Ghosts of Grace
The dust had grown thicker, the cobwebs more invasive. Tsukikage Sayoko reached out and then stopped, hesitating, her bare fingers inches above the mantelpiece, a sense of trepidation, a warning stirring within her. There was nothing evil here, the magics cast in this place had long since dissipated into the æther, paled in the passing of time, and yet, there were memories here, painful memories. Slowly, she drew back her hand, letting her arm fall to her side.
In this house, she had been raised, watched over by Amulet Bouma, cared for by the Skull Monsters she still thought of as her parents, the two creatures who had kept her safe in the centuries after the fall of the fall of the Hundred Tribes, waiting out the long years until the moment in which the Bouma would rise again, and she might be allowed at last to grow up.
All those years, she thought, turning amidst the dust, catching a glimpse of herself in the tarnished, fractured mirror that still hung at the far end of the dining room, her face unchanging since that day, her eighteenth birthday, when at last the truth of her heritage had been revealed—when at last she had met Hikaru.
Despite herself, despite the sadness that pervaded the old house, she found herself smiling at the thought of her husband, unable to remain unhappy whenever she recalled him.
Over the thirty years or so since meeting Hikaru, their love had only grown deeper, their commitment to one another unquestionable, and although they had slowly lost touch with their former foes—Daichi, Youhei, Shunsuke, Haruna, and, of course, Riki—their vow to one another had remained as strong as when first forged all those years ago.
Again, though, she felt the suggestion of sadness tug at her. When had been the last time they had seen the others, she asked herself, yet she knew the answer, the memory surfacing all too readily. It had been at Dr Dazai's funeral, standing in the rain, each of them looking so, so much older, whilst Hikaru and herself remained as young in appearance as when they had first met.
Such was the way of the Wandering Bouma, she thought, turning away from the broken mirror. Together with Hikaru, she had known all of the joy of being human, as well as experiencing a sadness that no mortal human could ever know, the increased longevity of their lifespans due to the Bouma blood that coursed through their veins, that cursed them to remain ageless whilst all those around them withered and grew old.
She turned to the broken window, the sun heavy on the horizon, twilight poured out over the long, overgrown grass of the yard. Why had she come here? After all these years, why had she found her way back to the old house?
The children of the neighbourhood claimed that this place was haunted, she had heard, whilst the adults shunned it as if it was cursed. In the long years since the defeat of the Hundred Tribes, she had heard similar stories about other places, a house in Nerima where a man murdered his unfaithful wife and their son, the mountains where new oni born from humanity's wastefulness and the decay of the Earth had risen to prominence two decades ago.
Her brow creased into a frown. Yes, she had certainly heard stories of them. Orugu, she recalled their title, beings with the likeness of the Bouma born out of the tragedies that had drove the fae to extinction, creatures that were neither entirely one thing nor another—creatures just like her, just like Hikaru.
That had been a discussion they had had, twenty years ago, when the Orugu Nation had become prominent; whether they, as Wandering Bouma, should usurp leadership of the Orugu, overthrow the dukes and princes who held sway over them, and guide them on a different path. Before they could act, however, they had become aware of the priestess in the rock who had put them to sleep, a guardian of ancient animal spirits, whose magics were strange and unusual to both her and her husband, an old power descended, they assumed, from the lost fae, from the ancient star beast, Rakia.
Back then, she had found herself in this house also, and in her heart, she began to wonder if perhaps she only felt the need to return when unsettled, when there was something dangerous on the horizon that she could sense but could not prevent.
The heels of her boots upon the dusty floorboards echoed as she crossed the room, standing fully in front of the broken window, the red sunlight washing over her. She placed her hands upon the old wood, standing in the same place she had stood when so, so much younger.
Whatever evil was out there, whatever danger lurked on the horizon, she believed in humanity; whatever evil was out there, she believed in the spirit of ordinary people, she believed in youth, in the magic of standing against tyranny, and she no longer felt afraid.
She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun for a moment, and let out a deep breath.
There would be a tomorrow, she told herself, and a tomorrow after that, and if ever humanity did falter, if ever the evil truly looked surmountable, then the Wandering Bouma would step in, taking the place of the faeries who no longer were with them, the beasts who slept amidst the stars, and the priestess who rested amidst her inherited magics in the rock.
She opened her eyes, the sad memories of the past dispelled, a new conviction upon her youthful face.
If ever the world needed them again, then the Wandering Bouma would once more emerge, this time fighting for love, just as her father, her true Bouma father, had always wished.
In its own way, she thought, the setting of the sun could be as beautiful as the rising of the moon.
