It was his dragon who noticed the difference, not him. A small pack of furaribi had been plaguing a string of villages to the west of Kyoto, near the San'in region, and their antics had begun to spread from their usual riverside lurkings all the way out into the fields. Similarly, they had grown bold enough to start creeping out during the early evenings, rather than wait for nighttime to properly fall. An uncommon shift in their behavior, but one easily attributed to any number of causes, including simple population density.
Furaribi were not typically a threat on their own, if left with plenty of space to forage and clear skies to roam. The greatest risk was the fire that enveloped their floating bodies, and that was what the farmers rightfully feared. It had been a dry enough summer so far that the grass was sparse and crackling, already struggling for water. The farmers' prayers had clamoured all the way up to Takamagahara, conveyed dutifully by the local god - as well as a number of other deities, who had been petitioned for everything from rain to spare onmyoji.
It was hardly vital work for Susabi. Normally, he would have delegated the task and moved on to more important business, but the situation had attracted his attention as an excellent instructional opportunity for some of the younger gods who had little experience with the human world. The danger was limited; the area could be contained, even if the furaribi got further out of hand. The solution itself was easy. The villagers simply had to remember to perform the proper ceremonies for any deceased relatives who had been neglected, and then the furaribi could be ushered on to the Underworld for eventual reincarnation.
But in one particular patch of farmland, where the rivers bent their way north towards the distant ocean, the villagers had been spared any mischief. No furaribi haunted the fields there, even despite the convenience of the location. It wasn't for any virtue on the village's part - the spirits still slipped up and down the riverbanks - but none of them seemed willing to go any further, deflected neatly away from any risk of human civilization. Susabi's dragon had nudged him towards the incongruity; Susabi had been about to skip over the area without a second glance, assuming this village to be as equally guilty as the rest.
Now he wondered if he had found the true culprits after all.
Some bargain has been struck, he decided, surveying the riverbank from the safety of a nearby hill. The local inhabitants must have done something to incite the other furaribi upon their neighbors, or paid someone with enough power to do so. Likely they were hoping to send their own ghosts to haunt them as well. Human machinations, plain and simple, and - unfortunately - all too common.
Verdict assumed, Susabi was about to advance into the village to see what rumors he could pick up - but, as distracted as he was, his dragon caught the presence of another of its kind before he did. It hissed in surprise and then rose to full display as the sounds of patient footsteps made their way through the forest, rustling branches and fallen twigs without any attempt at stealth. Here and there, the voice of small bells jingled, high-pitched chimes as delicate as birdsong.
It was not simply a dragon, but a yōkai as well who came into view through the trees at a leisurely pace: a spirit who was slight of frame, white-haired and golden-horned, and whose dragon made equally wary noises as it faced off against Susabi. The stranger lifted his hand immediately to calm it; then he inclined his head towards Susabi's direction, making no signs of approaching closer.
"Did you also come for the furaribi?" he called out. His voice was smooth and even, holding only curiosity and no fear. "If your intention is to encourage them, I am afraid I'll have to ask you to refrain. It's been hard enough to keep these ones contained."
Susabi took his time in answering, dissecting what he could sense from the other spirit's presence. Though the yōkai did not have power crackling visibly along his fingertips, that did not mean he lacked the capacity to summon it; the fact that he had a dragon possessively circling above him meant he had the ability to command one, if nothing else. The feel of his spiritual energy was subtle - easy to miss, a wellspring of strength that held itself back and restrained everything around it as well. All the same, there was no sting of malice, and Susabi chose to reply with equal nonchalance. "I had wondered why this village stood out among the others. I was about to investigate the residents for conspiracy."
To his credit, the yōkai caught his meaning immediately. A faint, wry smile flitted across his face. "The reason is nothing so complex. I was able to deflect these furaribi here from going further into the fields, but that is the entire story. May I have a look at the river as well, or do you wish for privacy instead?"
Shaking his head - and masking his surprise for even being asked - Susabi relinquished his vantage point to give the other spirit plenty of space. "You're only adding to the trouble by protecting these people," he pointed out as the yōkai joined him, padding forward from the treeline. "If one village is seen as immune, I am hardly the only creature who will assume foul play."
"If I could protect them all, I would." The answer could have been flippant, but the yōkai's expression was somber. He paused at the crest of the hill, all his attention now upon the distant river, where the furaribi were already starting to congregate. "But if these inhabitants are spared from mischief, then they will at least have the option to share their reserves with others."
"Assuming they do not extort their neighbors for a higher price than the crops are worth, or withhold their supplies out of fear of shortage. And assuming their neighbors do not try to seize their fields by force." Susabi's dragon was huffing under its breath, mirroring the uncertainty of the yōkai's golden one, not yet understanding if it should attack or defend. "You may think you're aiding them, but you're merely changing the methods of how they'll harm their own kind."
He expected a pointlessly optimistic answer, but the stranger's next words stopped him short. It wasn't the voice of someone who had never seen the consequences of thoughtless acts masked as good intentions. It contained all the exhaustion of a person who had looked down the entire length of their lives and had seen the inevitable failure at the end - and yet was committed anyway.
"I know," the yōkai said, simply. He glanced back from the river, his golden eye catching the waning sunlight. He waited until Susabi was looking directly at him, and then repeated the words resolutely, though no less weariness. "I know."
"Then why?"
