It's raining again.
Akaashi tucks a few strands of stray hair into his jacket. From his shoulderbag, he searches for an umbrella, and unfurls it. The raindrops tap the cheap plastic covering in a pattern of long and short taps, almost like Morse code.
And he sees it then.
It's small. Caught between the trees lining the street and the garbage can, it pats its tiny paws across several puddles, and drops spray out. It shivers, and water continues to stick on its coat, glistening jewels bedecking its charcoal fur.
Somewhere across the world, there will be people, people with superstitious beliefs that would say a black cat crossing one's path is the harbinger of bad luck. Akaashi isn't one of these people, however, and he stoops down to get a closer look.
The cat's eyes glow with intelligence and cunning, but it does not scratch Akaashi's nose as it approaches with an insatiable curiosity, tempered by meekness.
"You understand, don't you," Akaashi says, stroking the wet fur. The cat emits a rumble of pleasure under the gentle touch. "How it feels to not have a home."
An idea forms in his head, and he reaches into his bag again, this time to retrieve his scarf. He wraps the little thing with the fabric, all warm and cozy, and surprisingly, the feline doesn't mind, only giving a small yawn in response.
The bundle is no longer wet when Akaashi reaches Bokuto's house. Carefully, he unwraps the kitten from the folds of the scarf, laying the animal onto the doorstep, and knocks. How many times has he been here? It's probably not a good idea to visit his charge so many times, and Akaashi decides, the dinner he agreed to would be his last.
He leaves without the faintest sound, but sticks around just long enough to feel Bokuto's happiness radiate even from afar.
:::
The forest floor sinks as his feet travel over the decay of leaves. It's uneven, and hard to trudge through. The branches hovering above refuse to let in any light as green leaves bud on the tree's bare arms, renewed by the spell of spring.
"Welcome home," Akaashi whispers to himself, as he crosses his legs into a sitting position, under his favourite tree: one not so twisted and gnarly as the others. Who in the right mind would dare to live the night here, Akaashi doesn't know, but he can't really argue, because then he'd be defying his own logic.
Maybe because there is some enticing yet horrific quality drawing him in, maybe it's because of how the forest sucks all external sound into its bowels of knobbly trees and undergrowth. The forest is a halcyon during the day, but at night, rumors of paranormal activity would rouse Akaashi from his sleep.
At night, he keeps his illusion up, blending into shadows like a chameleon. He's been woken up to footsteps and hushed voices before, and it keeps him on edge: he's unusually tired and graced with bags under his eyes in the morning.
He has yet to run into any youkai, and he'd like to keep it that way.
It's really a pity. A forest should not be associated with dark omens, aren't forests the epitome of life?
His vision darkens as his lids cover his view.
A scream echoes, rebounding off tree trunks, and Akaashi springs awake. His hands instinctively reach for the small of his back, and his illusion dissipates like ice on a warm day.
His legs are moving by themselves, plunging into the darkness, the shroud of forest whipping past him in a dark green blur. He is blinded by the lack of light, but he manages to navigate through the thick shadow until he finds the source of the scream. The instant he approaches the man, the very first thing he sees is winking lights drifting in a patch at the foot of a stunted tree. At first, Akaashi assumes they are fairy lights, or will 'o the wisps, and that gives him a rough idea of why the man had screamed. But upon closer inspection, Akaashi casts the thought away. Fireflies.
"Excuse me," Akaashi says, tapping the man on the shoulder. "Are you okay?"
The man flinches, the opposite effect of what Akaashi wants to establish, and his clasped hands detangle themselves in fright. "I'm sorry if I scared you!" Akaashi says, in his most soothing voice he can deliver. The man gulps, and nods, his glasses slipping down as he does this.
"Don't worry, I'm okay." The man pushes his glasses back up, and wipes his forehead. "Thanks for the concern. I'd better be off now."
"It's so late. Why are you here, anyways?" Aokigahara is a tourist attraction, but not so much during midnight.
The man affixes a blank stare on Akaashi, and it is this instant that Akaashi suddenly does not feel safe anymore. A sense of foreboding hammers on his chest, and he's winded, paralyzed at the prospect, at the danger in front of him.
