Author's note: this was written for the manga fandom. So far only episode 8 has aired so I'm not sure if the anime will keep the same details in the story as the manga. Spoilers for chapter 21.
.
.
"Bishamon-sama. I have something I must tell you.
It was I who made the request to Yato to kill my clan.
I, who survived, only a traitor.
A coward who can only stay by your side.
Forgive me for causing you so much pain."
The sound she made was an anguished wail. She fell to her knees, pulling him down with her, the single large gash was warm and sticky with blood.
.
.
1.
There are no storms in the days following the aftermath of Kugaha's betrayal, only the pale wash of sunlight over green hills and the calm quiet of a compound slowly healing. Carefully, Bishamon combs her hair and watches through the soft billowy curtains as her shinki softly speak amongst themselves, letting her hands linger over the skin of her bare shoulder, the spot where Kazuma had buried his face against her and cried. She cried too, and as they held each other it hadn't occurred to her that this was the first time she had seen her lead shinki so undone.
And he is here now, standing at her doorway; she doesn't even have to turn to know he's carrying a neat stack of papers and waiting patiently for her to acknowledge him. "Kazuma," Bishamon says.
"Bishamon-sama."
She straightens, her back still facing the doorway where Kazuma is standing. She catches how he hesitates, can almost hear how he stiffly bows behind her before asking, "Are you ready for your report?"
"Of course," Bishamon says, and secretly she hates it, the politeness and propriety masking the awkward distance between them. As if by rote, Kazuma begins ticking off the various things a god of her stature should know: seventeen of her shinki are now fully healed; Kuraha's eye is healing nicely and Tsuguha and Aiha are finally getting along.
Bishamon doesn't say anything. She looks out the window and feels the soft breeze on her face and the warmth of white light that slants through the curtains. "And how are you, Kazuma?" Bishamon says. She turns to look at him, quietly. "How are you faring?"
Kazuma hesitates, then bows. "I am well," Kazuma says, and Bishamon knows a shinki lacking Kazuma's caliber would sting her in an instant, but it is not technically a lie, as his injuries have already healed. "Incidentally, Bishamon-sama...Iki Hiyori has invited us to view the cherry blossoms with her. She left this note by the shrine," he says, and he steps forward to hand her the note.
The tips of their fingers brush. Kazuma bows his head, quickly. "My apologies," Kazuma says. There is a glare on the lenses of his glasses, so she can't see his eyes.
Strange. It was not as if they haven't casually touched before - shinki by definition were meant to be handled, palmed in the center of a closed fist or worn closely against bare skin. Kazuma's sudden reticence puzzles her. Frowning, Bishamon glances up at him before unfolding the note, which is a crisp schoolgirl pink and written in happy scrawl: "We are going to see the cherry blossoms, so please come join us!"
"Kofuku-sama wlll be joining us as well," Kazuma says. "As for Yato-"
But Bishamon waves her hand, frowning.
"I'll go," Bishamon says. "As much as I would like to pass, it would be to our detriment if I cannot show face. I have...mistaken him," Bishamon says. "Perhaps we can use this to turn a new leaf." Kazuma doesn't look at her, just nods, quietly.
"Thank you, Bishamon-sama," Kazuma says, even though they're alone, the honorific sounding odd coming from him.
"You truly are a generous god."
xXx
.
2.
He used to call her "Veena" when they were alone. Not Bishamonten or Vaisravana, stiffened honorifics uttered by human worshippers and godly acquaintances, alike. But to him, she was always "Veena," a nickname that underscored the closeness of their bond, even before he was her lead shinki and closest confidante. And it was not as if she allowed him to call her that - he always spoke to her as if she were an equal, not some puerile servant accustomed to bending over to suit her whims. And so it strikes her as odd, or at the very least out of character, when Kazuma bows deeply and speaks to her as her other shinki would: with respectful deference, nevermind the fact that he used to call her out on her actions on a fairly regular basis.
"You are neglecting them!" Kazuma said. "Aiha arranged that entire library for you, and yet you say nothing! You need to talk to them," Kazuma said.