The other spirit lifted a hand to soothe his dragon again, gently stroking the creature's scales. "It may be that humans choose poorly many times," he admitted, "but if we do not even give them the chance to begin with, then how will they recognize moments of choice when they come? My efforts here don't need to save them. I only need to buy enough time until the villagers are able to save themselves on their own." Dropping his hand, he laced his fingers together patiently, like a pale lattice shielding his stomach. "And even should they never reach that point, no matter how we look at it, there will still be people today who will go hungry. They will be frightened. A heart that struggles to find generosity in even daily circumstances has it that much harder under duress. They are not making wise choices now," he continued, as soft and relentless as wind running against stone, "but all that means is that we must find ways to help them through the present moment until they can."
He bowed low then, respectfully, before Susabi could gather enough of a reply to counterattack on principle. "I do not mean disrespect, my lord. If there is a purpose here that I am interfering with, I will yield. I have no desire to start a quarrel with you."
And yet, here you stand obstructing me regardless, Susabi thought, narrowing his eyes. This spirit was no idealistic foundling. Nor was he a braggart, intent on battle for the sake of self-serving glory. "My advice is to either extend your protection to the other villages, or remove it entirely."
"And those are my only choices, my lord?"
"That," Susabi declared, "or accept the knowledge that they will twist your kindness into hate, and take the responsibility thereof."
They stood there in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Then Susabi cleared his throat, forced to acknowledge the position the yōkai was in: to have another spirit show up and start giving orders without any idea of authority, or intention. If their positions were reversed, he would be reluctant too. "I am Susabi, an emissary from Takamagahara," he announced. "I am here on business for the amatsu-kami."
The stranger bowed again, and deeply. "I have heard of you, my lord. Other spirits have spoken highly of your prowess. You grace me with your time."
Formality and deference to the hilt, and with all the right words in place; not typical for most yōkai, who generally resented any interference from Takamagahara. "And yours?" he replied, resisting the urge to soften his defenses, defused by a creature who seemed less and less inclined to aggression with each passing moment.
"Ren," the yōkai answered quietly. "These days, my name is Ichimoku Ren."
"Is your home here? Is that why you protect it? Or do you have prey which you are watching over?"
"Neither," Ichimoku Ren replied, which was surprising; even though the furaribi were largely harmless, they were not easy to reroute either, and few spirits had such energy to spare on a whim. "I come from near here, along the border of San'in and San'you, but my home has not been fixed in one place for many years. I have been traveling for a while. If this is the domain of another spirit, then I am afraid I am intruding. Is why you have come here, my lord?"
His dragon was restless, coiling and uncoiling around its sphere, mirroring Susabi's own internal uncertainty. Now that the yōkai had come closer, it was easier to evaluate the mundane details of his appearance, analyzing it for other conclusions. His hair wasn't as pale as Susabi had thought at first impression, fading to a sky-blue by the time it reached his waist. His visible eye was like a gold coin set to glitter in a pool of ink; his clothes were tidy, but clearly worn from the road, and the bells on his cloak prevented him from any stealth. Most interestingly, there were no obvious weapons, though that hardly defined any spirit's ability to be a threat.
Some of the most dangerous creatures in the world are the ones which cause you to choose your own death willingly, Susabi reminded himself darkly. Aloud, he stated, "I have assigned three trainees to come and observe the reactions of the humans here to this situation. While normally I would not force you to halt your efforts, I would ask you to leave before they arrive, to prevent any misunderstandings."
"Will they chase the remaining furaribi away?"
Susabi paused; the gods were meant only to watch what had happened, and make note of how the villagers themselves had caused the furaribi to multiply through sheer neglect. It was an object lesson - not a rescue mission. "That is not intended to be their primary task."
"Then, with all due respect, my lord," Ichimoku Ren replied, "I will stay."
The refusal was not unexpected. If the spirit were so easily cowed, he would have left immediately upon seeing Susabi's presence. No signs of an incoming attack were visible yet, but the yōkai's spiritual power was undeniable - and the way that he met Susabi's eyes without fear spoke of confidence, of a strength that did not need to advertise itself, and yet also knew of the battles it invited by not grandstanding. Ichimoku Ren had surely been challenged before by other spirits who had been taken in by his apparent docility. Susabi was not foolish enough to fall for the same trap.
Having a yōkai of any power in the area would certainly distract his subordinates from their lessons, if not completely derail them.
"Very well," he relented at last, regulating the lesson to another day. "I shall have them disperse the infestations, rather than wait for the mortals to do it first. All of the infestations. Will that satisfy you?"
The yōkai smiled, and - just like that - all the exhaustion washed itself away itself from his features, as if Susabi's acceptance had been so unexpected as to be a source of delight. Then, without any regard for the muddiness of the hillside, Ichimoku Ren gathered his robes neatly and went to his knees as gracefully as a fan folding inwards, touching his palms precisely to the ground as he bowed with even more formality than before. It wasn't low enough to be a grovel, but was still deep enough to show respect to a superior: a perfect inclination of humility.
"Thank you, Lord Susabi."
The issue of Ichimoku Ren lingered as Susabi returned to Takamagahara, parceling out the revised instructions and sitting back to consider what had just occurred.
Ichimoku Ren's power was only a small part of the problem. His experience was clear. So were his opinions. This was no inexperienced, naive spirit like Miketsu, who thought that simply throwing sufficient kindness and goodwill at the world would fix it - as if the hearts of humans were simply dry earth that needed enough rain, and once they had been watered, would generate self-sustaining rivers all on their own. A desert would turn to dust again once the rain had moved past; it would drink and drink, and never change its nature. Far more work was required to turn sand into rich soil.