Aren't fireflies supposed to symbolize hope and guidance?
The fireflies begin to swarm, ribbons looping around the man's waist. The man's eyes glint, and with a shock Akaashi realizes they are hollow, save for a flicker of light resembling one lone firefly acting as a pupil. And a sheaf of paper shields his eyes, much like Akaashi's own, except with a single word inscribed onto the textured paper:
蛍 Hotaru
Hitodama, souls separated from their body, taking the form of glowing orbs with tails. Fireflies, representing the souls of the soldiers who have sacrificed their life during the war. Akaashi has never put his belief in superstition, but now he wholeheartedly agrees with these representations.
A youkai baited on revenge, or seeking for help. And now he is going to take that revenge on Akaashi.
Akaashi forces every bit of illusion to disappear. He stretches out his wings to their full span, and it causes dust to plume into the dank air. "Retrieve," he shouts; the sword gleams in his hand, and he faces his opponent with grit teeth.
The first advance is done by the youkai himself. He swoops in with the full intent of injuring, a long staff hidden in his robe's sleeves, and Akaashi sidesteps, sending his katana forward. The blade misses by an inch of space; that youkai had guessed where he would strike.
A wooden stick, versus a gilded sword. Akaashi almost laughs at the notion, but he is quick to doubt his own mediocre skills. His opponent is smart. Akaashi will have to be even smarter in order to deal any damage.
He twists to his right and aims for the leg. The hustle shoots leaves up, along with age-old grime, and Akaashi tastes unappealing dirt in his mouth. The youkai jumps up as the blade swishes past in an arc.
"Would you stay still, Hotaru," Akaashi spits out, when the youkai attacks with the staff, its tip engaged and shooting towards Akaashi at a lightning-fast speed. Akaashi deflects the blow with a parry, but he can feel his muscles strain as he pushes the potentially eye-stabbing or back-whacking stick away from the vicinity of his solar plexus.
Akaashi switches the blade so that the edge would cut into the staff. The katana slips against the rotting wood, not before slicing off a good chunk of it.
With one swift motion, the youkai's foot kicks the blade on its flat side, and the blade's grip is loosened. Due to the sweat lining his palm, the sword flies out of his grasp, gyrating and flipping over as it climbs up altitude and falls. Akaashi stumbles backwards, tripping over a tree root, his fists catching his fall, clenched as Akaashi lands amongst the hellish pit of defeat. The sword stabs neatly into the dirt, between plates of rock.
Fear seizes his heart, a shawl clouding his vision, a rabid dog clawing his face into disproportion. Akaashi is regretting the decision of ever coming to this forest; he should've stayed at school, in the gym, where it is warm with comfort and of familiar people. The staff is dangerously close to the space between Akaashi's eyes.
Akaashi knows a simple "Constrict" would not hold off someone of such high level. He isn't thinking when he strokes the marking on his left hand, does not feel the liquid, either blood or shadow, leak into tributaries on his skin. Condemn, it says, and he flicks the shadow-stained hand at the youkai. The youkai lets out a screech of pain, dropping the staff with a dull thud as his arms fell limp to his sides, bound tight with silver rope to his side.
Akaashi ignores the burning sensation and speaks slowly and clearly, forcing his fear down his throat. "I suggest you don't struggle, Hotaru." He picks up a rock, glittering with remnants of iron, and handles it as if it were a baseball, up and down, up and down. "Would you like to be sealed in this rock? Or would you rather that tree over there?"
The youkai speaks, and it is derogative and slick with distaste.
"Kei."
"Wh..what?" Akaashi squeaks, and it is then he realizes just how afraid his voice has become. He doesn't mean to let his fear show.
"Not 'hotaru'." The youkai points to the kanji with a shivering finger, hands still clasped to his sides. "Kei."
"I don't think I understand." Hotaru means firefly, while "Kei", although sharing the same kanji, is a given name to males. Does this youkai actually have a name? Was he originally a human?
And then, does he still think he's a human?
