Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The ritual is a simple one.

One that even Ken's lackluster attunement can achieve. It mostly relies on the power of another, after all.

A full basin of water, placed under moonlight, the pale luminescence offering him a ghostly reflection of himself. On the roof of the highest tower in Izakina, he sits cross-legged before the basin. He draws a line around the rim of the bowl once, twice, and mutters.

"Show me my home. Show me my sisters."

He hums faintly along with it. It isn't pretty, but it doesn't need to be. Still, the notes manage to sing out in the night air, dancing in the cool breeze. The water ripples once, twice, and a light begins to shine from within, a mist flowing out.

Then, a voice emerges from the basin.

"Ken? Is that you?"

He chuckles at the familiar, anxious tone. "Who else could it be, Rin-san?"

She huffs, and he can mentally see her arms crossing. "You know well that it's for the best! I'd rather be safe and make sure that it isn't an impostor!"

"By leading with my name?"

Another huff. "Who raised you to be so impossible?"

"The same lady who raised you," he says. She chuckles, a light and airy sound.

"Fair enough, I suppose." Rin pauses for a moment. "How are things? I know Izakina isn't the most glamorous place to do work…"

"It's fine. Although, I'd think three days would be enough time to find the target, with a town this small," Ken's voice dims a bit, somberly remembering.

It'd been nice, spending some time with Momo. A welcome reprieve. An escape, even. A chance to break bread with someone and pretend his hands are as bloodless as hers.

A chivalric job, he had called it. A lie. There was no chivalry in bloodshed.

"Well, Granny certainly agrees," Rin says. "She's been… pretty honest with that."

"I assumed such. It was a relief to hear your voice in her stead."

"Don't let her catch you saying that."

He laughs, turning to the clouds above, glowing in the moonlight. A moment passes. She's waiting, he understands, for the proper report, but forming the words is hard. This isn't his first of these types of jobs, but…

"It's different, isn't it?" Rin's voice is measured, but understanding. Genuinely empathetic. "It's different when they don't deserve it."

"Mm," he hums in agreement. "I just wish Granny would tell me more. There has to be a… reason."

"I trust that there is, for whatever value that may have. I mean… she doesn't do anything lightly, right? She wouldn't order someone's death if it wasn't for some benefit," she reasons, and he agrees, just…

"Whose? Who benefits? Because for whoever the target is… they don't see any of it. They really only stand to lose, don't they?"

She doesn't reply. He understands. She agrees, after all.

"Can I ask you… why did you accept it? It was offered to all of us, and we were all told the full details of the job, so… why you?"

Somewhere in the distance, far below, he hears the gleeful cries of some village children, out far past their bedtime. Accompanying are the yells of an adult, a parent, demanding them to return. Despite everything, he smiles.

"Always wanted to see the countryside. That's all."

"Right. The countryside," she replies, even pretending to believe. She was always the kindest of his sisters. "Well… I hate to rush such a thing, but… if you care for any advice, Granny has kindly and respectfully requested us to remind you to trust your eyes, not your ears."

He snorts. "I appreciate the advice, as well as your censoring."

"It's the least I could-"

"IS THAT KEN?!" Oh no. Oh dear. "KENNNN! I hope the backwaters are treating you well! Don't you dare fall in love out there, okay? If anything, you should be thinking about your ever awaiting betrothed!"

"Aira-san…" he holds his head in his hands, releasing a long-suffering sigh. "You're my sister. You know that."

"There's not a drop of shared blood between us! You only use that to run from your own feelings!" Her voice is tinged with something between frustration and infatuation.

"Rin-san… please."

"I… well… you're the one who started calling us sisters… B-But Aira," there's a hesitation. "I… to each their own, b-but I think the whole 'sisters' thing started when you first… c-confessed? So that's as much a hint as any…?"

"Yes, I agree! A hint of his true feelings, that he continues to run away from!" Aira… as much as he did love her (in a very different way from how she loves him, mind), she had never been one to reason with. "Ken, it's okay to drop your pretexts every so often!"

"Aira-san, I promise, I would never call the woman I intend to marry a sister. I'm not… there's so many things I detest there that I'm unsure where to begin."

Aira heaves a heavy sigh, but it still manages to sound dreamy and lovestruck. "I suppose we all move at our own pace. Worry not, I will wait! Bring me something good back, and I'll be sure to forgive your hesitance!"

"Yes, yes… I already have gifts for everyone," he admits. "There's a festival in a few days, so there's a lot of merchants in town. Hopefully everyone will like them."