"They are starved for just one kind word."
Slowly, Bishamon sips her tea, remembering. It is nighttime now, and the windows to her office reflect her image back like mirrors: she sees her reflection as a solitary figure hunched over a desk; the glow of a yellow desk lamp and a pile of papers; dark circles under tired eyes.
She remembers the first time she named Tsuguha; she stared, stunned, when Tsuguha transformed, marveling at the black bra and leather jacket, dumbstruck. At that time, it hadn't occurred to her that Aiha's feelings could have been hurt. Aiha's armor was strong and functional and well-suited for medieval combat, but bullets could pierce through the metal plates and arm guards and tear apart the leather under-coverings beneath. But it didn't mean that Bishamon loved Aiha any less. And it certainly didn't mean she didn't value any of the others, broken souls whose sacred forms took the shape of old stones or broken statues. They were all precious, precious parts of her, her shinki, and she took it for granted that they would simply know.
"A shame there is no combat use," Kazuma had said. He was frowning at her outfit (or rather, lack of outfit, the cups of her black bra barely covering her).
"What do you mean?" Bishamon said. "She's perfect!" and Kazuma's frown deepened, considerably.
Bishamon was used to exactly three looks from Kazuma: Disapproval, Disapproving Admonishment, and Varying Degrees of Subdued Yet Completely Obvious Exasperation, the latter of which Kazuma would give her whenever he realized that no amount of arguing could dissuade his master. "I do not see how a bra and miniskirt would lend itself to combat utility," Kazuma said.
"It's how all the kids are dressed these days," Bishamon said. She did a half turn in front of the mirror, marveling at how perky her breasts looked and just how fantastic that skirt made her ass. "Besides, it provides me with more mobility. I have more freedom of movement in this."
"More freedom of movement because of a lack of fabric," Kazuma said, but Bishamon waved away his objections and was already shaking Tsuguha's hand.
No other shinki dared speak to her that way. No other shinki would loudly proclaim that she might as well fight in a bathing suit, she would be less exposed, and no other shinki would sigh and frown and rub his head with growing exasperation.
There were rumors, of course. Nasty, degenerate rumors, that she would use her lead shinki for her own perverted pleasures. The gods have no qualms with such sexual congress, and the couplings of other gods, be it with humans or shinki or each other, made up the stuff of whispered canon disseminated amongst their followers.
But still:
She took to bathing nude in front of him, pleased whenever she would elicit a reaction from him. Even if that reaction was just a long-suffering frown and a dramatic rolling of the eyes.
xXx
.
3.
She remembers when she found out Kazuma had helped Yato: how he had, without her knowledge, taken part in a purification ritual that saved Yato's life. It gutted her, his betrayal- that her lead shinki and the one she trusted above all others would willingly consort with her enemy - it was all she could do to keep in control.
But that was then, and having Kazuma back now makes her all the more acutely aware of how her shinki had suffered in his absence. Without a leader, the Ha clan was in disarray, and even her weapons' abilities were stunted. But now, in the aftermath of the purge, Bishamon watches as her shinki limp and drag themselves into healing, all under Kazuma's watchful eye.
"Bishamonten-sama," someone says, and Bishamon looks up to see the youngest shinki she had rescued: Mineha, the girl whose soul was blighted with taint, which Kazuma had helped drive away. "I made you this," Mineha says, shyly, and Bishamon sees her lifting a small wreath of flowers, a sign of gratitude and supplication. Bishamon smiles, then gently tilts the girl's head by her chin.
"It is beautiful," Bishamon says, and she kneels, letting the girl set the wreath on her head. "Did you make this yourself?"
"Kazuma helped me," Mineha says. Bishamon arches a brow, but Mineha continues, excitedly: "He showed me where the best flowers bloom."
Of course. After the battle, the field of wildflowers was all but decimated. She had seen it herself in how the flowers had burned and turned to ash, its waters running black and polluted from the apocalyptic fallow. "The flowers are starting to grow," Mineha says. "But they're all just buds. These were the first to bloom in weeks. We didn't even notice them until he pointed them out."
