.:Behind Cuts and Bruises:.
It all started with a scrape.
Waka sees the scar, pink but not bloody, on Amaterasu's arm, just above the wrist, slashed across the veins. When he asks, she says she got it from a spar with Tachigami, and, since this isn't impossible, he shakes off the worry growing within him.
The next time, it's when the sleeve of her kimono slips up as they sit under the boughs of Konohana, the sacred tree of Amaterasu's Domain.
His eyes widen when he takes in the web of scars, criss-crossing her wrist, livid. They aren't infected—how could they? Her body would eliminate any infection before it took root. She's too strong in this form for anything but sword or claw to kill her.
And, yet, he worries.
"Ma chèrie, what happened to your wrist?" he asks, leaning over to take a closer look, forgetting about the tune he was playing.
Amaterasu blinks before absorbing his words. Her arm jerks away from his touch. "What do you mean, Waka?"
"Your wrist...it's as if it has been cut, Amaterasu."
She bares her canine teeth at him, something she never did, and clutches at the white fabric of her sleeve. "Waka..."
He grabs her hand and pulls it to rest on his lap, and turns it so her wrist is exposed. The cuts have scabbed over, but he can still see hints of her luminous blood on her pale skin. He traces a particularly thick scar. "Please, what happened?"
Amaterasu struggles to loosen her arm, weakly, before sighing and slumping. "Do you truly want to know?"
Why wouldn't he? To think she would ask... "Yes, of course."
She bites her lip. "Well, you see..." She pulls on her arm again. "Look, Waka, 'twoud be simpler if I showed you."
He lets go. Amaterasu, he realizes, seems more fragile than usually, like the barest breath of Kazegami would tear her open.
She pulls out a dagger.
It's nothing much; silver blade, wire-wrapped hilt, simple carvings on the dark-stained wood. The blade is clean, without a trace of blood, pure, unblemished. It flashes as it swipes across an unscarred section of Amaterasu's arm.
Waka takes the dagger as soon as the first blood beads over the lip of the cut. Amaterasu is too preoccupied with the bleeding to notice.
How could she do this? Protector, Defender, Mother to us all, is hurting herself. Why?
She sucks in a breath as a tear of luminous blood drops onto a blade of grass, sliding down like rain. "See, look, Waka."
He can't look. Why should he? But he does. The blood seeps into the ground, sizzling like acid, and he's afraid it might kill the plant, but, instead, it does the exact opposite.
Vegetation explodes to life where the blood soaked into the earth, freshly-green. Amaterasu looks at him, a smile that looks twisted with pride. Pride. "See? And they do not die when I leave, like if I had used Bloom."
He stares at the plants. For once, he hates the new growth, despises the new life born of her pain. "But, Amaterasu..."
"I've been revitalizing the parts of the land I couldn't with Bloom," she says, pressing a blood-stained cloth she draws from her pocket to the cut. "It's been working."
Suddenly, he's angry. To save some plants, she hurt herself, drew her own blood, as if she were some demon needing exorcising. "Amaterasu, you must stop doing such a thing! Do any of the other Brush Gods know?"
She shakes her head, taking out her Brush after putting away the cloth. She slathers Holy Ink onto the older scars, sighing. "No, you're the only one I've told."
"Not even Yomigami knows?"
When she shakes her head, he feels miserable. She hadn't planned on telling anyone, not even him, had she? "You must stop, ma chèrie. This is hurting you."
When the Ink dries, it leaves no evidence of scarring. Rejuvenation. "Waka, you know how important it is to me, to protect nature."
"How can nature be protected if its Protector can't even defend herself from her own sword?"
"Waka, I can protect myself just fine!" Her eyes are black, dull, lifeless, as she tugs on her sleeve so it pulls over the new scar. The wind passes by, the smell of Ink wafting along.
"But, Amaterasu, you are hurting yourself...You have to realize I'm worried."
She stands up, fist clenched. "You don't have to worry about me." She turns, walking away, stiff. Her usually graceful movements are jarred with discomfort, anger, irritation. He can read her sentiments as easily as if they were his own: I'm right. I'm doing what is good. He shouldn't be worried. "'Tis something unneeded. But, fine, I'll do as you wish. I will see you later, Waka."
He doesn't see her later.
He notices that she's avoiding him. Days of awkward silence and jumping, jerking movements pass by the century he waited for her return, slow, achingly painful.
Waka finally confronts Amaterasu about a mortal week later, under the boughs of Konohana. He catches her unaware, slitting her arm with fresh, pain-laced cuts.
"Amaterasu?" His voice catches, the feelings he wishes never existed drenching him in their vile presences: disappointment, anger, sadness, fear, hate. "What are you doing?"
She whirls around, eyes wide, blood splattering, drops landing on his sleeve as he drops to the ground. "Waka! I-I didn't—I mean...What are you doing here?"
He sighs. Honestly, he was looking for her, hoping to talk her out of her habit. But the blood drags out the memories, of blood that illuminated and revitalized the hunger of demons. "You must stop doing this to yourself, Amaterasu."
Her eyes turn hard, defiant, rebellious. "Why? So I may let the land die?"