Even then - without enforced structure, without constant oversight and rules - the desert would still creep back in slowly again, obliterating all that work as if it had never been. Permanent change required effort on multiple levels, starting from the structure of the earth itself, not simply the weather above it. Every factor mattered, from the plants and contours of the land, to the water levels beneath it - instead of simply pouring down rain until even the clouds themselves were drained completely, and humans were still no different.
Ichimoku Ren had clearly learned that lesson and several more over the years. To show submission was as dangerous in the spirit world as for mortals, where a good bluff might be the only thing keeping you from being gutted and left to die - and yet, he hadn't hesitated to kneel before Susabi as a petitioner. He hadn't flattered, hadn't cozied up to Susabi. He hadn't lost his temper; he'd had a reply to every one of Susabi's points, without having to resort to empty promises of virtue, ideals that shattered in the face of reality.
He'd fought, clearly. He'd fought for years, both physically and with words, and had still stood there in front of an emissary of Takamagahara and calmly implied that he would fight yet again, to the death, for a minor village that was filled with complete strangers.
Ichimoku Ren was dangerous. Not because he gave off any hint of aggression, but because of his lack of it. If anything, the strongest impression that lingered from their encounter was that of a mountain or a vast ocean: old and weary, but a force of nature that knew its own strength well enough that it no longer needed to brag. Dangerous. But not a threat.
Not physically. Not yet.
Susabi was still wrestling with his conclusions when the trainees returned from the mortal world a week later, and Susabi realized with a blink that he hadn't sent anyone along with them to confirm that the yōkai had kept his word. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to him to doubt the arrangement; he hadn't reviewed the vast number of ways that Ichimoku might have doubled back to ambush the three younger gods.
Instead, his thoughts had been centered around the perfect, graceful bow Ichimoku had given while on his knees, the willing vulnerability and gratitude that he had offered up like a gift. The yōkai's cloak had swept to either side of his body like the spread wings of a fallen bird. His arms had been bare, unadorned. As if bound by a spelled command, Susabi's mind had kept returning to that image, to the sight of Ichimoku's effortless gesture of surrender even though the yōkai had been the one to win - to the battle that had not been bought with words, but with the willingness to die.
To the way that Ichimoku's hair had slid away from the pale nape of his neck, exposing it for either a hand to touch, or a sword.
He hunted Ichimoku out on purpose the second time, under the justification of wanting to keep tabs on any rogue yōkai who had an active interest in involving themselves with human settlements. It was a reasonable precaution; there were enough spirits who regularly sought out easier sources of food, or who simply wanted a change in entertainment. But Ichimoku didn't fit either of those categories yet, and for that reason - Susabi told himself - the yōkai warranted attention.
His instruments helped him chart the yōkai's path well in advance, now that he knew where to start from. Ichimoku appeared to wander at random, but would inevitably gravitate towards any human population when one got close enough; sometimes he would simply observe, and other times, step in quietly if there seemed to be an issue of distress, supernatural or not. Other spirits drew Ichimoku's attention as well, nests of predatory nobusuma and chimi, though he would often leave them untouched if no humans were nearby and there had been no conflicts.
Finally, as Ichimoku's travels planted him several miles east of a cluster of rice paddies - and in the path of several bakeneko who had previously been sowing havoc among other crops - Susabi decided to visit again.
The reek of impurity hit him instantly upon setting foot in the mortal world. Hostility upon hostility had congealed into layers of negative energy that radiated from every corner where humans had built their homes, simmering inside communities who had long gone blind to their own biases. There were open hatreds - the willingness to kill, to shun, to steal and harm - and the subtle ones as well, with scorn and mockery paving the way towards greater degradations, people slain in their minds first before it ever reached their bodies. The miasma dizzied Susabi for a moment before he could take a deep breath to stabilize himself; he knew the shock would pass.
Whenever he came to the human world, it was the same every time.
He could still hear the piping voice of Miketsu claiming she was ready to go down to help humanity, she was ready. None of them were ready. Takamagahara was a sanctuary, even with the routine squabbles of the gods; the air was pure, the land was clean, and the greatest threats usually arose from family arguments or violations of etiquette. So many gods were naive enough to think that if they simply performed kind acts, that others would be actively inspired to do the same - or worse, that simply seeking to be kind was the end of all goals, instead of recognizing that that intention led to self-deceptive loops, where being able to think of one's self as a good person took precedence over what your actions actually involved.
Wanting to be a kind person was different from wanting to do kind things; the first invited a focus on the ego, and the second invited abuse. Both were easy to take advantage of. Neither inspired true change in hearts that were already corrupt.
But Ichimoku hadn't said any of that. He hadn't talked about himself as a savior. Only what he'd hoped the villagers themselves would achieve someday on their own - only about buying time for people who wouldn't even know he'd intervened on their behalf.
A wasted effort. More harm than help. Even Ichimoku would have to give up someday, if he wanted to survive.
Susabi shook off his thoughts with a frown.
This time around, Ichimoku had already set up camp in the sparser woods overlooking the fields, far enough away from the village that chances were low that any farmers would come across him. The hills sloped gently westward, channeling riverwater down to where the rice fields would be waiting. He glanced up when he sensed Susabi's arrival, a smile - unaccountably - brightening his features. His dragon, which had been napping, reared up and made a wary loop in the air before settling down again beside the yōkai's leg, tail flicking as it watched Susabi meaningfully.
"My dragon was lonely." A poor claim, but good enough; Susabi brushed past it before Ichimoku could stop and question. "I see that you're interfering with yet another possible intrusion."
"It is a bad habit of mine," Ichimoku acknowledged, already getting to his feet so that he could make a respectful bow. "But this time, our fellow spirits seem to be daunted by simply knowing I am in the area. Another few days, and they should hopefully move on without conflict. Are you preparing for another lesson, Lord Susabi?"