Bishamon frowns. It should not surprise her: Kazuma if nothing had an eye for detail. "Where is he now?" Bishamon asks. Mineha cocks her head.
"I'm not sure..." She wrings her hands, catching Bishamon's frown. "I think he was going to go amongst your followers and get more offerings. Did I say something wrong?"
"No, of course not." Bishamon offers her a tired smile.
"I was simply curious, is all."
xXx
.
She does not hear from him. Other than the few cursory reports, all at Bishamon's behest, Kazuma all but disappears from her purview, with nothing but the continued reconstruction efforts alluding to his presence.
"Hmm? Kazu-chan?" Kofuku frowns, her pretty brow scrunched in mock concentration. "I haven't seen him! But if Bisha wants to talk to him, Bisha needs to call him."
"I know that," Bishamon says, then catches herself, inexplicably irritated at the other god, whose attention is now focused on the plate of red bean sweets in front of her. "I just find it odd. He usually comes to me of his own volition-"
But Kofuku is trying to force feed a red bean cake into her mouth, and for the moment, she has to let the matter drop.
It is disconcerting, for a lack of a better word. In all the years and all the centuries they've spent together, Bishamon had grown used to Kazuma's constant presence. He was always there, always at her side, and Bishamon had sometimes found herself matching the rhythm of his footsteps. Even in the face of Kazuma's supposed betrayal, she could not bring herself to release him.
But that is not to say Bishamon is unused to the solitude of her current days, surrounded by her shinki and human followers but without someone to share her confidence. She walks out into the garden and her shinki wave and smile; she walks back into her shrine where believers kneel and gather, praying and leaving offerings to help restore what they think is the result of some unfortunate natural disaster.
"Can you imagine? The epicenter of the earthquake right here, at the center of the shrine!"
"What a shame. And it was a beautiful temple, too."
There are government officials at her compound. Bishamon walks beside them, listening with quiet interest as they mark the areas of damage: historic monuments cracked and crumbling, sacred spaces marred with broken bits of detritus, remnants of her latest battle. Even here, Bishamon can sense Kazuma's quiet influence, having diverted these officials to their site.
"They're going to rebuild the pagoda," Tsuguha says. "I didn't think he could do it, but Kazuma-san had filed a petition for redevelopment."
"Oh?" Bishamon turns. "And how did he raise the funds?"
"I think he filed it under a 'historical preservation' provision," Tsuguha says, and Bishamon crosses her arms, impressed: there was a reason why Kazuma was her lead shinki, after all.
"Kazuma," Bishamon says, because she is too pleased with his work to let any awkwardness remain between them. A shadow forms and Kazuma apparates beside her. "I hear you're doing good work. They plan on repairing the shrine."
"I am glad to hear that," Kazuma says.
"A petition for redevelopment! I am truly impressed. How on earth did you come up with that?"
"It was not much, Bishamon-sama. Just a little bit of research is all."
"I see," Bishamon says, and they lapse into an awkward silence, Tsuguha standing between them, shifting her gaze between her senpai and her master, uneasily. "Well," Bishamon says. "I'm sure you have more work to be done."
"I do," Kazuma says, and she sees him hesitate. "Forgive me my impudence."
He seems eager to leave, and it worries her. "There is nothing to forgive," Bishamon says, and Kazuma bows, every bit as poised and respectful as ever, before Bishamon feels it: the slightest twinge at the back of her neck. But it disappears as soon as Kazuma is gone.
xXx
.
4.
Night falls, and Bishamon looks out the window for any telltale signs of gloom: the slight chill, subdued laughter, the blinking of a thousand eyes. But there are no storms tonight, just the pale wash of moonlight and the sound of rustling leaves.
"Kazuma," Bishamon says, because she is lonely and tired and she wants someone to talk to, and as soon as she calls his name, Kazuma apparates in front of her, stepping from the shadows and into the puddle of yellow light at the center of her office.