"I'll love anything you got me," Aira says, and her voice is drenched in utter sincerity. "Anyone who doesn't is unworthy of your time or consideration."

"Actually, Ken," Rin cuts back in. "This festival, it sounds like a big deal, no?"

"By the standard of this town, yes. It's to celebrate one of the Graces. Jorndas, I believe," he says. "Why?"

"Well, if your mark is supposedly in the area, that sounds like the perfect opportunity to find them, no?"

Rin had always been of a pragmatic nature, something he found that he was grateful for. And the more he thought about it… she was probably right. Festival meant a lot of people on the streets, meaning that when he assumed that form, he could check a lot of auras at once… maybe it wasn't as efficient as being able to see or hear them naturally, the way Granny could, but it was something. Such a powerful aura as the one Granny had described was bound to stand out.

Plus…

"Thank you, Rin-san," he says, smiling. "You're saying to take it easy until the festival, no?"

"I- th-that isn't… no! Don't turn this around on ME!"

"Oh, Ken, that's so smart of you! Conserving your energy is the wise course of action!"

"You heard Aira-san," he tries very hard not to laugh audibly. "It's for the best."

"It's for the best!"

There's a long silence, and Ken can feel the face Rin is making.

"Do what you will, but by all the gods, I will not let Granny pin your 'taking it easy' on me," she finally replies, sternly but with the note of 'big sis affection' that she's never really been able to hide.

"I'm not taking it easy, I swear," he says, trying to sound earnest. "I'll take the next few days to just… survey the area. Maybe get to know some locals."

Another long silence. A long one.

For a moment, it's only the sounds of his breathing, the water in the basin rippling, the soft night breeze…

"Who in the hells is she."

He blinks. "Aira-san, wh-what-"

"You HATE talking to strangers. You met someone, didn't you?" Unfortunately, he can feel the face she's making, too.

"R-Rin-san, u-ummm…" As always when Aira is… Aira, Rin remains Ken's chance at establishing some kind of reasoning between the two. Surely, she would step in now, and-

"Sorry, Ken, but, I mean… she isn't wrong about you disliking strangers. I've never known you to be the 'get to know some locals' type. Maybe it isn't a girl, but there's… something you don't wanna tell us about, isn't there?"

"I have no sisters."

He plunges a hand into the water, now icy from the magic, disrupting the spell and severing the connection, trying to ignore the burn of his face.

Honestly… why would they assume such a thing? Did he seem to have the mindset of the philanderer?

He was just… glad to have made a friend.

And more glad, now, to have ample free time in the next few days.

He could lie to himself, say that it gave him time to catch up on some reading, train, meditate, but…

He also truly wanted to talk to Momo again.

And his hags of sisters never needed to know about that.

In the deepest ocean,

The bottom of the sea.

The morning sun beamed bright into her closed eyes, as she squints and blinks back into consciousness. Momo finds herself sideways on her bed, bared legs dangling off the mattress, a line of drool slipping down her cheek, hair an untamed mane around her.

Sitting up, she looks around the small cottage. Two chairs, two bowls set out to dry, two servings of fish gone from her supply…

Holy shit it had been real.

Wiping the drool on her sleeve, hands coming up to try and do something to tame her hair, she made no move to fight the smile from parting her face. A smile way too big for a girl sitting in her house alone, but one she couldn't help but cherish, because…

Finally, finally, she had met someone she could talk to. Not only that, but he was fun to talk to. The Stars must have finally had mercy on her, after all this time, because they truly had sent her someone that she could…

That she could what?

She sighs, face falling a bit as she tries to work a brush through her thick auburn hair.

Right. As comforting as his presence and his attunement were, as much as she had enjoyed talking with him, this was a temporary thing, yeah? He wouldn't be in Izakina forever. He had said as much himself.

She wonders what it must be like, to move around as much as he seemed to. He said his home was in the capital, but he was clearly no stranger to the road. The life of a vagrant hadn't appealed much to Momo, she had settled in the most convenient place she could find, as soon as she could find it. Still, she couldn't claim any particular attachment to Izakina.

No. The more pressing matter was one that she wants to forget. That her body won't let her forget.

Her eyes trace the line of her legs, from her bare foot, to her shin, bruised from something or another, before landing on her right thigh. There, stretching from her inner thigh, carving a canyon across her leg before arcing up to her waist, is the scar. The reminder.

