the animal instinct to survive screeches too loudly for me to wring them around my own neck. Yomi, please!” He inched nearer, hands almost outstretched. “For everything we were—”
Yomi put up a palm. “Don’t. You taught me what it was to hate, to truly hate, for the first time. Do not expect grace from me now.”
Kurama slowed. “As a debt, then. To repay you.”
“No.”
“How can you say that? Who deserves it more than you, Yomi? How often have you dreamed of this?”
“As often and as naturally as breathing. And you’re right—your death belongs to me, and me alone.” He lowered his arm. “But I will not. Not yet. Not as you are now.”
Kurama’s demeanor flickered, and sharpened, and rancored. The wheat around him twisted to become cruel. “If you do not kill me here, begging while my hands are covered with the dirt of the grave of my child, then I will hunt yours until you do.”
Yomi was, at first, confused. “Shura is grown. He’s more powerful than you.”
“Not him.”
“And so is Kirin, and Kasha.”
“Not them either.”
Yomi stood in thought, silent for a breath, and his shoulders dropped. “Kurama, you wouldn’t.”
“If you let me live, yes. I will.”
Anger must have flickered deep within the goat, an ancient strain his old partner had not dared to touch in centuries. There had been another time, long, long ago, when he found his babe cold in Kurama’s arms. But her small body was cradled lovingly within them, wet with a parent’s tears, just as Kurama was cradled in his own.
Yomi had gone through great lengths to ensure he never went through that pain again. “It will not bring any of them back.”
The wheat grew tall and monstrous. The dirt shifted beneath the fox’s weight as he braced himself. “No,” he scoffed, bitter. “It seems I’m the only one Death will not welcome through her doors.”
“You will heal,” Yomi tried, one last time, preparing to run. “The pain of knowing doesn’t erase the joy of having known.”
“I have had more than enough of both. I will bear no more.”
Those last words sliced through the wind as Kurama bounded away. Rank nectar from thorny fangs sprung on Yomi as his pets lashed out, buying time for their creator. It was a small distraction. With a flash of Yomi’s ki they returned to the earth as ash and dust, and he leapt after his most familiar adversary.
…If in that moment, as he charged towards the fox, Lord Yomi’s breath seized on a memory of sprinting after the silver streak of Yoko Kurama like he was chasing a shooting star, he could not linger on it. This race was doomed to be short-lived from the beginning.
…Your cup, here—let me refill it. It is easy to get drunk on campfire tales, but it will not help wash your bread down. And bewitching a storyteller as I may be, do remember to eat. I’d wager you won’t chance upon a home-cooked meal in the middle of the wilderness twice.
There you are. Good. These roots came out particularly sweet, and it would be a shame for them to go to waste.
Kurama was swift always, light on his feet as a pollen on the breeze and just as quiet, but right now he was heavy with hurt and rage. His heart thrummed like a hummingbird’s, his pants ripped through lungs already ragged with weeping. He’d know where he needed to go—where Yomi built his children’s dens, and where they had built their lives—but he could no more outrun Yomi than fresh kudzu could beat a forest fire.
Still, he had made a vow. They sprinted for miles, Kurama weaving the flora around Yomi in his wake, listening as his grunts became more irritated, and closer. He bounced to and fro—a rabbit’s trick for a desperate fox—dodging hands that could kill, if only they wanted. But his steps were clumsy, and the blood from his wounds were slick, and it was far too soon that he came down on a hidden burrow with a nauseating crunch.
He crumpled to the dirt then, a heap of gasps and fury. Yomi caught up so quickly it would have looked like he fell to the ground at his feet.
When he could breathe he snarled at his unmoving hulk. “Do it,” he rasped, heaving himself up on his arms. “I am defenseless. I am weak. Waste this chance now and I will ensure this moment haunts you for the rest of your life.”
And he was telling the truth. If Yomi let Kurama live, he would need to devote all of his remaining time guarding his own from the kitsune’s jaws. This was not an empty threat. Kurama’s threats never were.
But still, he stood in front of the meager form of his old partner, his old advisor and lover and rival and his most hated enemy, trembling from pain inside and out, and he did not move.