"Not yet." Pretending to be focused on surveying the area, Susabi offered a formal nod back, and then strode forward until he could see the rice fields in the distance. Neatly stacked in their square tiers, they showed no signs of having been disturbed. "You seem quite practiced at finding ways to place yourself between mortals and potential predators. How long have you been doing this?"
He didn't turn when Ichimoku joined him, bare feet rustling carefully through the grass. The yōkai gave him a wide berth, deferring to both Susabi and his dragon; he coaxed his own to wait beside him, fingers resting reassuringly on its head. "Since I was a god," he replied. "Both before and after."
The revelation snapped a few more pieces into place. "How long ago was that?"
Ichimoku considered for a moment - an understandable struggle for most spirits, tallying seasons against immortality. "Not long," he estimated. "Several generations, as mortals tell it. Long enough to wander." He let his answers pause there, shielding his eye against the sky as he also scanned the fields, and then gave a satisfied nod. "Shall we sit a while in the shade, my lord? The sun is quite beautiful here in the afternoons."
Having the invitation extended first was a relief; Susabi hadn't thought far enough ahead to what he might have done if the yōkai had rejected him outright. "I have time."
Now that he had learned about Ichimoku's nature, the logic around the yōkai continued to unfold smoothly, like a piece of origami unmade crease by crease. Susabi had met other fallen gods in the past, whose shrines had been destroyed through time or disease or war. The ones who had not turned to anger or deception as a source of fuel had been fragile creatures, struggling to sustain themselves without followers to offer them a home. Ichimoku wasn't showing signs of decay - but neither did he seem overflowing with energy. His clothing was faded; his motions were restrained. And underneath it all remained that sense of overwhelming weariness, masquerading so easily as serenity that if Susabi hadn't spent the time arguing with him, he would have thought Ichimoku to be in perfect health.
There were other indicators as well that Susabi noticed as they spoke, signs of old wounds that had simply become part of the spirit's nature, never to further heal. Ichimoku didn't react as quickly to anything on his right side; his hair was long over that half of his face, despite having an intact eye. From what Susabi could see, the pupil seemed to respond properly to the light - though there was something wrong about the color of the iris, something dull and flat about the gold - but the yōkai still turned his head to focus on things with his left.
"What happened to your shrines?" Susabi asked, racking his memory for a god that fit Ichimoku's description. "Or did you have only one?"
The possibility drew a rueful laugh from the yōkai; he shook his head in answer. "Just one. I was never that grand." He inhaled deeply, tilting his head up towards the sky. His hair slid away again, revealing the mystery of his eyes, paired and yet treated so differently. "It was a small one, up in the mountains along San'in-San'you. I was a wind god of a very small village. We did not need much. But one year, the storms came in even worse than usual, and the waters threatened to flood everything away."
Slowly, Ichimoku's fingers closed into loose fists on his thighs. For a long moment, he said nothing, his expression going smooth and empty. Then he made a quick, second shake of his head, one corner of his mouth turning up doggedly into a faint smile.
"An eye was a small price to pay for their survival. Afterwards - well. Afterwards, they no longer needed my assistance. And so, here I am. I chose to stay, rather than fade away. It left me... with some drawbacks."
Susabi felt his own hands clenching on his robes, far tighter than Ichimoku's reaction had been. He shifted his wrists to hide them beneath his sleeves. As sparse as Ichimoku's words were, the truth was clear, wrapped in the self-restraint of everything the yōkai had refused to say out loud.
Ichimoku's village had demanded impossible things from their god. They had begged him for a feat far outside of his powers, to perform on demand even when it was not within his capacity. Then - when Ichimoku had sacrificed part of his very life to try and appease them - they had discarded him, leaving their former god behind to wither away.
A slow death, rather than the quick embrace of the ocean.
A death, nonetheless.
Faced with Susabi's silence, Ichimoku continued briskly, as if he could erase the past through good humor. The spirit's dragon had rolled over to have its flank examined, and Ichimoku was going down it scale by scale with his fingers, checking for any roughness or damage. "At first, as a yōkai, I only sought to protect my village," he explained, gathering back one of his sleeves so that he could stretch his arm down the dragon's length. "But you know how humans end up migrating over the years, marrying into distant families or leaving their old ones behind. I wandered behind them, to make certain they had settled into their new homes. And then, before I knew it, the village itself had changed completely, filled with people who had never been introduced to me as children, and who never had heard of my name." With a firm pat to his dragon's scales, Ichimoku waited until it wriggled over to present its other side. "So I resolved to keep traveling. Everyone is a villager in some fashion, after all. Perhaps one of them may be a descendant of someone I once knew."
"Some spirits would have tried to stay with their original village, and convince the people to elevate them to godhood again," Susabi noted, finally finding his voice again through his stifled rage. "Or else destroy them out of vengeance."
Ichimoku made a nod to both those facts; he had clearly come across both cases himself. "A god's innate power does not come from the number of worshippers they have. As you know, Lord Susabi, with your own strength," he added with a smile that was faintly wry. "But a god's ability to use that power in service of their duties does. Without my villagers reaching out to me, I could not bless them. I could not guard their land from disaster, purify it of kegare, drive away harmful spirits or bad weather. I cannot protect my people if there are none wishing for me to protect them. Since they moved on without me, I wanted to respect their wishes, and not force myself back upon them."