"Bishamon-sama?"
He waits; she half expects him to offer her a smile or an amusing anecdote, but there are none of those; he waits for her politely to tell him what she wants.
"How are the recovery efforts?" Bishamon says, finally. Kazuma nods, smartly.
"They are going well," Kazuma says. "Eight statues have been repaired. Twenty-six of your shinki are now fully recovered. Finally, you will be pleased to know the number of your worshippers has not wavered," Kazuma says. "You remain as beloved as ever."
"Spare me," Bishamon says, but she's surprised to see Kazuma's face unchanged, having expected him to sniff a little with disapproval or at the very least roll his eyes. But he does none of that, just watches her like the proper subordinate, hands clasped behind his back and his face a careful mask. He is probably distracted by the reconstruction process, Bishamon thinks, and she turns her teacup in her hand, frowning.
"I don't think I properly apologized to you," Bishamon says.
"Bishamon-sama?"
"For before," Bishamon says. She moves from the window to stand in front of him, crossing her arms. "You warned me about Aiha and the others, how I was neglecting them. I should have listened to your guidance. I have also been thinking about what happened with the Ma clan," Bishamon says, and she can see it: the slightest flicker of unease, before the mask clamps down again. "Kazuma. I hope...I hope you know that there is nothing to forgive. You acted in the only way you could."
"Bishamon-sama," Kazuma says, and his voice is unsteady; he reaches a hand out, as if to stroke her cheek. But he stops just short of touching her, lowering his arm.
And then she feels it, that slight pang at the base of her neck, so quick and subtle that if it were any other shinki's, she would not have felt it all.
"We have much work to do," Kazuma says. "If there is nothing else...?"
"No," Bishamon says, and for a moment, there seems to be nothing but distance between them; Kazuma nods politely, before turning to close the door.
xXx
.
5.
In all the centuries they have been together, Bishamon can only remember one time when Kazuma openly smiled.
They had been at Kofuku's for an augury. "Come inside," Daikoku said, and she and Kazuma stepped inside, standing quietly as Daikoku slid open the bamboo door.
"Ah! Bisha!" Kofuku jumped up, delighted. "I was watching this TV show and it reminded me of you!"
And Bishamon peered behind Kofuku's shoulder, eyes widening slightly as an earnest television host was interviewing a woman who hoarded cats and rotting garbage in her home.
"I am not a hoarder!"
Bishamon paced, agitated, while Kazuma stood behind her, hands politely clasped behind his back and trying not to laugh. "That idiot thinks she's so hilarious, I am nothing like that! My shinki are my children," Bishamon said, and Kazuma made a sound, something like a chuckle choked at the back of his throat, and he began to cough awkwardly, trying to hide it. "Kazuma!" Bishamon said.
"Well, Bishamon-sama...there are certain...characteristics..." he looked at her with a comically straight face as the TV flashed and the announcer exclaimed, "Remember, it's not just a pile of newspaper to them! Hoarders find value in the most worthless things!"
"Are you saying your brothers are worthless?" Bishamon said. On the TV, the hoarder with the piles of newspapers cried openly as the television crews began decontaminating her office, dumping out stacks and stacks of old wrappers and newspapers dated decades old. Bishamon thought of the souls tainted with blight, wayward children rescued from Ayakashi whose shinki forms were little better than broken mirrors or chipped ceramic cups. They were all precious, precious souls, and to suggest otherwise made Bishamon's chest tighten with anger.
And then she felt it: a hand, firm and warm on the slope of her shoulder.
"Veena," Kazuma said, and Bishamon startled, realizing in her anger how tears had stung the corners of her eyes. He stepped close and Bishamon looked away from him, glaring, all too aware of how close he was standing and how firm he was holding her arm.
"You are a kind god," Kazuma said, and Bishamon's gaze snapped back up to Kazuma's, who was watching her, steadily. "You are the most generous god I know. The things you do for those souls are nothing short of admirable. I consider it a privilege to be one of your shinki. Forgive me if I suggested otherwise."