“I am not going to kill you,” he said. “Not like this.”
Vines whipped out and wrapped uselessly around Yomi’s skin. The thorns cut, and he didn’t flinch.
“This isn’t the version of your death you or I deserve.”
Kurama’s entire body seized like he would vomit, dirty fingers clawing into the weeds and roots, and after a terrible tremor he released a scream so savage and agonizing the grass withered around him.
The vines fell away on the weaker screams that followed, until they too were pattering to the ground as softly as the fox’s torn-through voice.
Yomi took a step back, pausing so briefly it was almost unnoticeable, holding the space he always kept for Kurama throughout all their time together.
When he said nothing, Yomi turned and left him to his despair.
This was not a flippant choice on Yomi’s part. Then, as is now, Lord Kurama’s bite was just as severe as his bark, and both would fester and rot once it lodged inside you. And our wise goat had always known the most dangerous weapon to give him was time.
He returned to that camp a day later, searching for hints of the fox’s strategy. He also retraced their steps to the spot where Kurama had fallen before him. When his hand touched the ground, he nodded in affirmation—there was a new flower born from the fox’s most passionate emotions, as they always were.
He could not tell the color, but the ground was blanketed with small buds that drooped like they too were in mourning. They had a thick, sweet, stubborn scent that sat deep inside the nose. The petals were velvet soft and stung like nettles.
He carefully uprooted some, using his hands as a spade, and put it in a pouch to carry back. In his private groves were dozens of similar flowers, breeds unique to Kurama and Kurama alone, all with fantastical properties if only you could figure out how to use them.
…And, though he was sure Kurama did the same in all his sentiment and pragmatism, Yomi felt a duty to it. Or at least that’s what his gardeners would tell you, after watching him walk through the strange and beautiful menagerie, fingers lingering on different blooms.
Much like we the devoted must rebuild these stories off the confessions of ghosts and the gossip of clouds, those curious onlookers could only begin to guess on what their king felt. After all, who could truly know his private thoughts on the kitsune who’d haunted him for most of his life, or those of the kitsune himself, when they were as complicated and nuanced as smoke from the pipe?
Speaking of, I see that you’re done. I can offer you seconds, but if you’d rather other small pleasures…?
Ha, ha. I thought so. I’m glad to feed the weary and wanting here—they will taste spices that compare to nothing that has ever passed their lips before, and likely never will again. But the smoke? Ah, that is truly a delicacy.
There are many advantages to worshiping an agent of the harvest.
…Hm? Oh, oh goodness no—it won’t be anything of the sort. This is a gentle dogweed meant for the quiet hours before you reunite with your pillow. If you wanted something more stimulating though, I could…?
No, alright. It is probably better, anyway. I should like to tell you a little more while you’re still awake to hear it, though this is the kind of tale that slithers into shadows and seems to give them mouths. You wouldn’t want to be imagining them already.
Here, let me fill it… Oh, I always supp with the kit nearby. There is no better way to welcome the night.
And now to light it… There you are. Savor it slow.
In the days following their meeting, Yomi trailed after the injured fox, waiting to see what his first move would be. Kurama lurked in one of his nearby dens, nursing his broken flesh back to health. Yomi kept at the edge of the range of his perception, as the recovery would distract him plenty—though there were many times he stopped himself from charging into that hidden nest.
I can only imagine how fearful he would have been of the thoughts going through the fox’s head. Who could tell what hells Kurama brewed while he lay there, alone, and cold, and wanting nothing more to die while digging his nails into the backs of anything he could drag down with him? Perhaps if Yomi could talk to him, to reason with the old trickster, they could come to an understanding…
(He could not. Had he so much as set one foot down on the path that led to that foxhole, it would have been the least of the things he lost. It was not the time for pretty words.)
And so Yomi waited, and listened, and braced himself for whatever anguish Kurama decided to unleash…but as the days dragged on, and then the weeks, he became anxious. Surely Kurama had healed by now, and yet, he had not moved.
There was great risk in leaving his post, but as the days withered away, it seemed more and more the king had no choice. He needed to prepare his family for the onslaught. They could fend for themselves, for a time—even those unlike Shura with his preternatural power had been well-trained in survival. But when it came to Kurama, as with so many things, Yomi was an incredible exception.