Finished with tending to his dragon, Ichimoku gave it one last stroke along its jaw before gesturing to Susabi's next. It was a natural enough invitation that Susabi had already given a nod of permission before he realized it; apparently his dragon had also fallen under the yōkai's spell, because it warily uncoiled from its sphere and laid itself tentatively on the grass. Its gaze kept darting back and forth between Susabi and Ichimoku, as if unsure how much of the command might have been a trick.
Careful to let Susabi's dragon sniff his hands first - nostrils wide and huffing - Ichimoku waited until the creature settled down before he began to check its scales. "At the same time, I did not wish to disappear, either. Humans gave me something to protect, but they did not create my existence in the first place. As an enshrined kami, they offered me a purpose I could uphold, and the hope contained within their prayers. I may no longer be a god, but that desire is still strong within me."
Susabi watched his dragon's tail flick erratically, a residual nervousness at being touched by a stranger, despite the lack of aggression. He felt the same way himself, drawn to arguing with Ichimoku even though it was clear they both already knew each and every phrase. "You know it won't change anything in the end, correct?" he said, half-feeling as if he was lecturing himself. "You will die long before humanity is able to change its heart."
Once more, the expected reaction did not come: denials, anger, claims that things were better instead of simply circling in an eternal loop. Ichimoku merely laughed, shaking his head as he shifted his position to work further along the dragon's spine. "I don't have any illusions of living that long," he confirmed. "But the effort must come from somewhere. If we spirits - of all creatures - cannot find love in our hearts for people when they do not even love each other, then where else is compassion supposed to grow? If we cannot show that love is possible even in the darkest of times, then what other evidence would humans have to look to?"
He was correct. But Susabi was as well - they both were, standing equally far on the sides of both reality and dreams. Susabi had had the same debates a thousand times in Takamagahara. He'd had them with himself, brooding over yet another town or village that had been given the chance to change its ways, and had lapsed back into nothing but selfishness.
And here was Ichimoku, earthbound as a yōkai, but still somehow determined to dedicate his second life to the very creatures who had destroyed his first.
Up in Takamagahara, Susabi would have had to argue against gods who had never seen an ill human in arm's reach before, let alone an entire plagued countryside. But - as Susabi discovered, the longer they spoke - Ichimoku had. He had witnessed the same degrees of horror and brutality, had tried and failed just as much as Susabi; they drew upon an identical pool of experience, and yet had come to entirely different conclusions. Even though it felt as if neither one of them could sway the other at all - each side stubbornly sticking to their own beliefs - Susabi found himself strangely glad for it, glad to be able to talk about these issues without having to wade through the background evidence first, getting mired down in abstract technicalities without ever getting to the heart of the matter.
They parted ways more amicably this time - Susabi offering to come back and check on the bakeneko, Ichimoku promising that they would surely be no threat, but that Susabi was always welcome. The sun had rolled leisurely across the sky while they had spent the hours together, changing from morning to late afternoon. Its rays rippled down in liquid patterns through the leaves, casting shadows that danced with each shifting of the breeze. It traced the lines of Ichimoku's cheek and glittered over his horns, and Susabi found himself strangely reluctant to leave.
"I don't expect to change the world," Ichimoku admitted as Susabi resolutely gathered his ornaments and prepared to depart. "No one can. All we can hope is that someone else sees the space we create around ourselves, and wishes the same for themselves as well. If my own hopes can live on in that way... then perhaps there will have been something left behind."
"Living by example doesn't work," Susabi retorted bluntly. He pulled the edge of his robe straight with a fierce tug. "It simply encourages dependence and exploitation."
To the yōkai's credit, he didn't lose his patience with the argument. Nor did he dismiss Susabi's point either, merely nodding in respect. "That may be," he agreed softly. "But at least for today, there has been something changed here for the better. It makes me happy to see you again, Lord Susabi," he explained, smiling in a serene mirror to his voice. "So, I must thank you for making this corner of the world a little brighter. Even if it is just for myself."
Susabi knew how he had encountered Ichimoku the first time. He knew why he had sought him out the second. The third and fourth visits had been harder to justify, but Susabi had had an excuse prepared if anyone had questioned. But after the sixth time that Susabi found himself interrupting the yōkai's travels, he couldn't find a solid explanation to justify the continued visits; the best he could come up with was to spy on the other spirit's motions and intervene whenever it looked like Ichimoku might be watching over a village, or stopping to save someone's lost relative, or climbing up a mountain to find a single stray cow.
Most of the time, Ichimoku's paths were aimless, following the easiest routes through hills and natural curves in the land. This time, however, the yōkai had deviated sharply from his habits. According to Susabi's instruments, Ichimoku had veered suddenly towards a fishing village on the western coast of the Chūbu region; when Susabi tried to scry further for supernatural presence, he had found nothing more remarkable than the local land spirits. Everything seemed in harmony, with no negative energies on the rise. No other entities of power were coming to visit.
He could have divined further, but that would have only shown him actions, not intentions. Drumming his fingers on a worktable, Susabi estimated the best point of intersection, and opened a path to the mortal world without further deliberation.
The position he chose was on one of the cliffs overlooking the ocean: a suitable, flat outcropping of land that gave him a view of homes in the distance, with hills that sloped gently upwards behind him. Despite the walk, it was the best position to observe the village, having sufficient forest cover to the west that a stray spirit could sleep comfortably under - particularly one with a very noticeable dragon.
His attempts at nonchalance were ruined when Ichimoku came over the nearest hill with a smile, looking entirely unsurprised. "I thought I would see you soon," the yōkai called out, laughing, his expression warm with delight as he approached.
Taken aback, Susabi completely forgot all the dignified, aloof greetings that he had rehearsed beforehand. "Oh?"