And for a moment, Kazuma was not her shinki, not her subordinate, not a child she had rescued and taken under her wing. Standing close to him, she realized he was taller than her, and that, if she were to lean any closer, her face could fit into the crook of his chest and shoulder. The realization made her flush, embarrassed. "Idiot," Bishamon said, and Kazuma smiled at her fondly.
After that, after Daikoku begged his kami-san to please stop making fun of Bishamonten-sama, she might decide to attack us, Kazuma could not hold back his laughter, and Bishamon, exasperated, decided to let it go.
xXx
.
6.
Her shinki are her children. It is a tenet to which Bishamon subscribed religiously. Unlike other gods, lesser gods who treated their shinki like objects, disposable servants that could easily be thrown away, Bishamon considered her shinki family, each soul precious and unique and worthy of being loved.
After the purge, after her sword drove through the last of the blight and the numbers of the Ha clan had been whittled down in half, Bishamon cried openly for days, mourning each and every one she killed. She mourned in isolation, because Kazuma was still unconscious and there was no one else she could turn to, and so like the days before, she shut herself in her room, crying and curling up into herself, for days.
"Kazuma," she sobbed, because all her shinki were dead and Kazuma was the only survivor left. "Kazuma, promise me you'll stay with me. Promise me you won't leave..."
And somehow he had managed it: to swallow back the pain and guilt of it all, keeping his emotions in check to keep from hurting her.
xXx
.
After her fight with Yato, Kazuma had been unconscious for nearly a week. Every night, Bishamon kept vigil by his bedside, fingers gently combing through his scalp and the smooth skin of his temple, worrying over superficial scrapes and bruises and silently willing the large gash across his shoulder and chest to heal. One night, she slipped beside him on the futon, curling her body against his. His body was warm and she felt tears prick her eyes, thinking of how they had crossed centuries together without him so much as saying a word about his suffering. Guilt and loneliness plagued him, but she had been so wrapped up in her need for revenge, she hadn't noticed. And Kazuma was too consummate a shinki to allow his master to feel his pain.
Those nights were the worst: she vacillated between anger and disbelief, a torrent of heady emotions that she could barely identify. Anger that Kazuma had asked Yato to kill his clan. Disbelief that he could hide it from her all this time. Hurt and shock and a gnawing, aching acceptance, because her shinki had been killing her and Kazuma had saved her life. Those nights, she perched at the side of his bed and watched the way his eyelids fluttered and the steady rise and fall of shallow breathing, and she would press the palm of her hand against the clammy skin of his brow, hating herself:
Because she was a war god, because she couldn't heal him. Because she had brought this on herself and because she had caused everyone pain.
xXx
.
7.
"There is something troubling you," Kazuma says, and Bishamon shoots him a glare, mildly annoyed that her innermost thoughts could be read so plainly on her face. "Forgive me to presume," Kazuma says, quickly, and Bishamon's shoulders sag, resigned that Kazuma's singular ability allowed him to read her like an open book, so much so that he knew when to backtrack when needed.
"It is hardly fair, is it," Bishamon says. "That you know me so well you can read my thoughts, and yet yours remain hidden to me."
"What is it you want to know?" Kazuma says, and Bishamon bristles, slightly.
"A master shouldn't have to ask," Bishamon says, and Kazuma politely bows his head, the centuries spent together no doubt getting him used to her inexplicable bursts of ill-temper.
They are walking down a corridor, Bishamon in the lead and Kazuma just a step behind her, when Bishamon is suddenly aware of how close they are; one step backward and she would be flush against Kazuma's chest.
And as if reading her mind, Kazuma lets his steps fall, so that they are a more appropriate distance from one another.
"What are you doing?" Bishamon snaps, and Kazuma startles.
"Bishamon-sama?"
"Veena," Bishamon says. And then,
"You used to call me 'Veena,' before."
Kazuma doesn't say anything. Around them, their shadows cut a black swath against the torchlight of the corridor. She can't see his eyes.
