Disclaimer: I do not own Noragami.
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Chapter 03:
The Boy in the Woods
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Yato's fingers trembled around the shaft of the arrow—the one that was imbedded into his shoulder blade, sticking out of his back like a porcupine quill. It hadn't gotten very far—the point was dull, the wood splintered and crooked, and he chalked it up to good fortune that the shoddy marksman had managed to plug it in between his ribs.
But, gods, it hurt.
He felt the palms of his hands, gleaming with sweat and blood and grime, his fingers shaking—looking pale and slick, even in the dark of the forest. Yato's gaze traveled up his arm, and he saw through the tears in his kimono the odd bruised–color of his skin.
The Blight was spreading. Another day or two, and it would go beyond the kind of impurity that one could cleanse—it would take root in the marrow of his bones, the cells of his blood, the pores of his skin. It would imbed itself in his soul, burn him from within to without, 'til there was not a trace of divinity left.
(And all because of that shrine—that gods–damned shrine, one of the sparse few in this gods–forsaken countryside. If he had only—if he had only—)
He bit his lip. One crisis at a time, and then though, with less relish: It's gotta come out.
Yato wrapped his fingers around the base of the arrow—he prayed to himself that it would hold together; at least until it was out of his shoulder—
—He pulled—
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A scream echoed through the forest.
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Hiyori pressed her face against the coarse material of her blankets.
She felt furious tears burn in her eyes, turning the fabric soggy. She drew in a breath, and when it caught, she let it out in a sob.
"It was Yama," her father had said, with such sadness and guilt. "By the shrine—with Ami. They were praying when it came—Ami hid, but Yama…" He had sucked in a raking breath. "Yama wasn't quick enough."
Again, Hiyori let out a rough sob, gripping her sheets in her hands. It seemed so inconceivable—it was, it had to be. Now, Yama was on her deathbed, teetering between life and demise. Yet, hours ago, she and her friends had sat on the bank, talking about kimonos, and Yama had said that—
—She wished to go to the shrine.
"Maybe I should go to the shrine and pray for good luck." She had laughed.
Hiyori paused, opening her bleary, sore eyes to look at her bedding. The shrine. She had heard of it before—and not just from Yama. But where? Where—?
"Ah, by the way, you wouldn't happen to know where the nearest shrine is, would you?"
She stared at her covers.
Of course. The boy in the woods. The one who had moved with such ease—the one who had had that predatory gaze when he had circled her, like the wounded animal he very much was. The one who made her blood still and chill within her veins.
The one who had been looking for the shrine.
"Hiyori…?"
She turned her head sharply, looking over her shoulder at her mother who stood in the doorway—the bright sheen of morning light slipped through the gap between mat, screen, and perosn, blurring Chikako's image; but her voice was worried. "Are you alright?" she questioned.
Hiyori opened her mouth; then, she swallowed, licked her lips, and managed a trembling smile. "Better." She lied. "But is Yama—?"
"Your father is still with her." Chikako admitted, walking into the hut—the mat swished closed behind her, the room dimming. "And no word has been sent on her condition. Just rumors, is all." She moved to Hiyori's bedside, kneeling down; then, she reached a hand out, cupping Hiyori's cheek. "But I'm sure she'll be alright." However, there was tightness to her voice and tenseness to her shoulders, and the lines around Chikako's eyes pulled with worry.
Hiyori nodded, though she did not believe it anymore than her mother did. "Thank you." She whispered, fisting her blankets in her hands.
Chikako bit her lip, nodded, then asked, "Are you hungry?"
"N—No." Hiyori said. "I don't think I could…" she swallowed. "How's Ami?"
"She's still unconscious." Chikako said. "But she was given such a fright, Hiyori—it may be a while before she wakes up."
Hiyori nodded. Of course. It was a ridiculous question—but then again, it all seemed so ludicrous. That one moment, everything was so normal and plain, and the next, it was different and wrong and—
She looked up hesitantly, at Chikako, "Mother," she whispered, "is—is everything going to be alright?" She bit her lip.
Chikako's eyes seemed to glisten for a bit, 'til she pitched forward and wrapped her arms around her. "Yes." She whispered, patting down Hiyori's hair. "Yes, it will. I promise. I promise. I promise nothing else like this will ever happen again." She told her daughter, fervently.
Hiyori pressed her face into her mother's shoulder, wrapping her arms around her, too; and thought, with as much conviction as she could muster: No. It won't.
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Hiyori trudged up the path, bundle tucked firmly underneath her arm.
She had decided that she would not shed another tear—at least, not in the dimness of her home, with her mother's quiet sympathies assaulting her. Not while Yama was lying prone in her bedding, bleeding from wounds that would scar—if they ever healed at all. Not while Ami was inert in her futon, suffering from terror and fear, the sorts of things that Hiyori could not fathom.
And when she had decided this—decreed it—her mother had come to a resolution as well. That, if her daughter was well enough to be up and about, she was well enough to deliver goods.
"To Ami's family," Chikako had said, hand pressed to her cheek with worry. "Hatō and Mizuki must be so distraught."
Hiyori had agreed with her mother; but as she climbed the hill to Ami's humble home, she could not help the quiver of trepidation in her gut. What if they do not want to see me? What if they are angry? What if they blame me? What if—
—But, no. She shook her head, hardening her gaze and straightening her shoulders. It's the least I can do. And she walked faster up the slope of the hill.
