They buried Ubume's latest child once the rain had passed. Ootengu had been forced to return to the roost to fetch a shovel, cursing how remote the current burial grounds were, even though that kept the graves safe. His muscles had ached and screamed, feathers becoming even more disheveled from flying in the rain - but visions of Ubume digging with her own wings in the mud sped him along, flinging him through the air as recklessly as he could manage.
She'd done it before, he knew. Rooted in the muck to hollow out a grave until her feathers turned clumped and filthy, ruined beyond repair, leaving her earthbound until fresh pinions grew in. Despite his best attempts to convince her to come to his mountain during such times, he knew he was only occasionally successful - and lucky even for that much. Ubume wandered far. There were other mountains, other fields, other roadsides where she had mourned alone.
Only she knew the final tally.
But on his mountain, at least, he could maintain order, and keep her from such base indignities.
The refuge his tengu lived in was a gift from the ShugendÅ monks who lived further up the peak, retreating further and further away from humanity as they pursued spiritual perfection. It was - keeping in line with monastic sensibilities - a building that had been passed down to the tengu rather than being built new for them, which meant that prayer rooms had been adapted into armories and libraries into bunks. The roost had sheltered many different lives over the years, and would continue as long as they could manage the repairs, repurposing what they could before inevitably moving to another home someday.
Ootengu didn't stay in residence all the time; the mountains required a great amount of travel to maintain his ownership, patrolling territory lines and warning away other spirits who thought he would never notice if they took over a cave here, or a valley there. He'd been able to gather enough luxuries for his private rooms to make them more comfortable, however, laying in tatami mats and screens against the mountain air. Ubume would have a decent place to sleep for the night, far more tolerable than stones and dirt - assuming he could convince her of the need to rest before throwing herself back into yet another search and rescue.
Practicalities first, before the luxury of hope. Once the burial had concluded, he escorted Ubume away from the graveyard and up to the main river where she could clean herself of the impurity of hugging a corpse for hours; his own purification was performed in a different fork of the waters, but he at least had slightly less contact with the dead. The waters descended at steep angles down the mountain, creating runoffs that weren't quite waterfalls, but were still sufficient for a drenching. For his own part, he washed himself briskly and set aside his clothes for a good scrubbing, changing into a plain yukata that would be warm enough after the chill of the waters.
He finished before she did; no surprise, with her twin lengths of hair and regret. As he shook his wings out, dripping behind a fence of bushes to afford her privacy, he found himself instinctively listening to the splashing of the water to reassure himself that she had not gone deathly quiet in the river's flow. Each time he found himself holding his breath, he scowled at his own unease. If Ubume hadn't had the ability to recover from grief quickly enough to be functional, then she would have dissolved into an entirely different kind of spirit altogether long before now.
That risk was never far, however.
Younger tengu had clustered in the central hall to wait for their return, drying off from the storm and chattering as they wiped up mud that had been tracked in. They bustled obediently about the roost to close the shutters and get hot tea going, squeaking in excitement as he and Ubume both arrived. Some of them knew Ubume already from her visits to the mountains; for others, it was their first time seeing the crane-spirit, and they whispered and openly gawked. Her last human child to them had already moved on several years ago, and in the seasons since, the newer tengu had only heard of her through reputation and story. Faced with her living presence now, they abandoned all manners in favor of curiosity, blurting questions recklessly as they each competed for her attention.
Ubume smiled at them all indulgently, stroking their heads as they ran up to admire her wings, comparing the lengths to their own glossy feathers. Chaos flooded the hall; one tengu smacked another in the face as they tried to show off their wingspan, and then three of them tried to heft her umbrella, promptly tipping over in a flurry of shrieks and becoming collectively pinned by its weight.
The cacophony was a panacea all its own, which is why Ootengu tolerated it. Ubume was too busy keeping the younger tengu from injury to even think about mourning, and the bemused tilt of her lips was far better to see than a frown. He finally disentangled her from them with an effort, having to hook her arm and use his own body to ward away the flock. His older tengu - having more common sense than the rest - had already laid out one of his rooms properly to allow the two of them to dry. A number of extra cushions had been brought in and spread over the tatami to provide comfortable seating, with bedding set aside for Ubume when she would finally feel the need to rest.