Kurama’s fights were not those you survived twice.
With a heavy foot he turned towards Shura’s burgeoning territory, even though he shivered at the whisper of a cold stare on his back. There was nothing to be done. Kurama was still in his den, moving to and fro within its walls. Yomi could sense no sign of him anywhere else for leagues.
He ignored it as well as he could and made his way to his children.
Shura was glad to see him, as were some of his mates, and their many little kids. There was always great joy in listening to them scream and tumble and roughhouse, as all children ought to do. They clambered over their grandfather once they realized he was there, and for the short moments he swung them in his arms, Yomi looked young again.
But he was there with purpose. Quickly he informed Shura of what had happened, and what Kurama planned to do.
…Yomi would have known how painful it was to hear. Though neither ever said it, it had always been obvious to him that his firstborn idolized his old partner in much the same way he once had. Yomi tried to warn him of the dangers of that, in small and big ways, throughout the passing phases of his life.
It was guaranteed Kurama would betray that love, and there was little more he could do to steel his son’s heart against the blow.
Everyone pattered to gather the youngest children up, to tally and check for anything amiss. Some trailed after Yomi as he lead patrols around the rolling fields, teaching them what to look out for and how to deal with it. Fear shone in their eyes when he told them any kind of greenery could become lethal in Kurama’s hands—even the rare types that did nothing but bring joy to those that looked upon them.
They would become paranoid for a while, he warned them. But they would make it through.
And once again—as Yomi passed through the underbrush of a forest older than he and Kurama combined, combing for any hint of the fox’s charms, it was as though the woods were watching back. I’m sure it would have been a comfort to think he too was simply paranoid, but he had known Kurama for too long to discredit that feeling.
That first night in Shura’s land Yomi slept in the open fields, and he woke with a start. The fire had crackled too loud, perhaps, or an owl must have screeched too closely. But when he turned to the forest in the distance, there was no question that eyes were watching back. Unmistakably his, unmistakably there.
Yomi then went very still. Waiting in the underbrush hunched the hulking form of the fox—but you could detect no other sign of his energy.
Even ghosts have a scent that carries on the wind, and gods charge the air around them with an electric sway. But here, there was simply nothing—a Kurama-shaped mass waiting in the dark, and that was all. It was as if his corpse had been reanimated as a shadow. If this was an illusion, for Kurama to have made one so convincing, he would have needed to visit himself, but that couldn’t be so either—Yomi would have recognized the burn of his youki anywhere. It was not there.
They considered each other for what felt like an hour, both daring the other to make the first step. Kurama, without a doubt, could not stand up against Yomi and all his family besides. Yomi, despite his speed, could not possibly protect every single kid within Kurama’s range. And while he did not want to believe Kurama would murder one of his own, when they were still two vagrant thieves, he watched him cut through children as he would anything blocking his path…much the same as Yomi himself.
Neither had qualms about it back then, and Kurama likely would not now.
After an untold length of time, the fox about-faced with no preamble, and melted back into the shroud of the woods.
All the many-legged things that scuttle in the night could feel the panic rolling off Yomi’s stiff back. He did not sleep afterwards, listening instead for fur gliding through the bush and a razor-tipped claw on dirt.
When the rest of the camp awoke, Yomi divulged what he could of Kurama’s tricks. He explained when to expect them and how to overcome them, though it surely left him bitter and sick. After all, Kurama was one of Yomi’s most powerful weapons as much as he was one of his strongest threats. Every secret he shared was one less he could rely on in the future—one less arrow docked on his bow.
But he could not guarantee when Kurama would first strike, and all they could do was lay as wide a net as possible in hopes to tangle his feet.
The next night again Yomi was startled by the force of two bright eyes bearing down on him from the woods. He faced them once more, and—trusting his kin to have taken his advice—walked boldly forward.
Still there was none of the familiar heat and caress of Kurama’s youki.
“This is a strange game,” he said, once he had stepped as close to the forest as he dared. “You wanted to die. Why hesitate now? I will fight you, and I’ll succeed. You’ll get your wish.”