True and proper friends were simply not a luxury afforded to Momo. Ken was… a breath of fresh air, one that she would value and treasure in the time that she could, but… she has to stay realistic. Pragmatic. She can't get carried away, not again.

But… a friend. Is it so wrong to hope?

Hells, this is all assuming that she's being… well-adjusted and not latching on unhealthily. It's a big assumption to make, that he would actually… y'know, wanna come back-

She hears it before the knock lands on her door. Blissful, blissful chord. F major 7.

Was he… was he seriously already here?

She looked down at herself. Hair still a mess. Eyes still crusted from sleep. No pants, and an oversized, ratty cotton sleep shirt.

A knock on the door. "Momo-san? It's Ken!"

She squeaks.

Okay. Okay, he was outside. To see her. To see her? Like he said he would. Okay, he wasn't just… trying to placate her. Huh. She'd been worried about that. A little. A lot. But he actually wanted to talk to her more. That's okay. That's.

"O-One s-s-sec!"

Okay, so she has five minutes to get ready before she's ruined it forever, and she doesn't necessarily know what it is, but she knows that, at the moment, there is nothing more important than not ruining it, so she has to pull together and get everything sorted properly because he cannot see her like this or she will most assuredly die and the Ayase line really will just be ruined forever, and also he actually came to see her what the hell is happening so she has to finish brushing her hair (pull into a ponytail that hopefully looks dignified and not bedraggled), do her morning routine (splash water in her face and pray that the crust has fully left her eyes), put on her finest clothes (a red pair of puffy pantaloons, moccasins, and a blouse with a floral design), and then sprint for the door (she trips over his chair from the night prior. She hadn't pushed it in all the way. It's the first time that chair had moved since she'd gotten it).

And so the door flings open, startling the boy on the other side, eyes composed of all the warmth in the world taking her in, as she leans on the side of the doorframe. She hopes he doesn't notice how heavy she's breathing, the sweat from exertion that beads on her forehead. He carries a small wooden box under one arm, and has the slightest of bags beneath his eyes.

"G-Good mornin'," she says, offering her best and most polite smile, before noticing… "Whatcha got?"

Ken tilts his head to the side, something that, combined with those doe eyes, gave him all the look of a confused puppy. "Did… did you just wake up?"

"GAH!" She turns, leaving the door open for him to follow, marching into her home and flopping on her bed with a pout. "You can't hold this against me, ya hear? Who shows up this early?"

"Momo-san, it's two hours past noon."

A sunset red explodes across her face that has nothing to do with the rush she'd been in. To make matters so much worse, he's giving her a stupid little smirk, eyes gleaming with an unspoken tease. She's annoyed by it, but unfortunately, the fact that he's in her house again, sitting at her table again, it balances out well enough. Still…

"Whateverrrruh," she lays on her back, crossing her arms with a hmph. "Showin' up at my doorstep just to judge me… swear… I was up late doin' important things, ya know."

He has the godsdamned nerve to laugh. A stupid sound that she doesn't care for one bit. She doesn't think about how his pretty, melancholic attunement seems to get lighter as he giggles. She doesn't enjoy the comfort that swells in her chest. It's just a normal laugh. She's just far removed from what's normal, so it happens to stick out. Yeah.

"It was probably close to midnight when I left. What 'important things' could you really be up to at that hour?" The notes of his laughter still linger in his voice, and her stomach tightens.

"W-Witch stuff," she mumbles, rolling forward to sit up. "Anyway, whatcha got in the box?"

"Oh!" He perks up, eyes glimmering, as he places the wooden compartment on her table, careful to avoid any scratches. Momo rises, padding over to peer over his shoulder as he opens the little wooden box. What she sees almost draws a squeal of excitement from her, hands coming to his shoulders, gripping tightly.

"You brought me food?!" Maybe he had guessed the way into an Ayase's heart, because in the box, wrapped in thin linen, lay two servings of onigiri, both almost comedically large, but perfectly constructed in a way Momo never had the time or patience to learn how to do. "Did you make these?"

"Oh, Graces no. I'm fairly hopeless at anything culinary," he says, squirming a bit under her hold. "B-But, you were kind enough to offer me some food last night, and so, I just thought… it doesn't sound like you get to town often, so… maybe…"

He shuffles a bit, again, as though suddenly nervous. It prompts an obnoxious snort from her, glad to see that she isn't the only one overthinking for no reason. Maybe he was in a similar boat as her?

"And if I didn't like onigiri?" Her voice comes out as a tease, and he folds his arms petulantly.

