Far below the earth, there is a place where the broken, the cruel and the despised come to rest. Far below the earth, under cold stone and over a colder river, there is a bridge rightly forgotten, tended to by its prisoner.
Noon had come to the underground, and to the forgotten bridge that leads deeper into it. A playful term among Hell's inhabitants, one of a number of descriptions for the paths that wandering spirits took through the air above, casting their light across the cavern walls, like a procession of distant stars. Life here had little in common with the surface, but there were countless old habits to ape the memories of the sunlit world.
The fugitive would not and could not have known that, of course; if she did, she would not have cared. She walked unsteadily down dark, uneven rocks, on a slippery, treacherous path down from the surface, muttering oaths under her breath all the while; any louder, after all, and someone might find her.
She could barely see the path ahead of her, let alone find herself generous enough to call it a path in the first place. The souvenirs of recent battles cling to her, all she had time to bring from her life above. Cuts, bruises, soot and mud, light burns and creaking bones. The pain still lingers, a few marks for each of the many that hunted her, but she pushes it out of her mind for now. This was her chance of escaping, of finding a place – however miserable – that can keep those who hounded her at arm's length.
...That didn't mean she had to like it, and her complaints still pour out into the stale air, quiet and bitter, as sharp as her tongue, as if she hoped to cut a hole in the stone around her with spite alone. There was no harm in trying.
The stone fails to budge.
Slowly, she makes her way down the rough cave floor – one that had only bothered to roll out a carpet of slime and moss for her arrival – until it finally opens out into an equally dismal sight, at least to her eyes. The ceiling lifted, and ahead she saw strange, pale, unnatural lights, which still failed to reach the top of the cavern. Just how far below the earth had she come? Her eyes had yet to adjust – though a youkai might see at night well enough, most could at least count on the stars and moon to help them - and what little light the walls have to offer was a sickly glow coming from... some sort of plant?
No, plants did not move, none that she knew. She chooses, for now, not to speculate further. The scratches on her face are met with a cool, damp mist, one that might have even been pleasant if it felt any less clammy. There must be a river below, if only from the sound, but she could neither see it, nor did she want to. There was barely any light here, and yet she had already seen too much of this place. Small wonder that it was once a place of punishment.
Traversing the river is what remains of a bridge of wood and stone. It was the colour of time, the rot setting in here and there, held together by rusted metal and chipped stone, decorated with the odd gouge or flaking piece of paint. A far more generous soul than her might have claimed that it was red. Certainly, once upon a time, that had clearly been the intent.
She only notices the figure leaning against the railings once she is no more than a few steps away, and it takes all of her self-control not to show her alarm. It – she, the fugitive corrected herself after getting her bearings – stood on the bridge, bedraggled and unkempt, in stark contrast with the rest of the surroundings, which were spotless, in spite of any other flaws.
Gaunt, in a word. She had the air of a scarecrow about her, with matted straw-coloured hair, layers of dust and some grime clinging to a shabby old dress in an unfamiliar style. She wore an exhausted expression, with dark rings under her eyes: Bright, piercing green eyes that held an almost unnerving gleam in the half-light of the underground.
"I thought you might never make it this far, at the rate you were moving," the figure remarks drily. A strange voice. Not native, certainly, though she tried. Not recognisably from elsewhere, either. More than anything, it put the visitor – was that what she was, now, having come too deep underground to be followed? - in mine of someone who had spoken so little in so long that she had almost forgotten, and the very sounds were unfamiliar to her.
"You were watching?" She blurts out, incredulous. "If you saw how much trouble those steps were giving me, you could've-"
"Yes, I imagine so." Her tone was like glass, as smooth and even as it was lacking any warmth. "And who might you be, dragging yourself all the way into what's left of hell? Has it become a fashionable destination, perhaps?"
"What's it to you?" Already annoyed, but then, that was nothing unusual.
"A matter of some base courtesy, mostly. Miss Seija Kijin, I presume?"
The amanojaku sputters, caught off guard, brushing a lock of red and black hair out of her eyes, now positively venomous. "You already know who I am?"
"I'm afraid so. Who hasn't, at this point? News travels... eventually, even down here." She waits a moment, then close to a minute as Seija's furious tirade and river of obscenity washes over her. How pleasing it must be, she finds herself thinking, to have her name known far and wide. Better to be unforgotten, if one's reputation is to be vile already. "...Parsee Mizuhashi, since you were so kind as to ask," she adds eventually. "Your creativity is commendable, incidentally, if not something I find myself eager to hear again."
"Same story every place I go. I'd be damn proud of myself any other day, but right now... I guess I better keep moving," she answers, a certain weariness setting into her voice. Was it real, or a convenient way to garner some support? She wasn't quite sure herself, only that this week had already been quite long enough.
"To the palace of Gensokyo's only remaining satori? Or would you prefer a city of oni?"
"You telling me I'm trapped?"
"Hardly. For all that you might have heard, hell does not judge; if it once did, then those days are past it. We tend to take it on trust that anyone who finds themselves here has their reasons. Death or otherwise. You'll find questions of one's past scarcer than sunlight, down here."
Seija looks around slowly, warily, taking in the surroundings as well as she could. "...Then I'm stuck right here at this bridge, aren't I?" Parsee manages an insincere smile, and does nothing to contradict her. It was no sort of home, but at times like this, it might be shelter enough. There was power of sorts in generosity. It was comforting, in a way, to come across someone as desperate as the amanojaku, as... dependent. There were so few ways for a youkai of no significance, bound to an inconsequential bridge to feel as though she was something other than utterly helpless.
She would have liked to believe herself capable of some higher motive, but today, it would seem, was not the day she would convince herself. Nor would this have been her first choice of lodger, but... she would suffice. Just enough noise to give her some quiet, some peace of mind.
"D'you come with this place or what?"
"Despite my best efforts over the years, yes."
"Shame. I guess camping out at some run-down bridge wasn't bad enough already. You got a name, lady?"
"As I already told you-"
"'M calling you Green. Easier to remember."
"...And I would argue," Parsee answers with a sigh, "if I thought it would make any difference."