The fox was silent, but his tail swished through the leaves on the ground behind him.
Yomi inched forward. “Was your grief a lie? Perhaps you did not care for your son as much as you said you did.”
The tail whipped once, but Yomi could still feel nothing. He crept closer still. “You said he used the sword you gave him to kill himself. That’s always been a convenient alibi, for us thieves.”
And there was an excruciating rush then—a deep gash to his neck, a corrosive sizzle where his eyes had once been. His breath stolen from him so he could not scream.
But in a moment it was gone, as was the fox who must have done it to him, though he felt nothing but pain the entire time. Everywhere Kurama should have been was simply blank and empty, like the shadow of the moon over the sun.
As he put his hand to the ground to push himself up, new buds waited beneath his palms—those small, stinging flowers that he’d discovered not long ago. They hummed with Kurama’s spirit, as if he had stood there himself.
Yomi rose, fingers clasped to his injury as he scanned the area. Nothing was awry, no homes disturbed. Taunting the fox had indeed teased information from him, but Yomi would not have liked what he had learned.
…Friend, not to distract, but…your pipe… No, it’s alright. Were you drawn in? I understand. I’ve lost many a short smoke to many a long thought. If you’ll excuse me a moment, there’s more just on that bush outside the firelight…
…
…
…Here—oh, ha, ha… Apologies, I’ve startled you once more. I must remember to announce myself better. When you are alone for so long, you forget to be loud.
Hm? How…? Ah. It is quite dark, isn’t it? That’s something else you forget, as a follower of Gandara. It’s a sacrifice we all make—one type of vision, for another. I was lucky to retain some of the kind I was born with, though it is fading as surely as the moon rises, and I suspect it will leave me one day soon.
…You did not notice? Oh, well. I fear this temple is not as well-lit as some others, it’s easy to miss things in the shadows.
Come, come closer to the pit. Let me light that for you.
…Oh? Thank you. They have misted over with worship now, but when I was young, they were a stunning viridian. I was so proud of them…but the fox prefers to take what we love best, because it must be something worth having. And the sight I gained in exchange for that which I had always known…
Ah, listen to me, prattling on. Forgive the chatter of a doddering monk. Where were we… Oh, yes.
The next morning he shared this new knowledge—that Kurama could move undetected lest he want you to know he was there, and by then, it would be too late. The elders could last through his attacks much as Yomi could, but the young ones would not.
That day and the next was spent fortifying as much as they could, hounded by the deep unease of quiet and peace. It was unclear why Kurama was taking so long to act. His visits were not a warning—he and the wandering king had long, long since abandoned them.
Yomi would not have to wonder long.
Early in the evening, as the sun was falling, there came a scream from one of the fields. When everyone sprinted to help, they found a child limping back from the edge of the forest, claw marks on her back. She had been beside her mother a moment before, and then had all but vanished.
Soon after the sun fell, a set of cries burst from a store house. It was a toddler left half-buried in the hay, struggling to escape, yelling for help from his father. Welts in the shape of thorns circled his legs. He had been sleeping on the hearth in his home minutes ago.
As the moon bore down, there was a screech from Shura’s home, and many ran to help at once. His youngest had been dragged from her crib, the crib beside Shura himself, and left wailing on the dirt outside his home. There were teeth marks in her arm.
Yomi could do nothing but stand and witness as every precaution failed over and over again. He wracked his mind to find clues as to where Kurama was, where he would be next. It had been centuries since he’d been this helpless—since the last time he fumbled through the dark, horrified at the idea of what might strike him next.
He must have realized then, what was the point of Kurama’s patience.
He had asked Yomi to kill him for everything that happened between them. He would ensure Yomi granted his wish, and until then, he’d remind his partner of all he had inflicted on him.
Kurama would make him pay for the audacity of his insolence with terror first, and blood soon after.
Hm… It seems to be getting quite late, and you’ve wandered far. These woodlands are unforgiving to those most familiar with them—I cannot dream how they’ve treated feet they do not know yet. Would you like to rest? I have to ask, because I’m afraid I will not be able to stop myself afterwards. A story takes over the listened just as much as the listener, you know how it is.