"Forgive me," Kazuma says, and his voice is soft. "I have taken liberties with you I should not have. I only wish to correct it."
"Kazuma," Bishamon says, and she can see how his jaw sets, the glare of his glasses obscuring his eyes.
There have been exactly two times in their long partnership that Kazuma had willingly touched her. The first was after the slaughter of Kazuma's clan. At the time, she had no idea he was behind his kinsmen's demise. Though the blight that had plagued her had miraculously disappeared, she was wracked with grief and sadness, curling up into herself and lying prostrate on the futon.
She couldn't stop crying. Quietly, Kazuma knelt with his palms flat on the tatami mats, waiting helplessly as Bishamon sobbed and hugged herself, long strands of hair falling over her eyes.
Night fell, and soon the room was overtaken by the shapes of shadows cast by the pale moon outside. Bishamon's eyes were swollen from crying, and every muscle in her body ached. She would have fallen asleep that way were it not for the soft scrape of footsteps, Kazuma quietly standing up.
"Wait," Bishamon said, and Kazuma stopped. "Stay with me," Bishamon said, and her voice sounded just so small.
"Bishamon-sama..."
"Please," Bishamon said, and her eyes filled with tears.
"I don't want to be alone."
It was just a moment, but she could see it, the tears darkening the rims of Kazuma's eyes. Gingerly, he knelt beside her on the futon and Bishamon curled up against him, burrowing her face against the warm space of his neck and shoulder.
What must he had been feeling then? She remembers his eyes, and how she had seen them close before they could brim with self-hatred. She had no idea how much it tortured him, curling up against his body and sleeping in his arms.
The strike had come faster than she could dodge it, but it was the sudden spatter of blood on her face that made her gasp: Kazuma wheezed, his body blocking hers, as the blood from his wound slowly began to spread through the fabric of his shirt.
"It was me," Kazuma said, and Bishamon clung to him, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder. "I was the one who asked Yato to kill my clan. I'm the one who betrayed you. I'm sorry," Kazuma said, and Bishamon squeezed her eyes.
"Why are you avoiding me?" Bishamon says, and she can feel it, emotions swirling in violent eddies and coming apart at the seams. And all at once, she knows:
Because he's hurt her and she's forgiven him.
Because he loves her and he hasn't forgiven himself.
The top button of his shirt is unbuttoned, and she can see the beginnings of the scar where she had struck him: pink and translucent, the scar snakes down the slope of his shoulder and over his collarbone like an arabesque, marking him as the name branded on the dorsum of his hand.
She lets her fingers splay over the telltale scar running down the side of Kazuma's neck. Fingers the stiff fabric of his collar, lets her hands rest on the thin material of his shirt overlying the line of his collarbone. "I miss you," Bishamon says, and before he can hide it, she sees how Kazuma's eyes fill with tears.
"Bishamon-sama...forgive me. Am I hurting you?"
"Idiot," Bishamon says, and she pulls him into her arms.
xXx
.
8.
She understands why he kept his distance. They have crossed a line the night he confessed to her, but for now, it doesn't matter: she has never entertained the possibility of her mouth on his neck, or her hands on his skin, or his very uncanny ability to move exactly as she needs, because at that moment he moves to brush back the hair from the side of her face, a gesture more intimate than the feel of a man's hardness inside of her.
Above the compound, the sky is an irritated shade of gray, and the first drops of rain darken broken slabs of concrete. Within minutes, it's a downpour, the staccato sound of falling rain nearly drowning out the sound of thunder rolling in the distance. The roof does not leak thanks to Kazuma's expert work, her shinki and followers remaining thankfully dry.
He spreads blueprints on the table and smiles widely she leans against him, watching with interest as he excitedly explains the depth and breadth of their plans.
He is someone necessary to her. Not just as target guidance or power control. More than a shinki, more than a friend. And though there are no words to describe exactly what he is to her, she knows that he is precious to her; she knows that to him, he feels the same.
.
.
end.