Chapter Text
1635 AD
Today had been long, the longest day of the year in fact. Midsummer, when the sun sat in the sky, for what felt like forever, was always busy. It was a day of celebration, of remembrance and of prayer. It took weeks to prepare for, and it always had him and Osamu at the centre.
The women of the village painted Atsumu from head to toe, white and yellow lines , wrapping around his legs, his torso, and his arms. They painted the sun symbol on his face, and told him it shouldn't be taken off until the sun went away, behind the hills. Atsumu always found this part exceptionally difficult, considering that longest day, also meant hottest.
His mother carefully dabbed the sweat from his face with her sleeve, careful not to disturb his paint.
Atsumu hated midsummer, Osamu had always loved it, said that it was his favourite festival. He enjoyed picking marigolds with their ma, giving them to the wise-women, who would turn them into paint.
Atsumu always found it much too warm, and it made him feel silly. They promised it would make him stronger, and make sure the sun knew to watch over him; when he was a hunter.
This did excite Atsumu, he couldn't wait to hunt.
Shinsuke, Atsumu's favourite hunter, always told them stories about hunting, and how he used all he'd learnt to fight the nightwalkers, and how one day, Atsumu would do the same. Everything Shinsuke knew was kept in his journal, he'd have it on his lap when he told them stories, or sometimes he'd even let them flip through its expansive pages.
Every hunter kept a journal of their own, it was tradition. They would share with each other what they knew, and pass down their work to new generations, Shinsuke Kita kept the greatest journal, or that's how Atsumu felt. Kita was a calm, reserved and orderly man. He was always kind, but Atsumu found it so hard to really know him, but his journal was a different story. Pages stacked upon pages, filled with dried herbs and embroidered talismans, it was held together by string and a little bit of hope. The order of this journal was basically incomprehensible to any man, but Kita himself. This always made Osamu complain, he said that he preferred Hitoshi's well-bound notebook, though Atsumu never complained. He copied out whole pages from the stack, sometimes letting one fall from its binds, letting fate choose what he should learn. He read the stories that Kita had shared with the paper, and he couldn't wait to hunt.
But for now, it was midsummer, his seventh one ever. He leant against his mother, and let Osamu lean against him. They watched as the beaming sun gave way for moon rise. Atsumu had always liked the moon, even if he knew that it was dangerous, and that it watched over the night. Atsumu liked to think that it watched over him too.