"Then you would have seen how willing I am to be a glutton," he huffs. "I grew up with too many siblings to not know how to put food away quickly when I must."

She laughs loudly at that, some small part of her mentally cringing at how undignified she sounds, but he doesn't seem to mind, a smile replacing his mock-scowl.

"Well, luckily, I do like onigiri and I haven't had it in years," she says, crossing the table to take the seat across from him. "So thank you for the food. And… for coming around again."

"You don't have to thank me for that," he answers, earnestly. "I enjoyed your company."

Momo might be killed by this idiot pretend-knight, because how can someone go from shifting and shambling so nervously over bringing her a meal, and then say that so easily, with such a straight face?

"Y-Yeah, well… Was nice, talkin' to someone again. 'S'been a while," she mumbles, brushing her bangs out of her face as she pulls one of the riceballs out of the container.

"Mm," he hums, a sound of acknowledgement. "People around here aren't to your liking?"

There's a knowing tone in his voice, like he's already aware of this. "Eh. Most people just… aren't for me, I guess. And groups can kinda overwhelm me."

"Fair enough," he says. "You're not from Izakina, right? Heard one of the vagabonds say something to that effect, yesterday."

She feels a bit of her guard go up, out of simple habit. Redirect. She needs to redirect, now. "'Vagabond,' again with your flowery talk. Who says that?"

There's a moment before he responds, as he scans her face, looking for something. What, she wasn't sure. After a moment, he chuckles a bit.

"You can just say if there's things you don't wish to share," he says, and she stiffens, free hand digging into the uneven wood of the table. "I will not pry into what is yours. You seem the private type."

It's the first time either has addressed the walls between them. He refused to share his family name, and the nature of his work. She, similarly, had also refused to share her own family name, as well as why she, a young woman who had been trained in spellsinging, was out in the backwoods of Kamira. Both of them held a lot of secrets, she supposes.

Still… he had told her where his home was.

"Kamigoe," she says, quietly. "Haven't been there in quite some time."

"The old capital?" He lights up at that, leaning forward over the table. "I've always wanted to go! I hear that, since it's such an old city, you can see a lot more influences from past eras! There's even a nickname reflecting that, I think… what was it…?"

"The City of Yokai," Momo says, with a crooked smile on her face. Internally, some part of her screams that she needs to shut up, that it was a mistake to even let this much slip. "People say it's cursed 'cause of that, ya know? Surprised a boy from Rukio would be into that."

"Do you think yokai are something to be feared?" It's a question that he asks with a surprising level of importance, as if her answer will mean a lot either way.

"I mean," she shrugs, shrinking a bit under the intensity of his gaze, pulling her bangs in front of her as a curtain, "they're supposed to be evil, yeah? Evil 'n' dangerous?"

He shrugs, cocking his head to the side. "Sure, people say that, but… I dunno, have you met a yokai?"

"Not that I… know of?" She laughs a bit at the absurdity of the question. "Have you?"

"No," he says, pulling his eyes to the thatch ceiling. "But I like to think… maybe they aren't all evil. Stories can only say so much, right?"

She hums at that, considering. "Guess it doesn't make much a difference, though. Since they're extinct, 'n' all."

"That furthers my point," he says, looking her in the eye again, a melancholic smile donned to his features. "We have no way of knowing if yokai were all that bad. What if it was all just tall-tales and justification for what Kamirans did to them?" At long last, he takes a bite of his onigiri, chewing for a moment. "I suppose I like to think… that I could even befriend a yokai, no matter what people may have said about their ilk."

Momo feels something in her chest move. He doesn't linger on the moment, continuing on to talk about the architecture he's read about in Kamigoe, but Momo finds that she can't leave it. 'No matter what people may have said…'

She shouldn't hope. She can't. It would be wrong to put the expectation on him, unfair to raise her own hopes in such a way. The Ayase blood sat burning and heavy in her blood, a brand she could never truly escape.

And yet, as her eyes trace his gentle countenance, the softness of his boyish cheeks, his genuine smile as he rambled on and on, she felt that awful feeling in the pit of her stomach. That most dreaded, sinking ship of an emotion.

Hope.

Hope.

What is hope to a killer? To someone with bloodied hands?

The question plagues Ken more with each passing day. Each day the festival grows closer, the more he finds himself choked by hope, of all things. Hope that the mark won't be there, hope that he'll get to stay in Izakina a while longer, hope that he'll get to see Momo more, and hope that his bloodied hands may, at least, be spared the blood of an innocent.