The blood that landed on his sleeve, his arm, his skin, takes away the constant ache, that burning headache he gets when he worries too much. Instantly, he feels horrible benefitting from her suffering. "The land with not perish if it were to not drink your blood, ma chèrie. It was fine before you started this bloodletting."
"'Twas not fine, Waka." The feral pride in her voice nearly makes him cower; she straightens her posture, head high, and fixes him with a regal gaze that befits the Goddess of the Sun.
She always resembles her Wolf, her animal form. Pointed, elongated ears, sharp canine teeth, exotic, angled features. But, with the queenly air about her, she looks all the more the Hunter, Protector, Mother, she is. Her pupils contract to fine points, like dark stars or ink flecks, than dilate.
"It was. You only fret that, since it worked, it will wear off if you stop."
Divine Retribution flares to life, flames roaring her anger and frustration. "You cannot tell me what to do, Waka. I may do as I please."
She sounds like a whiny child, patronising a well-meaning, worried parent. But, of course, he doesn't say that.
"And you cannot stop me," she snarls, and, as if to prove her point, slashes her wrist again. Shining crimson flows down her pale skin.
He realizes a second before she does that it is too deep, too severe to scab over without aid. Amaterasu's hands skitter for her Brush, but it slips from her grip, blood-covered and slick.
Waka pulls out his own Celestial Brush, attempting to hold her arm so he might be able to repair the damage with Rejuvenation, but her glare makes him stop, before her expression melts into pain.
"I can do it myself," she gasps, though her face clearly says the opposite. Ink from the fallen Brush turns a dry spot of ground into lush greenery.
Waka tightens his grasp on his Brush, tense and angry. The sight of blood usually doesn't affect him, since he's seen so much of it in his life, but the glimpse of her blood, pouring down and draining into the ground, makes him sick.
The blood of Amaterasu is frighteningly similar to the Celestials...and his own.
Granted, his does not glow, as if radiating the sun's heat, but it shimmers with what his mother called moon dust. Twinkles, like distant stars in a sea of darkness.
Maybe that's why Orochi attacked his home.
But he knows that he is wrong, knows it can't be true, because he does know the real answer: that beast had come searching for his Master, Yami, which it knew was aboard and imprisoned on the Ark of Yamato.
It seems twistingly ironic that the Leader of Demons had been aboard the very same Ark Waka had taken to the Celestial Plain, seeking the safety it promised.
And, perhaps, that's why Orochi assaulted the land of the gods, home of the Celestials; maybe, simply, it wanted to take back its Leader, but killing for the sheer twisted fun of it.
He's lost so much; he wasn't losing Amaterasu to her own sword.
Waka, despite her wishes, covers her wounds with Holy Ink, ignoring her weak protests. The blood does not disappear—it simply stops flowing. He can see the blood running in her veins, under her skin, where it belongs.
He expects her next words.
"How dare you!" she snaps, hiding her face.
How dare he? How dare he...what? Save her life? Rescue her from pain? Help her? "Amaterasu, you can't keep doing this."
"Can't keep doing what, might I ask? Helping the Plain?"
"You cannot help the Plain if you die. Your scars..."
"What about them? You have yours, don't you?"
The statement hits hard. Of course he has his own scars, ripped by the demons that killed his charges. Of course he still has them, refusing to erase them with Ink. Of course he's kept them, so he may look at them every night, reminding himself, he could have done something more, could have saved more lives, could have avoided it all.
She seems to realize her words, how they struck like the arrows of Gekigami, stinging and burning. "Oh, Waka, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean that—"
Waka shakes his head. He deserved the slap to the face. He doesn't say anything. Then, "You still remember, I take it? It seems only reasonable that you hadn't forgiven me..."
"No, no, of course I've forgiven you, Waka," she says, taking his hand. "It slipped out, that's all. I was angry. Don't worry. It's fine."
"How could it be fine if I killed so many?" He shakes his head. "Never mind. Just, please, are you going to stop this bloodletting, ma chèrie?"
She places her other hand over their interlaced fingers. "Yes, I will. Just, please, don't blame yourself. You did not see it coming."
He opens his mouth, but closes it again. There is no way he could make her see, that, yes, it was his fault, that he should've known.
Cool air presses on his arm, brushes on his long scar. A wet feeling spreads on his skin, over the raised, blemished mark, and the smell of Ink reaches his nose. He looks up.
With a flick of her wrist, Amaterasu swipes her Celestial Brush over the disfigurement that alone should make him unworthy to be in her presence, Holy Ink spilling across his skin.
The Ink dries instantly, erasing the traces of the scar, washing it out.
Amaterasu smiles at him. He smiles weakly back.
Tempest Bound: This is dedicated to my friend. You have lots of people who love you, who support you. We know you're stronger than this, and I just wish you believed us. You're better than this, and your life, your blood, is worth more than the price of a sharp edge or the stress that makes you do this. Please, I'm worried. We're all worried. And, even though you say we shouldn't, we do, despite your thoughts and protests. So, please, believe that you're worth not having pain. We love you, okay?