…You are sure? I won’t be offended, we can resume… Ah. Alright. I cannot argue with that.
But move a little closer. I’m afraid the fire cannot be fed past this point. It may as well be a lighthouse in a raging sea, and there are monsters in these waters. The temple is blessed and beloved, of course, but…
Well. You should never be too comfortable with a patron of the crossroads.
As I was saying…
Yomi spent that night searching through every cluster of weeds he could, every shadow and ditch, every misshapen bush. Fury dripped off him like thaw in late winter, and only Shura was not afraid to approach him.
“She is alright,” he told him, letting him investigate a far-off grove. He knew better than to interrupt his father.
“But she must heal,” Yomi said. “Because that fiend thought her a convenient message board, and nothing else.”
Shura searched the tree line alongside him. “And what was the message?”
“Be afraid.” Yomi breathed deep in the clean, unhelpful air, and turned back towards the heat of crowds and hushed, nervous voices.
“Are you?”
Yomi did not slow. Shura would keep pace with him. “I have never lied to you, and I won’t begin now. Yes, I am. I trust I can figure the trick to this current ploy, because there is always a trick with Kurama—but I don’t know that I can do it without sacrifices to his bloodthirst. I meant it every time I told you not to underestimate him.”
Shura was quiet, though a father would have been able to feel the hurt pulse through him as easily as he could hear his steps. “What can we do, then?”
“Hold your loved ones as you sleep tonight, and weave your bodies together. Hang bells on every window and door, and do not leave anything unlocked. You can use your shield to further protect your own. I will attempt it to protect as much of these lands as I can. It may not be all of them, and it certainly won’t be for long, but it will be enough for one night’s sleep.”
Shura nodded and strode towards the families that had gathered near his home, hoping for news. With grave detail he relayed Yomi’s advice to them.
In the meantime, Yomi had a great task in front of him.
Even then the scope of Lord Yomi’s strength was mythic—if he was rumored to be in an area, many would flee without question. But Shura was his father’s son with all his instinctual greed, and his territory stretched wide. To shield them all with a barrier made purely of Yomi’s energy, let alone for any length of time, would drain him quickly.
But that was not his intent.
Much more than his greed or cruelty, Kurama was a slave to his curiosity. He had never met a line he would not attempt to cross. Yomi knew the temptation to test this boundary, in this new form, would be too much to bear…
And he was proved right near immediately.
As everyone rested in their beds—for no one slept, nervous whispers blanketed the land in an anxious fog—Yomi sat guard, waiting for the moment when part of the field would crackle with destruction. And as with every time before, there was nothing, and then a great blaze of something. In moments Yomi was at the shattered barrier, reaching out to grab the reeling creature that seemed more mockery than living beast—
But it faded into a flicker of fox fire, leaving nothing but a burn at the edge of Yomi’s fingertips.
Moments later, perhaps out of spite, or out of desperation, there came a screech from a house nearby. Yomi witnessed it, this time—the writhing toddler, shaking with fear and shock, dragged by the teeth of a shadow.
Yomi released his shield once more and it dissolved into the ether.
He gathered up the crying boy and brought him to the arms of his mother, and then marched to Shura’s door, eager to tell him what he had learned.
Whatever Kurama was using was pure energy, and it inflamed the flesh like a cat scratch or bug bite—but Kurama was much weaker than Yomi, and he could not maintain something like that for long. His attacks would likely be rapid-fire, and careful, and if they could be thwarted, he would not be able to repeat them. To stop them, Yomi assumed he’d have to find where Kurama was hiding and kill him—but in the meantime, they would need to secure a way for the descendants of Gandara to protect themselves.
They talked for long into the night. All the woods eavesdropped on many of the king and his prince’s deepest secrets, defenses and weapons hoarded for emergencies…but in the end, only one was necessary.
The shield that had proved so useful to Lord Yomi then, and so inspirational to his followers now, was not an inherent talent. He learned it after many hundreds of years of attempts. When Shura decided he wanted that power for his own, he would need to develop it much the same.
But where his father was tutored by the threat of death and dismemberment, young Shura had the advantage of security. He could refine his talents peacefully, if he only had an example to follow. And so, after much searching, he and Yomi found a crystal that could hold energy the same way a brand could hold fire, and Yomi siphoned into it as much of his youki as it could hold.