He had instructed them to bring in tea only, and not food; while his own stomach could use the latter, he knew Ubume never had an appetite for the rest of the day after a funeral. The best he could do would be to persuade her to eat in the morning, breaking her fast with rice and a few dishes of fish and simmered vegetables, with vinegar and salt for seasoning.
Most importantly, they had also brought in the wooden box of supplies that Ootengu used for his own personal grooming. He headed over to it while Ubume checked the candles, lighting the ones in the corners of the room to chase away the shadows. Bereft of the warmth of the entry hall, she seemed dazed once more, half-frozen, making tentative attempts at conversation as she slowly navigated her way back towards the business of life instead of death. "And how are your monks doing?"
Ootengu hefted the box in his hands, carrying it back with him as he took a seat across from her on a cushion. The teapot was steaming and fragrant; he lifted the lid long enough to check the color. "Much the same. Bandits trouble them rarely thanks to our protection, but their concerns over material attachments are a different story. I'd bring you up to visit them, but your arrival would do little for their ascetic studies."
"And why is that?"
"Because you're beautiful," he answered bluntly, thinking nothing of it.
But then she half-smiled, glancing down in embarrassment, and he realized the thoughtlessness in his compliment. She just lost a child, he berated himself. Ubume was always at her most vulnerable at these times. She might recover quickly on the surface, but he knew how much each death left her heart open and raw, exposed for any careless hand to reach in and crush it. She needed her defenses rebuilt, to be back on her guard - not left vulnerable. Too much comfort now would do nothing to brace her against the cruelties of the outside world.
"Will you demonstrate a round of umbrella work for the students tomorrow?" he asked, changing tactics to something tangible she could focus on, like combat. "They could use some variety with their teachers."
"You and I fight so much alike, I doubt they could learn anything from me," she laughed, shaking her head ruefully. But he could see the suggestion take root in her mind as she glanced away, drawn to it as powerfully as to a baby's cry. Ubume only relinquished her foundlings to their care once they passed out of the most vulnerable stages of childhood and needed a stable environment to run around in, rather than tagging along behind her as she wandered endlessly on her quest. She rarely had the chance to see her children in those middle years, when they were so full of strength and hope; they exited her hands into either adolescence or an early death, and were out of her domain forever.
But now, so soon after the flood of tengu in the entry hall, the temptation would be potent. She could rest for a few weeks at the roost, spending her days with children who were alive and healthy, laughing as they lined up in the practice yard and caused mischief at any opportunity. The youths in training were old enough to have escaped the vulnerability of infanthood, and strong enough to survive on their own. They had overcome the trials of childhood illnesses; Ubume had no need to fear for them.
"Perhaps," she relented out loud at last, finally, and Ootengu hid his satisfied smile behind his teacup.
He let the suggestion seep into her thoughts for another few moments before offering the next topic. "Itsumade came by several months ago to leave word for you. She's switching to her winter nest early this year, and wanted you to know in case you came looking."
"Oh, my sweet girl," Ubume exclaimed, and he congratulated himself at having succeeded even further in distracting her. "Did she look well? Has she been eating?"
He let the moment tease her by not answering immediately, taking his time to refill both their teacups and taking a long sip from his. Only when she made an impatient noise in her throat did he relent. "Her feathers looked healthy. She didn't seem injured, but it's hard to tell with her sometimes - she still keeps to herself, and doesn't socialize with us if she can help it. Her winter nest should be safe for another year, however. I sent a few of the older tengu to make sure of it."
Ubume's sigh washed away another layer of tension, so deeply woven into her body that she seemed to shrink without it, her shoulders relaxing by a minuscule degree. She stretched out her legs, flexing them gingerly to test the muscles. "I'll have to set aside time to go visit her," she decided out loud. "Perhaps I can bring her some of the fruits she enjoys. She doesn't get nearly enough treats."
"And what about my tengu?" Ootengu parried, arching an eyebrow as he faked injury. "Don't they deserve something special too?"