He finds, more and more, that the second he leaves Momo's welcoming presence, dread forces its way down his throat. Over the next three days, his life is a cycle of bringing lunch to Momo's home, sitting with her until dinner, which she excitedly prepares, before leaving to go back to his small tavern room. There, he meditates until sleep takes him, for a few hours, before he wakes and repeats the cycle.

Momo, he finds, is a welcoming reprieve from that looming shadow in his mind. It's nice, being able to pretend that he was someone who deserved the friendship of someone like her. He only finds her easier and easier to speak to, to the point that he occasionally has to remind himself to stop talking, to not reveal too much. Even so, despite both of them carrying things they cannot share with the other… there's still something so warm about her. Something he is wholly unused to.

They rarely talk about anything of much importance. She is far more well-read than her limited bookshelf would imply (noble-born?) and loves talking about literature of all kinds. She tells him a great deal about the Stars (a miko in training?), both of the religious side, as well as pointing out every constellation that would shine in the night sky, under the teal blue light of the rings. She seems careful not to ever reveal anything too personal, but he wonders if she has to fight the same natural desire to open up that he's been faced with.

Regardless of any circumstances surrounding them, he still enjoys the time he spends with her thoroughly. Yet, it does little to ease the weight of the encroaching festival, and as the day draws nearer, that weight grows heavier.

"Ken? You okay?"

He startles a bit, pulled back into the moment. Right. Day before the festival. Momo had run out of fish, so they were out by the Vambrace River, in hopes of catching dinner. She had rolled the legs of her pants up, waded shin-deep in crystal blue water, looking back at him with… something in her eyes.

Something he'd grown more and more aware of. The look of someone who's afraid that the dream is ending.

"Yes, sorry," he says, waving a hand. "Work stuff, I'm afraid."

"Work stuff," she repeats, grinning as she turns away from him, casting a line out. "So mysterious. I'm not the type to blab, ya know? If you wanted to talk more about it."

So she's guessed that his work isn't legal. He'd assumed as much. Still…

"It's… it's okay." He believes her, trusts that she wouldn't reveal him, but he simply couldn't bear to see her face, upon her realizing what he really is. "I think I'm just stressed. Tomorrow may be my last day in Izakina."

She stills at that, eyes still faced away from him, but he can see her posture grow rigid. He should have mentioned this sooner, too. He had a feeling it was going to be difficult for her to-

"Ah, that's the worst!" She turns, looking at him with a playful scowl. "You suck, dude. Shoulda told me! I woulda made ya somethin' much nicer than fuckin' fish."

"I-I'm sorry, but I w-wouldn't want you to go out of your way l-like that!" He rises to his feet, raising his hands placatingly. "I wasn't sure how to tell you…"

"What, ya thought I'd break down again?" There's a tease in her voice, but he thinks there might be a sadness in it too. "I knew this was temporary. I may've had to remind myself, but it was in the back of my mind, at least. Just glad to've made a friend, y'know? And glad that friend could be you."

Vaguely, he's aware of the sound of water moving past, meandering lazily down the river. The river Kamira crossed so long ago, to fight and die in a land far from home. The river that Momo now stands in, and he thinks that maybe there are things worthy of fighting and dying for, even if King and Country were the last things he'd consider to be worthy.

But a girl smiling at him, wine-red eyes shimmering with some sacred concoction of joy and sadness, as she tells him that she's glad to have befriended him? That would be something worthy of death.

His breath catches for a moment, as a bit of the late afternoon sun basks her in light, the water reflecting onto her face in a way that almost gives her the appearance of divinity. Ken has never been one to consider people beautiful, or rather, he was the type to consider everyone beautiful, in some fashion or another, so the word isn't necessarily an expression of a romantic desire. Beauty was Rin, in her patience. Beauty was Aira, in her passion. Beauty was Unji, in his providence.

And yet, for the girl in front of him, beauty loses all meaning, just to regain one that she's made hers and hers alone.

A random girl, in the middle of nowhere, worthy of dying for. Of redefining the meaning of beauty.

A girl worthy of more than he could ever provide, were he the richest in all of Kamira.

"C-Can I… ask something personal?"

Her smile drops, her free coming to her hair. "Sure? What's on your mind?"

"I just… I'm sorry if this is… prying, but you seem so personable," he says, pretending not to notice the pink on her cheeks. "It's hard for me to understand how more people haven't taken a shine to you. Are people of Izakina really that bad?"