"Acquit," Akaashi says, and the silver rope fades away. This one marking is easy to reverse, much to Akaashi's relief. The youkai shakes off soreness from his limbs, and coughs.
"Well, that was a fun experience." The youkai grunts. "Definitely don't want it to happen again."
Akaashi stares with wide eyes at the revelation. The youkai has since abandoned his look, reverting to the bookish man with glasses, although the staff is still present, a lingering hazard.
"So," the youkai - or man, rather - smirks, "you though I was a spirit bent on revenge or what?"
"What else would you be. And why did you scream, if it weren't to act as a trap?"
Kei crosses his arms, the staff folded across the length of his limbs. "I'm guarding this section of the forest. I work here. And I thought I saw a bakeneko. A nekomata, no less, split tail and all. "
You're a youkai yourself, Akaashi wants to bicker, but he keeps himself silent in restraint. The youkai probably knows this, and is just denying the fact out of fear, or some other strong negative emotion. Perhaps he is a lost spirit, aimlessly wandering the forest.
"I apologize for attacking you, by the way. I thought you were just another trespasser. This section is off limits, you know. See the paper strips tied on the ropes hanging in between the trees? I marked off this place with them. It's a sacred site."
"I'm sorry for trying to seal you, too. And aren't shimenawa only tied around shrines? There aren't any here."
Kei flips his staff with expert finger control. "It's used to ward off vengeful spirits, unlike me. And to keep people from disturbing tree spirits residing here. But," Kei's voice hardens, "that doesn't keep people from stumbling into this region." He blinks, as if finally seeing Akaashi properly for the first time. "Who are you, anyways?"
Akaashi took the chance to test the spirit."What if I said I was a youkai?"
"Other youkai have a hard time passing an enclosed region, so I don't believe that." A haughty air, and matter-of-factly, and it unnerves Akaashi, to an extent. "But I suppose you could be easily mistaken for one," he remarks, pointing at the silhouette surrounding Akaashi's wings, and the white, kanji-less linen.
Akaashi sighs, dusting his palms as he stands up. "I'm an envoy."
"Never heard of it."
"We act as fill-ins to the living who need support."
"Ah. Those guys." Kei's eyes narrow. "They like to trespass, that's for sure."
"I can apologize for them, if you want."
"Don't sweat it." Kei waves the offer away. "I'd just like it if they keep to their own spaces and stop bothering me."
Akaashi feels the hilt of the sword as he reaches to pick it up, and whispers a subdued "Withdraw". "I'll tell that to the rest when my current job is done."
"That would be most appreciated. Speaking of which, I've never seen any of you envoys actually try to seal me up. You're the first."
"Such an honor." Which reminded Akaashi once again that he had used the forbidden technique, and this time, it is a stronger marking, which would lead to extreme discomfort far worse than last time. He mildly curses himself mentally. It was all for nothing in the end, as Kei isn't particularly a threat anymore.
"Something tells me that you should've have done that," Kei deadpans, and Akaashi is struck with yet another spear of dread. Does this youkai know of his misdeeds? How did Kei find out? "It looks painful, the burn."
The charred skin is indeed very painful, but only at certain times at certain intervals. So the youkai was simply stating the facts presented to him. Akaashi breathes a sigh of relief, releasing a baited breath.
"If you don't mind, I'll be leaving now," Akaashi says, heading back the way he'd come. His eyes has since adjusted to the near-black woods, and he can see slivers of moonlight filter in from the forest canopy, dappling the garish ground.
"Certainly." Kei's voice grows quieter with each step Akaashi took.
"By the way," Akaashi comments, turning his head around to face the ever-shrinking figure, "you seem to be on edge around other youkai. Why don't you go live somewhere else? Like near a shrine, or something, since you're not a malevolent one."
The faint silhouette shrugs. "This is my home, and I don't think I can leave it now. Plus, I have a job to do."
Akaashi nods in understanding. "Fair enough. Goodnight."
Those words strangely mirrors his own doubting self. Has he started to consider his current situation his "home"?
His impatient thoughts surround him through the night, and he barely sleeps a wink.