Ubume's humor did not offer mercy. "They have the delight of you every season," she retorted smoothly. "What greater gift is there than that?"
He tried to smirk; it ended up as an honest smile, pleased with her recovery. All his efforts for small talk backfired, however, when she seized the direction of the conversation next. "One of the tengu asked if I've been the reason you've been absent of late," she observed mildly. "So tell me, how is your nobleman doing?"
Scowling at the gossip, Ootengu straightened his shoulders, his wings stirring a huff in the air. It would do no good to deny it. "He... remains uncouth in every way save his music. But when he plays, you can tell that he has potential underneath his poor manners. His heart has remained straightforward despite the corruption of the court. Few can achieve that much, human or spirit."
Ubume made a smug hum, her feathers curling around her cup. She shifted her legs again, flexing her ankles; the fabric of her borrowed yukata was too loose on her bones, threatening to fall open around her thighs. In the morning, he would have to dig her own clothes out of storage and make sure to give them a proper airing-out. "You've always been attracted to more than just his skills, Ootengu. It's only your excuses that change over the years."
"He's a fool," Ootengu retorted automatically - but it was his turn now to glance away, his gaze flitting everywhere to escape Ubume's wry amusement. Finally, he cleared his throat. "He is not the most annoying human out there. There is a dignity about him which is admirable, at times. He is fearless, and seeks to always test his strength in fighting those more powerful, while sparing those weaker. He is... regal - so long as he does not open his mouth to speak."
"That might be the closest thing to a love confession I've ever heard you make," Ubume laughed. She finished her tea, and lifted the teapot's lid to check for more. "Will you let him best you by admitting to it first?"
He reached out, leaning forward to run a hand through the strands of her hair, frowning even though he knew she would be undeterred. "Your feathers need grooming," he announced, both to divert her and because it was also true. "Let me look at them."
"They're almost dry already," she protested, but allowed him to wave her closer. She pulled her cushion dutifully in front of him, presenting him with her back as he settled in and arranged the wooden box closer to his side. With practiced ease, she tugged off the shoulders of her yukata, allowing him to help her disentangle the fabric from her arms; once he had finished baring her limbs, he gathered her damp hair in a loose bundle down her spine. The ends puddled on the mat and into his lap, leaving wet patches to slowly spread like diffusing clouds.
He ignored the moisture for now, unpacking his supplies - jars of oil, clean cloths, wooden tongs that served in place of a beak - as Ubume spread her right arm in a grey whisper of feathers, like silk turned the color of steel. With the wing fully extended, he could take a better look at the damage she had put it through. It wasn't the worst he had seen. It was also far from the best.
I will have to lure her home more often, he decided, even knowing the impossibility of such a thing for both of them.
She sighed as he began to meticulously work his fingers down from her shoulder, working oils back into the feathers and cleaning the debris out. At first, he thought it was simply from physical relaxation, but then she repeated the sound, with less satisfaction. "Humans do not want the children they throw away - but then they protest when those same babies are taken. They do not love them. They simply want to own them, even to the point of determining how they will die. Why must every rescue be a battle, Ootengu? Am I truly saving nothing in the end?"
"Humans already unbalance this world, Ubume. A few more dying would bring relief," he replied unthinkingly; it was true, but the stiffening of her back informed him that he'd pressed too far again. He leaned forward, setting aside the tongs briefly and rested his chin against her shoulder. "That's why you shouldn't feel bad about losing a few here and there. You are who you are, Ubume. Let the lesser creatures seek justification for their existences. Even if you are the only being in this world who believes you should exist, you still have no need to apologize for what you are. Do not stoop so low."
"Spoken like a proud tengu," she chided, and reached back over her shoulder to tap his nose meaningfully.
He caught her wing gently, cradling the feathers against his palm. "Spoken like someone who sees the greater picture, Ubume."