Ichimoku shook his head, careful to keep his balance as he slid down the grass to the cliffside. "Whenever I go near towns these days, you appear before I can reach them. I am not here to hurt anyone, my lord," he added, a little reproachfully. The bells on his cloak jingled as he picked his way over a boulder outcropping, metallic giggles at Susabi's expense.
Caught out in having his actions correctly interpreted - though not his intentions, at least - Susabi tried to gather back the remains of his shattered pride. "Is there anything in particular that drew you to this village, then?"
Ichimoku finished clambering down the hill, and came to a stop beside Susabi, still looking inordinately satisfied. "Just the chance that I might see you," he admitted easily, and brushed a few strands of grass off his sleeves. "Shall we enjoy the day together?"
Susabi's dragon took advantage of the moment to nose against his arm, impatient for the game that he had promised it earlier. "Here," he said, in an attempt to distract Ichimoku long enough to think up an excuse. "You occupy it for a while."
The ornament he offered to Ichimoku was an ornate combination of red jade and gold, a whirling sphere made up of five rings that rotated in different directions around a simple grey stone in the center. Ichimoku took it gently, cupping it like a bubble in his palms. "I don't want to break it," he confessed.
Susabi snorted. "It's designed to help ward off venoms strong enough to carve through metal like wet clay. Such a thing is hardly delicate. Here," he encouraged, pressing his fingers up against the backs of Ichimoku's knuckles until the yōkai gave a hesitant toss of the ornament towards the sky, where it bobbed obediently like a hot air lantern before gradually sinking down. "Aim high, over the ocean."
Casting a doubtful glance at Susabi as he did, Ichimoku lifted the instrument, and then pitched it into the sky.
It was an easy toss, the arc lazy and slow. Susabi's dragon had plenty of time to loop twice around the ornament as it rose and fell, perfectly matching its velocity. It caught it neatly on the back of its neck, just behind its skull, and then swooped down towards them, careful not to let the sphere fall.
Susabi pulled a piece of dried fish out of a leather pouch, and tossed it carelessly into the air; his dragon neatly flipped the ornament skywards, snapped the treat deftly between its teeth, and caught the ornament again before it could hit the ground. Trying not to reveal how pleased he was with the successful demonstration, Susabi offered the pouch to Ichimoku. "Like that."
With someone else to show off in front of, his dragon performed remarkably well. Ichimoku grew rapidly more confident with tossing the ornament into the air, and soon they were trading it between them, challenging each of their own dragons to catch the prize first. Susabi had a better throwing arm, but the dragons preferred taking rewards from Ichimoku instead; a few times, Susabi snatched the fish away before it could be eaten, earning protesting laughter from the yōkai and thwarted growls from both dragons.
The waves echoed like an endless heartbeat against the cliffs below as he and Ichimoku played, forgetting all other concerns, mortal and supernatural alike. It was a different kind of ocean than Susabi had known in Hokkaido, warmer and less fierce in its currents - but water was still water in the end. It filled the air with salt and spray, a familiar humidity that seeped into every breath Susabi took. The summer had finally served up rain in the form of heavy thunderstorms, and the clouds overhead were thick and waiting; Susabi could smell them too, a promise of downpours later in the evening. Long ago, he would have read the weather with exacting care. Long ago, he would have worried over what it meant.
He tried not to let the memories bother him, even as he found himself breathing in deeply anyway, some part of him craving the reminder of a time before the ocean had been ruined for him forever.
They finished off the last of the dried fish finally, putting an end to the game there. Ichimoku split the final one in half and shared it between both dragons so that they could take it directly from his hand, without worrying for the integrity of his own fingers.
"My dragon," Susabi said pointedly, watching it preen, "likes you better than me."
"It's that spot right under their chins," Ichimoku replied, nonplussed as he reached up to stroke deft fingers along the scales. "All living things must suffer the curse that they can't always take care of their pains on their own."
After shaking itself off - and one final headbutt against the yōkai's shoulder - Susabi's dragon promptly took off to join Ichimoku's, both of them flying over the waves in wild loops and swirls. Ichimoku neatly tucked the now-disregarded ornament under his arm. "You remind me of your dragon sometimes, Lord Susabi," he chuckled, pulling the empty satchel of dried fish shut.
Susabi heard his own reply coming as if from a far distance away, impossible to stop. "What," his voice asked for him. "In need of my belly being rubbed?"
He shut his teeth so fast, they clipped the edge of the question; his gut felt as if it had been pitched straight off the edge of the cliff, plummeting down into an endless abyss. His cheeks burned high along the bones. It was a ridiculous joke, so it shouldn't matter that he'd said it - shouldn't matter the reply to something so frivolous, but still, he found himself holding his breath in waiting, not even understanding why.
When Ichimoku was silent for too long, Susabi dared to glance over his shoulder. The yōkai was staring at him, lips slightly parted - horrified, clearly, just as much as Susabi himself was - as if he had started a reply that had forgotten its shape along the way. As Susabi watched, Ichimoku closed his mouth long enough to try again. "Capable, my lord." The syllables stumbled, the words struggling to get out. Ichimoku looked away, blinking hard and fast, as if stunned by an unexpected blow. "You are very... capable."
Grateful for the reprieve, Susabi cast his attention desperately back towards the ocean again, half-wishing for some sort of disaster to happen after all, simply so that he could discuss it instead. Far away, the fishing ships were still out, bobbling in distant specks on the waves as they sought to use the last safe hours before the storm.