She watches him for a long second, eyes darting back and forth between both of his, before she comes to a decision, and releases a sigh. She trudges through the water back to the river bank, planting the fishing rod into the mud as the line continues to swim freely, before Momo sits at Ken's side, still-wet legs stretched before her.

"Siddown," she mumbles. "Don't wanna be talkin' up atcha."

Fair enough, he sits by her side, his eyes remaining on her side profile. She watches the water intently, as though determined to not look his way.

"I told ya that I was trained to spellsing, yeah?" He nods. It's something that's been at the core for a lot of his theories. "Well… part of the reason I was trained for it, even without much actual ability for it… there's just some things about me that should make me good at it."

"Like perfect pitch?" It was a deeply envied trait in spellsinging. In theory, it gives a spellsinger even greater control over their art, especially for modulators, even more so for improvisors, or soloists.

"Like perfect pitch," she repeats, with an embittered smile. "But that ain't all. I, um… I've always been able to… hear other people's attunements. For as long as I've been alive."

His eyes widened. That… he only knew of one other who could do that, and she wasn't even human. An innate ability to hear the attunements of others, even when they weren't projecting it? That was…

As humans go, the only thing that even compared were the Shiratori, Enjoji, and Ayase clans, who were often born with the innate perception of their own attunement. It gave them a head start with spellsinging, as the biggest barrier for entry to most was nonexistent for them. To be able to perceive others… there were certainly some advantages that it could give you, but…

"Doesn't sound like that would be a good thing," he says, furrowing a brow. "Mostly sounds… overwhelming, if I'm honest." Then, realization. "Ah. Crowds. That's… a lot of noise. I can't even imagine."

Momo snorts, eyes darting back to him. "Yeah, you can say that again. Even a small town like Izakina is usually too much for me."

"I'm sorry, that's a heavy thing to carry," Ken says. "Still, I… is there something about me that's so different? I don't mean to pry, just… I want to understand, is all."

She hesitates. He can see it in the way her cheek divots, as she chews on it, gaze going back to the water as she buries her chin to her knees.

"Make fun o' me and I'll kill ya," she grumbles into her skin.

"I would never," he says with a chuckle.

She sighs, gathering herself. "I think people's attunements say a lot about 'em, y'know? Every attunement I've heard just fits the person in some way or another, and… you gotta really approachable attunement, I guess. 'S'nice. Comfortin'."

It takes Ken by surprise. His attunement was painfully simple, plain, he'd always known that. It's the reason he couldn't really modulate, key-changing was essentially all you could do when your attunement was as bare as a single chord, played ad nauseam. When he was younger, he'd been pretty insecure about it. Less so now, but even still…

"This might be the first time I've ever been glad to have such a boring attunement- OW!"

She had smacked his arm, hard enough for it to sting a bit, and now she's glaring at him from her perch atop her knees, eyes aflame in the sunlight.

"Don't ever say that bullshit in front of me again, ya hear?" She scoffs, arms coming around to hug her legs against her chest, toes digging into the mud of the riverbank. "It's peaceful, approachable, and… shit, I dunno. You. It drowns out how messy everything else is. Liked it enough to get over you makin' an ass outta yourself, so it's gotta be good for somethin'."

"I thought that was due to my charming apology," he says, hoping the humor in his voice will distract from the burning on his face.

"I mean, didn't hurt, sure, hearin' all your storybook chivalry talk. Really know the way to a girl's heart with that," she teases, sticking a tongue out at him.

"Well, then I suppose the chivalry talk is a boon worth having, isn't it?"

She lets out a snort, shoving her shoulder into his gently, before a quiet moment passes. She remains there, leaning on him.

Something Ken had tried not to think too much about; how insistent she is upon touch. Not in a pushy way, or in a way that ever crossed any kind of boundaries, more that she seemed to take any excuse she could find for physical contact. Maybe it was another facet of her loneliness, and she was just touch-starved.

Whatever it was, he didn't exactly have it in him to complain about it.

"Wish ya didn't have to leave, though," she says after a minute or so, her voice soft. "Sorry, guess that's a shitty thing to throw atcha."

"N-No, it…" it's touching, really. That their interactions, however brief, have left her wanting more. And Graces know, did he want more-

Everybody leaves…

It strikes him then. A thought he knows to be selfish, to be inconsiderate, to be desperate, but he has no power over what he wants, and what he wants…

And, perhaps, perhaps, what she may want, too…

"Momo-san," she turns to face him, a brow raised. "What if you came with me?"