Her contour feathers were a mess. The down needed to be aired; he fluffed it out and then retrieved a soft cloth from his supplies, pairing a jar of oil with the bowl of water his tengu had brought in earlier. Carefully, he used his fingers to smooth and straighten the quills, reshaping the ones that had been damaged and evaluating which ones could not be recovered. It was slow, methodical work - but necessary. A few of the feathers were mangled to the point of breaking; he waited for her permission before taking a small blade and trimming away whatever couldn't be saved so that the shaft would lie flat again against its neighbors. Several had to be extracted, and he waited for her nod before he plucked them free with deft, short motions, his other palm resting on her spine as he felt each wince throughout her body.
He was most careful with her primaries, the vital feathers which were as flexible and strong as fingers, able to grip a weapon and stroke a child's head with equal precision. These always wore out the fastest for her; a few stayed ragged around the edges despite his best efforts to coax them into clean shapes, and he ran his fingertips carefully around them, checking to determine how far the damage had gone.
She was patient as he worked, allowing him to rotate and pull her arms so that he could reach the underside of her wings as well as the back. "How are the regional lords? Lord Arakawa, Lord Yamakaze? Have you had any news from their lands?"
"There's been no trouble with my mountains," he replied, which he knew was not truly an answer.
She caught the omission as well, making a flick of her elbow into his ribs, and he sighed, accepting the prod. "It feels as if humans have changed how they see the world, over the years," he explained reluctantly. "They've been acting as if this world belongs to them first and foremost, and that spirits should remain in the Netherworld. That a human life is worth intrinsically more than a spirit's. That taking a human life is a greater crime than killing a spirit - regardless of whether it is a human or a spirit who is committing the act. I will not teach my tengu that their lives are lesser, that it is negligible if one of them dies. They have as much right to live in this world as any human."
His voice had picked up fervor as he had spoken; he found himself pinching one of her feathers tighter than he intended, and forced himself to relax. Mercifully, Ubume did not dig further. She rolled her shoulder after he finally finished her left wing, stretching out her feathers with one appreciative flourish. He moved on to her hair automatically, wiping his hands clean of oils and fetching the sturdy wooden comb from out of the box. The strands would be wet for hours - he knew better than to expect to drag the comb through them and not encounter resistance - but if he could at least separate the damper chunks, they would dry that much faster.
"Your own wings need cleaning as well," she protested as his fingers carefully scooped up the mass of her dark strands, coaxing them away from where they had strayed across her shoulders. "You shouldn't neglect them."
"I haven't fought anything that could do so much as scratch me lately," he answered diffidently, untangling a snarl patiently by sorting out the hairs with his fingertips. "While you look as if you've fought a few dozen ogres in the last week. Did you try to block their fists without your umbrella?"
"Perhaps," she chuckled, and he knew the answer was yes.
He finished working through her hair with equal care, lingering as it dried. It spread like a smooth river over her back, and he took his time in tracing his fingertips through the locks, fluffing them out to give them maximum exposure to the air. "Good enough," he declared, though he didn't stop. "Stay away from picking fights with any land-spirits, at least for a few months."
"Let me do your wings before you keep ignoring them," she insisted in turn, starting to rise and pull her yukata on again - already moving back into action to try and take care of someone else, rather than enjoy the respite she had earned.
"I'm fine," he protested. He tried to set a hand on the small of her back, seeing all the effort he had spent in trying to get her relax already being undone, but she brushed him aside like a fly.
She checked one of his wings and then another, clicking her tongue in judgement. With a jerk of her head towards the bedding, she stepped neatly around the cushions and started to gather the grooming box. "Lie down and open up for me, Ootengu. Don't slack."
Anyone else would have earned a glare - and deserved it - for such a command. But Ubume only chuckled when he rolled his eyes at her, and that alone was worth the indignity of submitting; humor was a good indication of her recovery. He was too tired to protest overlong anyway, having pushed aside awareness of his own aches while he had focused on her instead. Despite himself, he groaned involuntarily as he sprawled out, Ubume helping to stretch open one of his wings first, and then the other. He could feel the ache in his muscles, all the way down into his shoulders and spine, lacing like molten cords up his neck. The cold water of the river had locked the pain in place. All he could think about was soaking in a hot spring until he dissolved completely, and never had to think about corporal bodies again.