…How did I learn…? Traveler, I’ve already explained—confessions are soaked into every corner of the realm. I have roamed far with an open ear and eager mind, as all of our order must do. You can piece together much from scraps of scrolls and bits of dirt and slices of kind conversation. Once you realize the world is just another story, it’s only a matter of close reading to fill in missing context.
But it is good to doubt. You should, I think. There’s some truth and some lie in every retelling—we are binding together dreams, after all. A bit of conceit is the plaster that keeps it together.
You will have to decide on your own what to take to heart, and what to take for fairy tale.
I suspect you have the judgement to know the difference.
…There had been wars in the time that Shura needed to meditate as he once had, to study and replicate and finally recreate the ability that gave his father such renown. But the stone still hummed with the ghost of Yomi’s power, and when it was fresh, warded off threats much the same.
Shura had brought it with him to his new home, precious as it was, and took it out of hiding once more. Then he and his father unsheathed the knives from their belts and began to carve.
When the sun shone its greetings on the world the next day, they were still cutting on. Between them was a mountain of small beads, rough but usable. The oldest hunter in the tribe was summoned with his kit for repairing nets, and they asked him to string up the beads with rope that would not break.
By late afternoon they had hundreds of necklaces with one single clear stone on them. Both Yomi and Shura were tired, but they were not done.
They took up each bead in the palms of their hands and held it tight, concentrating as much of their energy into them as it could stand, until they glowed like a tiny moon over the wetlands. They gave these to the youngest first, and then the slightly older, and older, until there were none left to give them to. The rest were tucked away again, kept safe for their future assignments.
Both father and son, at that point, were truly exhausted, and would need a day to recover. Yomi must have feared that he could not fight off the dreaded fox, should his idea fail him. But that night would be devoted to fitful rest so it was safe for Yomi to leave once more.
They did not have to worry. Throughout Shura’s land there were shared stories, on that night and many after, of a large black shadow that skulked along the edge of the woods, hunched as if preparing to strike. It had glowing eyes, and silent paws, and its tails would whip back and forth as it paced wildly, until it inevitably slunk back into the forest. Some said even that, in the terrifying moments where it got too close, wherever the green glow of the bead around their neck touched, the shadow would disappear as if it was not there at all.
Yomi sorely needed the respite, but it could not last.
He ate a hardy meal that morning and drank deep of the strongest beer they had, telling Shura that everyone was to begin building their strength. None of them would be able to duplicate Yomi’s powers as Shura had—no one else shared the same body, the same makeup—but they were blood of his blood, and some of his ability would have been passed down. They would learn too to trap, to hunt, to fight, to strategize. From a young age it would be required, especially those who may bear children of their own.
Then Yomi kissed Shura’s youngest on the heads—they were much the same as Shura had been when he was that age, and one cannot fault a grandfather for being sentimental—and he left for the plains. He must have carried with him fear and worry as much as he did rations and daggers, but a little hope lined his pouched now as well, and he trekked on with a lighter foot than he had when he arrived.
It was then he began the task of finding a demon that had slipped from his life so often before.
It was not easy-going. Indeed, those first few seasons of searching were steeped in fear. Many were nearly lost, and bore scars in the shape of fang and claw and strange flora no one could place.
Those odd flowers, soft and red as blood fresh from the cut, grew in swaths wherever the children of Gandara lingered long enough to leave a scent—and though the bedding tempted the most comfortable rest of a lifetime, whenever anyone touched it, their skin burned with poisonous nettles for days after.
…A descendant of it grows just outside the edges of this temple—it keeps low to the ground, and you may not have seen it. But certainly you could smell it, with its thick perfume. Did you know it’s a powerful tonic when treated with care? Good for sleep, and rheumatism, and tremors of the heart. And it leaves the imprint of anyone who steps on it.
Useful, isn’t it…?
…Kurama could not have hidden from Yomi any more than Yomi could hide from the vengeful demon. But for all the trouble Yomi had finding him at first, it seemed he must have done something to himself. Kurama’s energy thrummed hot and welcoming, much like that of any of Inari’s own, and heady as the roses he was famous for—but at that time it flickered in blustering gusts that came and went too quickly to pin him down.