When she reached the doorway, she bit her lip. Then, she knocked—once, twice…
The mat was pushed aside, revealing—
"—Hatō." Hiyori blinked, looking up at the haggard and worn face of Ami's father. "It—I—" she swallowed, then pulled the package out from underneath her arm, holding it out. "—This is for you. And your wife. From my parents." She clarified.
Hatō blinked, face blank as though it had been decades since he had seen another person, let alone spoke wit them. "I— Thank you, Hiyori," he managed, taking the parcel from her. He looked down. "You— Your family has been a gift from the gods, I swear it," he murmured, bowing deeply.
"I— no," Hiyori managed, "that—that isn't necessary—"
"—I mean it," Hatō said with conviction, looking up. "Without your father— Ami—" He swallowed, then averted his gaze.
"Ami," Hiyori breathed, folding her hands in front of her. "How—How is she?" She bit her lip.
"She—" Hatō's blank look dissolved briefly, and a flash of agonizing pain shown through the cracks of his façade. The look of a father, watching his daughter suffer, unable to help. "She is still not awake." He said. "Though, you— You could see her, if you wished to." He looked at Hiyori tentatively.
Should I? She wondered if it was her place, her right. But Ami… She wanted to see her—to see her friend. "Yes, Hatō," Hiyori managed, "I would like to."
Hatō nodded, "come in," and held the mat open for her.
Hiyori walked into their home, and in the dimness she saw the small room—the little hearth, the piles of preserves and herbs, and the futons in the corner.
Ami on a futon, in the corner.
"My wife is out," Hatō clarified, setting the parcel down by the wall. "But she should be back soon—in the meantime, would you like some tea, or some rice, or—?"
"—It's fine, Hatō," Hiyori assured, looking over her shoulder and forcing a smile. "I—I should be going shortly, anyhow. I have something…that I need to do, later." With that said, she crossed the room, before she reached Ami's bedside.
She looked so pale—and though it had only been a few hours since the attack, the skin underneath her eyes was dark and bruised. Her hair looked wispy, her skin seeming to hang on her bones, draped thinly.
Hiyori bit her lip, and pushed back the sting in her eyes. Then, taking one of Ami's hands—they were small, cold—she gripped it in her own.
"I promise," she whispered, devoutly, "I promise I will find who did this. For you, for Yama. I promise." Then, the sting in her eyes turned into a steady burn, and she wiped furiously at them with the back of her hand. She set Ami's own down softly on her bedding.
Hatō, all the while, had been standing in the corner, watching the occurrence with a quiet and forlorn gaze. Hiyori turned to him, her smiling trembling. "Thank you for letting me see her, Hatō," she said, adding: "I should go."
"All right…" Hatō said, watching her as she headed to the doorway. "Thank you for coming, Hiyori."
Hiyori nodded, bowing once, and glancing back only at Ami, lying still and unresponsive on her futon.
She turned and left.
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Yato leaned against the pine tree's trunk.
He could not tell what time of day it was—through the spiny branches of the pines, seemingly so far above, he could see nothing but swaths of gray–white sky. His lip curled in distaste.
(He supposed that he could climb to the branches; but, then, with all the blood loss, he might fall, and—)
—Well, a puncture wound was one thing; a broken neck was quite another. And fatal.
He snarled, leaning back against the tree—he could feel the moist earth underneath his bare feet, the rough bark against his back, and the aching throb of the bloody hole in his shoulder blade. More than that, he could feel his blood, caked dry, hard, and black against his skin, his kimono. It crossed his mind, too, that he was still bleeding—there was no clotting, no scabbing. Yato knew that this should disconcert him; but he was even more disconcerted by the fact that he, well, wasn't.
I'm going to die, he thought, without much grief, and—
—There was a snap; the sound of someone stepping on a branch and it breaking under the weight and pressure.
Yato stilled; he felt his muscles tense, and the ache in his shoulder intensified tenfold. "Damn it," he swore. Then, looking blindly around, he declared: "If you're going to come out, you might as well do it now—I can hear you."
There was the sound of leaves and dirt crunching underfoot; and then, in his bleary line of sight, there was a figure.
A girl.
The girl—the one who had sent him sprawling. She looked much the same—then again, it had only been a day or two—though her previous look of fear was replaced with one of determination; one of fury.
Perfect. Yato thought, dourly; because he knew from experience that hell hath no wrath like a woman enraged. "Why, it's you—!" he replied, voice sounding strained and slurred, despite his attempts at facetiousness. "What a coincidence, meeting one little girl in such a big forest."
She looked at him, furiously. Her eyes were pink—so odd, he thought—and narrowed. "How dare you," she breathed.
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A/N: This chapter is so late. I'm sorry—really, really sorry. But updating'll be back on track this Thursday, so, look forward to chapter four then.
On a brighter note, some more development in this chapter—not only that Yama is alive, but Yato is also in trouble, and Hiyori's none to pleased about the former. I was pleased with her character in this chapter, because of two things in particular: one, I find in most stories—fanfiction or not—that female characters are criticized for showing emotions through crying, (which I think is ridiculous), so, I wanted to showcase that Hiyori, besides being strong in her own right, has her moments of weakness. Two, in plenty of romance stories, the main characters seem to be the only characters; i.e., family and friends are sometimes considered negligible. This has always bothered me, because parents and friends have such a profound influence on a person's life—negative or positive—that I feel like they should have important parts in their children's / friends' stories. Hence, why Hiyori's mother and father, as well as Yama and Ami, play central roles in this story.
...Sorry for the rambling, (and the late update).
(Review?)