The words force their way out of him, because he understands that if he didn't ask, if he didn't at least try, he'd spend the rest of his life trapped in a what if. And he would hate himself for that.

And so, he must ask. He must. He is not the richest in all of Kamira, and he may never be worthy, but… he can't accept a what if. Not here.

She balks at him for a moment, eyes wide and almost unseeing. Her cheeks flush a shade of red that he's found himself quite attached to.

If they get the chance…

"B-But, you… y-you live in the capital, r-right? With a big ass family?" She was stammering a bit, a hundred different feelings flashing across her face. "I-I don't-… c-crowds are rough for me…"

"You said my attunement drowns the rest out, right?" He leans forward, trying to get a better look at her face as she tilts away from him. "I'd be with you the whole time."

She's locked on to him, he can almost swear she's holding her breath, her mind moving a thousand miles a minute. But somewhere, somewhere deep in those eyes of fire and sunbursts, there's that same rising tide of emotion he recognizes from within himself. Hope. A hope burning, begging to be freed, to be realized, and as her lips slowly curl into a grin.

And this… is my-

Something changes. He isn't sure what. Her hands, previously at her side, come to her right leg, rubbing at her thigh over the pants leg. Her lips flatten, eyes dim, as she turns back towards the winding river. Above, a cloud lazily settles before the sun.

He knows the answer before she speaks it. It doesn't prevent the ache that accompanies her words, voice soft, almost defeated.

"I'm sorry."

Ken can't recall ever hearing a rejection that sounded so… small.

"I-It's not that I don't want to… really. I just… I don't think I can leave Izakina." Sad eyes turn back to face him, and he knows that something has just shifted between the two of them. While before, there may have been topics of conversation that were off-limits, a mutual and unspoken agreement to stay away from that which should not be brought to light, now was the first time he ever thought she seemed guarded.

But even guarded as she may be, he could still see the reddening along her eyelids. She was fighting it. She was trying not to break down where he could see.

"I-I'm… I'm sor-"

"That's okay," he says, offering the most genuine smile he can. "You have nothing to apologize for. It's asking a lot of you, expecting you to uproot your entire life for someone you've known for only a few days."

Her eyes linger on him, a thousand unspoken words flashing behind them.

"Stars," she mutters, leaning against him once again. "You're a dangerous man, ya know? 'S'hard to deny ya anything when ya look at me like that."

Ah.

Her words are said in good spirit, perhaps hoping to assure that there's no hard feelings. But as she continues to lean on him, as she returns to her fishing, as they walk home and eat together, noticeably more quiet than usual, it lingers in the back of his mind.

A dangerous man. He is. And in his moment of weakness, he'd forgotten.

Momo had rejected him, and maybe that was for the best.

Bloodied hands ought to stay away from innocent people.

A dangerous man. It was all he would ever be.

I get eaten by the worms,

and Weird Fishes.

Momo feels sick to her stomach.

From the moment she turned down the lifeline unjustly thrown to her, she had felt truly and utterly sick. She couldn't find it in her to say much as they walked back to her home, she picked at her food apathetically as they ate, and more or less wasted what little time they had left.

All because she couldn't get over it.

He had handed her everything she had wanted. The chance at a friendship that wouldn't end tomorrow. The chance to see more of the world, to be able to talk to someone she was so charmed by, and whose presence would let her talk to others in turn.

But she knew. She knows. She carries the proof with her every day. A cut rent into her flesh, from the last person she had called a friend.

Ken is fun to talk to. His attunement is lovely and gentle. He's been so kind with her at every turn. That's the version of him she wants to see walking away from her. The version that never knew he was cavorting with a girl of a blood most fell. She thinks the sight of such gentle brown eyes turning violent and hateful may well be her undoing.

It's better this way. Even if it cuts deeply, even if it's in defiance of what she truly wants, what she longs for, she knows this is what's best for them both. It would be so unequivocally selfish of her to indulge in such a dream, one that would only bring the both of them pain, in the end.

Let her be the kind girl he stumbled upon, to be forgotten in due time. She may spend the rest of her life pining, wishing that he had known her truly, but that was preferable to the harm she would cause him if he were to see what she truly is. It's for him.

She sighs, staring into the bowl before her. As she… well, as she bereaves for something not yet dead, Ken has sat quietly, politely. He'd been quiet too, picking at his food in much the same vein she was. Disappointed. Another person she'd begun to admire, disappointed in her.