Still, it was always only a matter of time.
Yomi’s children were as clever and determined as the old goat himself, and they learned as quickly as the fox that stalked them. Daily they grew more powerful—through training their bodies, through building traps and forts, by nurturing the seed of power granted to so many of them before they could walk. Infants were given their own crystal at their first wail, and over time, a small red ward in the shape of a kitsune.
…Ask twenty passersby where that tradition began, and you will get twenty answers. To appeal to the fox’s vanity, perhaps, or to confuse him with apparent loyalty. A sign of respect to show fealty, in hopes he could be touched so. Superstitions are nebulous things as a rule.
But then I see the flash of gems on your belt, and a faint bell beside it. Perhaps it does not matter where they came from, so long as they bring comfort. Surely those charms have brought you the protection and luck they promise, if you have reached here unscathed.
…As Yomi hunted the source of all this upset, his family went toe-to-toe with the fiend on their heels. Their settlements slowly became impenetrable. Their hunters stronger, their houses more solid. Their food full of energizing medicines to help with long watches, foraged from the plants of the kitsune himself.
And there was another note, curious for its truth, and repeated too often to be anything but. “Do not hunt the children of Gandara,” it was said, “Or a great spirit with gnashing jaws and brilliant gold eyes will find you first.”
The Quick, some called it, or the Goat’s Shadow. The Red Paw, for the flowers that seemed to grow wherever it was spotted.
Undoubtedly, it was not something that could be trusted. It was just as likely to lash out at the victim after it had saved it…at least for a long, long time. All the same, some of the horned found themselves searching for blood-colored buds along the paths they traveled, when they were feeling most at unease.
There were few rumors that evaded Lord Yomi’s attentive ear even then, and this was not one he could overlook. When he did finally find his old companion, it was one of many explanations he felt were overdue.
…Visitor, if you would like to come closer, you may. I fear if you lean any further forward, you’ll become well acquainted with the taste of the dirt.
Come, sit here, and I will join you next to the hearth. And let me have your pipe, if you are done with it. Do not trip on the jug at your feet. I don’t mind a bit of dust on my robes, and I trust you won’t either.
There you go. Now you don’t have to play at being a little crow, perched so perilously on his branch…and I can give my voice some rest, now that you are closer. It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken for so long, let alone loud enough for mortal ears to hear me.
…It was in a warm and empty outcropping Yomi finally tracked him down. A meadow in the mellow spring sun, the grass fresh from the cocoon of winter. He could smell his old enemy on the breeze, surrounded by flowers that were no doubt of his making. The closer Yomi crept, the harsher came the sting of red buds beneath his feet—though there were other plants, more civilian and less unique, that sprung up around it, a confusing medley of perfume and pollen and sensation. Iron rode the wind alongside Kurama’s scent as well.
If Kurama knew he was there, he showed no sign of it. His heartbeat, steady and unchanging as it was, showed no spark of alarm…though ask any of the scattered roses that had once pillowed the fox’s breast as he slept, and they would tell you that rhythm was strange now—slow as a hibernating beast and thudding like a drum at a dirge.
Yomi must have noticed that too, and more questions surely took root by his deep-seated rage.
It was not until the moment Kurama was beneath his hands—barking, startled, already warm with blood—that Yomi could be certain that no, he had not noticed him. He’d been focusing on something Yomi couldn’t detect.
“Why are you bleeding,” Yomi asked, Kurama choking under his fist. “What were you doing?”
He was ignored. Kurama struggled and fought, though it was not pointed—he flailed as if he were resisting rapids in a great river. Still his mind was elsewhere.
Yomi would have his complete attention, if Kurama intended on taking from him everything else. “Answer me,” he demanded, tightening his grip.
Silence was his reward. Kurama’s fingers shook, weak, and he reached out—clenching his hand decisively, before collapsing back. Fresh blood gushed from his heart, its smell acrid and intoxicating. A brand-hot wave of ki enveloped them for one moment, and under them both, flowers spread as if leaking from Kurama’s trembling body.