Susabi, noticing the way that Ichimoku was frowning up at the clouds and studying the winds, decided to change tactics to more familiar ground. "For even a single week of clear skies, those fishermen would take your eye again if they could, you know. Along with your other one."
If he'd hoped that the warning would be heeded, he could have expected the sea to dry itself out first. Still, the yōkai's shoulders relaxed. "Yes. And I would still give them both up. You... cannot help what you hold love for."
"But humans do not learn from simply being given things either, Ichimoku Ren." The full name came out sharp, harsh, as if by resorting to formality, Susabi had physically shoved the other spirit aside to create distance. It hadn't been intentional. Something in him had recoiled at the thought of Ichimoku being forced into another bargain, as instinctive as if he'd run his hand over a blade and watched the flesh part into bloody layers. "If they are given everything they demand, they will never grow. They will never seek to stop harming others if they do not experience the penalties of doing so."
He half-expected a typical reply better suited to one of the younger gods - but Ichimoku surprised him again, as always, by already accepting the point. "You are correct," the yōkai admitted softly, looking away. "They will not."
The words were simple. They almost managed to erase the bleakness hiding beneath the surrender: the same endless despair that had as much depth as Susabi's own, and for the same reasons.
Berating himself at his lapse of self-control, Susabi held out his hand for the empty pouch of fish. "We both know humans have a long way to go, Ichimoku." It was as much of an apology as he could make, while knowing there was nothing to say that would not otherwise be a lie. "They will not improve if they are given everything they demand without consequences or punishment. You enable them by indulging them, Ichimoku. Even if you give them every part of your body, every part of your soul, all you have taught them is that their best solution is to ask another spirit for the same favor in the future."
Despite the cruelty of their debate, Ichimoku did not hesitate to take a step towards Susabi, closing the small distance between them as he returned the bag. His other arm started to bring the jade ornament up - and then cradled it tightly to his chest instead, as if it were the only warmth in a winter storm.
"It is easy to forget generosities whenever we are happy." Ichimoku's voice was tired; the words were measured, as if he had spoken them many times before in that exact order, over and over. "Every day we receive them, and take them for granted. But when humans are unhappy, they are capable of such miseries upon each other, and to everything around them. Before we do anything else, we must solve that first."
Susabi found himself exhaling slowly, his mysterious tension starting to drain away at last. This philosophy was easier to speak on; this was why he had come to see Ichimoku, surely. Philosophy, and nothing more. "And so, should we bribe them to keep them from destruction? Appease them, so they do not wreck havoc? That is the duty of humans to kami, that an ara-mitama may know it is respected and honored, and for humans to remember that they are not without another power to answer to. Yet, spirits should not be obligated to do the same." He drew a breath to press onwards, and then found his own logic yielding first. "But - you speak the truth. Humans are clumsy with what they are given. They allow fear to rule them. For that reason, beings like you should be protected from them, until they become mature enough to not break the world they are a part of."
The question Ichimoku returned to him was predictable, and the yōkai knew it, judging from the steadiness of his gaze. The corners of his mouth were turned down, resigned and sorrowful. "And do we know when that will be, Lord Susabi?"
The words themselves were an innate challenge, even with how much Ichimoku sought to defuse them by gentling his voice. It was also a question too familiar to resent. Everyone asked it - everyone in Takamagahara, every earth god, every creature looking for the barest wisp of hope in the midst of an endless hell. Over and over again, they had wondered - and Susabi was among them.
"In all the branchings of fate that I am witness to, I can promise you that even centuries from now, humans will still be careless destroyers." He did not bother to downplay the truth; Ichimoku did not need to be coddled. "Not even mortal laws will prevent this, because those who create and enforce those rulings will have equally weak hearts. Humans will continue to reduce one another to objects to be traded and tortured. They will pursue scholarship for the sheer purpose of finding new ways to murder each other with as much agony as they can imagine. They will do all these things and more, regardless of how much kindness is shown to them, because nothing will have erased their worst impulses - and those impulses are what they will follow. Cruelty inspires action, and perpetuates itself in people's hearts. Kindness does neither of those things."
The clouds had shifted of the course of their discussion, thick tendrils starting to creep across the sky from the sea to the mainland. Ichimoku pulled his outer cloak tighter around his shoulders, though there was not yet an evening chill. "You are right to say so," he agreed quietly, fingers winding around the jade ornament as it lay quiescent in his grip. "I am no diviner, but I have seen the pattern repeat over the years. Only the details change - names, cities, phrases. But the hearts of people have not. Not yet."
Back they had come again, full circle - exactly like the very problem they both debated. "Then why continue protecting them? You're not young enough to claim inexperience as your excuse."
This earned a sigh from Ichimoku, though his lips had gone wry in surrender. "Lord Susabi, we are spirits who are more powerful than humans. Our very natures should not be bound to their restrictions. If humans are not strong enough to live by kindness, should we limit our natures anyway? Whether or not the effort is wasted, to force a spirit to deny themselves is hardly fair to them, either."
Susabi dropped his eyes. The conversation felt as sour as a wine turned to vinegar, full of tragedy when it had so recently been filled with laughter. "No," he relented grudgingly, suddenly regretting wasting both their time on an argument that had no solution when he could have been speaking on pleasanter things with Ren. With Ichimoku, rather. "But that is why spirits should be protected from humans. At least for now. Your natures should not be constrained. Nor should you be taken advantage of. Let the humans see your examples - and then let them realize they are capable of reaching those behaviors themselves, rather than make excuses for the remainder of their lives as to why they are not responsible for being equally generous."