Ubume had already pulled one of the cushions over, and brought one of his wings across her lap as she worked, her grey feathers careful and shining with their own fresh coat of oils. The sight of them made him regret not salving their muscles beforehand, but it was better to allow her feathers to settle for now. All the yukata in the roost had paneling in the fabric to allow them to be worn with wings, and Ubume was gentle with the lacings as she tugged the strings open to expose his back, giving her access to the joints and small feathers where they met the skin.
He shivered at the delicate tickle of feathers as she swept her touch along his spine, and she stroked it in apology. "So, give me more news about your nobleman," she remarked. "Has he come up with any new songs that have captured your attention?"
"He remains of no value." Ootengu's protest was muffled into the cushion. He shifted his head, gritting his teeth in a wince as the motion sent a blazing pang into his shoulders. "He is both mortal and foolish. His opinions hold no weight. He suggested a few changes to one of our - to one of my latest compositions, and refuses to let the matter go."
"And if I asked him what he thought of you, would his opinion still be so worthless?"
Thwarted by the easy workaround for his pride, Ootengu buried his face back into the pillow with a sniff. "Maybe," he relented, his surrender muffled by the stuffing.
She was silent for a moment, smoothing out his primaries. "When you both decide to raise a child together, promise me you will never neglect it."
"Since I'm aware that its cries would invite you to visit, Ubume," he pointed out blandly, "don't you think I should never be entrusted with a child solely in my hands?"
His reward was a laugh.
She was gentle with the oilcloth despite the vast number of feathers she had to sort through, working meticulously through each of them and catching the spots which had been damaged. His feathers resisted the storms well when under regular use and preening, but he always pushed them too hard, fighting against the weather as if expecting it to break before he would. It was overwhelmingly soothing to have someone else's touch sorting through his feathers; he never entrusted the task to the other tengu, and could never reach all the areas on his own. Rather than compromise, he simply endured. Far better to go without perfect care than to allow someone he did not fully trust within his guard.
Ubume's words made him think - not for the first time - of what it might be to have the shape of another's fingers on his wings, instead of just his own. If they would be as careful as her, or boldly assertive; if they would know what would help, and what would hurt. If they would listen. If they would seek him out willingly.
If they would want to touch him, as he wanted to be touched.
He was half-asleep by the time she finished, and the hour had gone late by the look of the moon. She'd had to order him twice to roll over on his back so that she could finish the undersides; he'd been groggy, turning his head instinctively towards the murmur of her voice rather than waking fully. After that, the clicking of tools going back into their wooden case were like distant raindrops, and he didn't stir until he felt her feathers gently stroking back his hair, smoothing it down like a child's after a full day of play.
They were both overdue for sleep, he knew - but that was no guarantee that Ubume would actually obey her body's needs. Her thoughts might already be flying back to the graveyards, and restlessness would drag the rest of her behind. It wouldn't be the first time that Ootengu had assumed she had settled her nerves, only to visit her room and find her absent, back in the mountains again, unable to sleep.
"Ubume," he ordered, with his last waning moments of consciousness, "come here. I'm still cold from the rain."
It was a terribly poor lie, in open defiance of the summer - but it worked. The look she gave him was dubious, but her protective instincts won out, and she pushed the supply box aside to fold herself up against his arm. They both tried to navigate the amount of limbs and hair and feathers between them to prevent anything from getting crushed; Ubume ended up half-curled on her side as Ootengu rolled onto his, pulling open his yukata to spread it over her, too limp to try and crawl under the blankets. He fluffed his wing across her body to keep her warm instead, a cover of black feathers that dimmed the candlelight as the wicks guttered in their final gasps.
They nestled there, comfortable enough to allow both their wings to rest, his arm loose around her waist. The locks of her damp hair brushed against his nose. She smelled of the river and of earth and rain: a familiar cycle of hope and mourning that would be repeated for as long as there were lives left to save.
When he woke up in the morning, she was still there, the wiry length of her body tucked up against him, his fingers still sheltered under her wing, her breath soft against his feathers.