Yomi let up his hand enough so that the traitor could speak. “What were you doing? I will not ask again.”
“Hunting your children,” he whispered.
Yomi hesitated, stopping to check on his own. There had been no flair of energy lost back to the great wilds, nor the explosive signature of his kind fighting back.
“Then you’re failing.” He put his hand on Kurama’s chest, not to tamp the flow of blood, but to check the spring it was coming from. “Does it do this every time you unleash your hound on us?”
“Yes.”
The beat there was slow, slower now even than it had been, and weaker. “There’s only half a heart here.”
“Many have told me that’s all I have.”
A heart was a great sacrifice from any creature, and robbed it of much that would protect it. For one like Kurama, killed and recreated over and over again, it was far more than that.
Yomi hung there, back bent, frozen as though captured in stone. “Kurama… What have you done?”
He put his hand over Yomi’s, like he was feeling it along with him. “It was already broken. I had no use for it. Bartering trash for treasure has always been one of my favorite tricks. “With a smile the wise goat could have only heard, he added, “You should know that.”
“And who did you give it to?”
“The one it first belonged to. It was a boon granted from my gracious goddess—a small part of my flesh returned early, in exchange for an equal measure of her spirit.”
Yomi’s grip tightened once again. “You must have prayed for death. Was that all she thought you deserved?”
His old friend spoke between gasps. “I promised my death to you. My life, is my own. Everything else belongs to her.”
Yomi took back his hand. “None of my children ever died to your claw.”
“Then I was not fast enough.” Bruises tumbled through his voice.
“Their wounds healed fast, with medicine made from the roots of your plants. They’ve become quick and strong running from your ghost.”
“Then they are better game.”
The rumors of vengeful guardian beasts swirled around them, voiceless and hot as dessert wind. “You’ve been protecting them. Why?”
Bitterness dripped from Kurama’s mouth. “You have claim to my dying breath. Theirs belongs to me. I will not have it stolen by anyone else.”
And Yomi, despite all that had happened between them and all the terrible futures they promised each other, smiled soft and stood up.
It was only then the fox’s strange heart began to beat faster. “You will not kill me? You will not kill me still?”
“You broke your vow. You promised the decision to let you live would haunt me, and for a time it did…but I feel now it’s unfair to say that.” He laughed, though hurt rang through it. “As it always is with you, wait long enough and one will come to treasure even the scars you leave them.”
Kurama reached out to him. “Yomi, please. Please. Do not make me beg you again.”
“I cannot,” he said, simply. “There are children who need you still.”
And for the second time, Lord Yomi turned his back on his friend’s bloody plea, and walked away. If he heard a gentle sob as he left, or smelled the tepid sting of tears, he did not acknowledge it.
And, if it be all the same to you, love, I must insist I retire here as well. The beds will not unmake themselves…
Hm? No, no I—
Well, thank you… You needn’t do that. No, I’m alright. I’m simply…not used to entertaining so much, I suppose. Fraternization is as much a muscle as anything, and mine is well out of practice.
Please, if you’ll keep your hand on my arm, I can show you the visitor’s quarters. To say they’re quaint is very kind, though the stone is enchanted to keep you warm, and you will find no bedding softer than the dogrose and lavender and cattail down that fill these mats. I can offer tea for sleep, should you need it…?
No, alright. Well. It’s through here, and a couple steps down this hall…
Here you are. You can navigate this far in the dark, I trust. I will make my way back to my own haunts. This is a very humble temple, and I am not far, should you need me in the night.
The sun will likely reach the middle of his race before I’ve begun mine, tomorrow. Should you find yourself touring the grounds with nothing but an empty stomach, there’s a locked chest beside the pit. Inside are flat cakes and dates, and fresh beer. One of the fox’s own should have no trouble reaching them.
If you would like to be on your way before then, please bid our lord proper farewell on your leave. He doesn’t need it, but he will remember if you don’t.
…Though should you find yourself with excess patience, I will gladly prepare a hot meal for both of us after I’ve completed my duties. If you stay that long.
Rest well, love. Rest deep. May your dreams bless you with all that you need.
Good night.