Ichimoku uncurled the ornament from his chest at last; lifting it to eye level, he studied the quality of the jade, running his thumb along the stone and following the natural fluctuations of color. "In this realm which is so full of suffering, if the only spaces we can protect are so small and fragile, should we not fill them with as much light as possible? Eventually they will break, and we will die - but for a short while, at least, we can know that somewhere exists the world we want to see."
"Yes," Susabi said, "but not everyone's world is large enough to fit every other living creature inside it." He felt it all coming out of him, a bitter, black tide of despair that did not care how brutally it spit out the words. "Most worlds only serve those who create them. They exile others, and erase their value. They justify their choices by not including those they deem unworthy in the first place. Humans seek to satisfy standards of virtue by narrowing those standards down to the barest channels, and then they claim goodness by default. By not including the lives of others they dislike, they escape the guilt when those others die."
He expected another dead-end in their philosophies - but Ichimoku, strangely, gave him an odd look, and then offered another question. "You don't hate humans, do you, Susabi? You only hate what they choose. You hate that they could be so much more, but follow the worse path voluntarily."
Susabi flinched.
He had more than enough reason to hate humans, he wanted to say; he had experienced enough to have learned the truth of the people he had once sought to serve with every inch of his being. The knowledge manifested as harshness every time, until all the gods in Takamagahara had assumed that Susabi had a wellspring of buried rage: anger and impatience, affront and severity. Even the older gods who had rescued him had looked at him and said it was the shape of his ara-mitama now, to be carried around for the rest of his new existence - like the spirits who had been deified not out of true apology, but simply to avert their wrath.
There are gods who have remembered their injustices for centuries, they had advised him, though not without sympathy. At least you are in good company.
He had thought it was inevitable, to be haunted by an emotion so destructive - but having Ichimoku put a different word on it changed everything. It felt strangely liberating, as if Ichimoku had opened a window into that private ocean in his heart, shining light upon that dark morass that still seethed in his chest, making it more bearable by giving it a different name. Naming it anything, anything other than loathing, anger, impatience, indifference.
"How can you make such a claim?" he asked, through numb lips. "You know so little about me yet."
He did not miss his own slip of the tongue - the yet that had snuck in there, as sly as any saboteur - but Ichimoku did not deny it. Instead, he took the ornament into one hand again, using a fold of his cloak to meticulously polish away the dried debris left behind from both their dragons' mouths. "Because if you didn't have hope in your heart for them," he replied calmly, as if he were doing nothing more significant than passing conversation instead of laying out Susabi's soul like a scroll upon a table, "how could you be so hurt when they disappoint you?"
"Ah," Susabi managed: the single breath that he had room to control.
It was a noncommittal syllable that encompassed nothing of what he actually felt. Disappointment, Ichimoku had said. Not hate. Hatred for the choices, true - but not the desire to exterminate humanity, to actively induce even more suffering in them, to make things worse in the mortal world however he could. Susabi had every reason to loathe all of humanity and to actively wish to see it perish - but he didn't. Against all odds, he didn't, and yet he'd still had that cloud infesting him that he'd never been able to define otherwise, and everyone else had been all too ready to label for him. His ara-mitama, they'd said. He'd have it for the rest of his existence as a spirit, and would never be able to escape.
Susabi shut his eyes to better feel the wonder of it sinking in, the shape of the word rolling around his chest, the way it made it easier to breathe - as if it was clearing out room around his lungs and scraping out tissue that had decayed past all recovery. Disappointment didn't describe a vengeful, irrational, spite-filled madman. It was a different emotion altogether. It was measured, it was controllable, and - most importantly, if humans ever did improve someday, it might ease itself until Susabi wouldn't even have to think about it anymore, except as a passing annoyance.
It wasn't a step towards forgiveness. What had happened was impossible for Susabi to forgive. But it meant - it meant not having the stamp of the villagers on him forever, as if part of him would always contain what they had done to him, that he would be a reflection of their actions for all eternity, permanently unable to be free. To have the result of their hatred burning under the surface of his heart without any choice in the matter: that the villagers had taken not only his life, but had also branded his soul.
The villagers didn't own him like a puppet. He wasn't required to feel like this forever.
When the winds picked up again this time, Susabi allowed himself breathe in deeply, tasting the familiar salt on the air and the tang of the ocean, swallowing it down for once without cringing.
He turned the shape of the conversation over in his head later that night, after he returned to Takamagahara and finished the business of the day. It wasn't the first time that Ichimoku had led things in a different direction, exploring conclusions rather than argue at a standstill. He didn't fight against Susabi; he agreed in his own way, and disagreed in the same fashion, seeing the same impossible riddle and knowing the enormity of what they all had to face as spirits. Ichimoku echoed the same words of generosity and kindness, but he meant them differently: he knew what they cost, and what they would continue costing, to himself as well as others. He knew an act of charity didn't mean the results would automatically be helpful. He knew, and hadn't yet been broken by the world and all its miseries, hadn't fallen into denial or madness.
Everything about Ichimoku Ren made Susabi want to memorize the shape of him, as if the yōkai were a statue or a painting, a piece of art that took the nature of tragedy and coated it with the promise of endurance, over and over, until despair itself could be given the gleam of a pearl without having to lie about its shape. He wanted to hear every point and counterpoint, even the ones he already knew by heart. He wanted to memorize each moment they spent together, to be able to hold them bright and clear in his mind, as if Ren were the last member of a species on the brink of extinction.
He wanted to soak it all in like the sun against his skin, to learn everything about the yōkai that he could - so that Susabi would be able to remind himself that such a person had existed at one point in time, when the inevitable day came that Ren would be gone.