She should be used to this, but it never really gets easier. No, the pain just follows her, always waiting in the periphery of her mind. Her scar burns. She doesn't want him to be disappointed with her. She doesn't want him to think lowly of her. She wants… she wants.

"Momo-san?" His voice, gentle and still too sweet calls her back to the moment. He watches her from across the table, face painted by the intersection of pale moonlight and orange candlelight. Eyes that she had wounded, that she had visibly hurt, now looked at her as easily as he had.

She hadn't really been joking earlier. If she looks into those eyes too long, she'll lose all sense. She just knows she will. She'd agree to anything he suggested. What a terrifying concept.

And still, that small inner voice screams at her, begs her to reconsider, begs her to forget every lesson she's learned about trust and start anew. With him.

Selfishly, she turns her eyes back to her uneaten food. "Yeah?"

He's quiet for a moment. Perhaps trying to find the most gallant, chivalric way of telling her what a fool she is. Or perhaps looking for an excuse to-

"It's late," he says. Ah. It was option two.

"Yeah," she acknowledges, before looking up to him once again, injecting as much false cheer as she could manage. "Wouldn't want a big bad spellsinger like you to get eaten up by ghouls 'n' goblins."

She gives a little chortle that rings false to her own ear. His face doesn't change, not smiling, but not frowning either. Gentle. So godsdamned gentle.

"I take it you won't be at the festival tomorrow?" Her brow quirks up at the change of topic.

"Nah," she says. "Even settin' attunements aside, I don't care much to be around most'a the people in Izakina."

He offers a small, understanding nod, before rising. "I… I'll come by tomorrow night, b-before I go. And… the proposal still stands."

Her face flushes a bit at the phrasing, but more than that, she feels her heart ache in her chest. He may try not to show it, but he can hear the hopeful undertone in his voice. So afraid of pressuring her, he's trying to push it down. All the while, that stupid fucking attunement continues to lure her in. Continues to drill through the walls she's placed up. Whispering so sweetly to her, how easy it would be to forget, to forget, to forget.

Her scar burns.

"I-It'll be the same answer," she says, and she knows how defeated she sounds.

"And if so, I'll accept that," he replies, a smile so soft she could sleep on it. "But even so, I… I'd like to see you again, before I go. If that's… if that would be-"

"Yes," she breathes. "Please do."

She should feel embarrassed, speaking so openly. But he's staring at her, serene and lovely in the moonlight, and she simply does not have it in her to say anything but the truth. At least about this.

This friendship may be brief, but she wants to cherish it for as long as she can.

His smile shifts, falling from his lips. "Let me help you clean."

It's another quiet process, but it at least feels… different. Less heavy. Really, on some level, she's just soaking in his aura and his presence as much as she can. In a sense, she wonders if he's doing the same.

At the door, as he's about to leave, she allows herself one impulse. As he turns, looking ready to exchange a hesitant farewell, she pulls him into a hug. With his boots on and her only wearing slippers, they're the same height, perfect for tucking her face into the crook of his neck. He immediately tenses, arms flying up as though his hands aren't allowed to touch her, and it's kind of like hugging a suit of plate armor more than a person with how rigid he is, but it's okay.

As before, as with every time she's ever touched him, it's like everything makes sense. Like there's a clarity, of thought, of feeling, of understanding. It's all she could do to not be physically attached to him at all times. It's… it's soothing and addictive and safe and lovely and

tomorrow she

loses it

forever.

The first sob that leaves her is perhaps more surprising to her than to him. The second drives him to action, arms finally, finally wrapping around her. Soothing circles in the small of her back as she cries, feeling so foolish for such a display over someone she doesn't even know the last name of, and yet it's been years since she's felt this… heavy.

He doesn't ask anything. Doesn't try to draw any words from her. He just lets her cry into him, holding her like she'll fall apart if he doesn't. He isn't wrong.

"S-Sorry," she chokes. She doesn't even know what she's sorry for. "I'm s-so sorry."

"Shh," he whispers. "You've done nothing to apologize for. I'm very glad to have met you, Momo."

Just Momo. No honorific.

It makes her cry harder, pathetic as she is, because her heart soars for a fleeting, Icarian moment, before crashing back into the waves below.

Because she wants. She wants and wants and wants, and now, the Stars were cruel enough to offer her what she could never have. Not when her blood cosigns her to her solitude. Not when she's disappointed everyone she's ever loved.

What, in all of the fucked up, hellish depths of Momo Ayase, could ever be worthy of the friendship he had so kindly offered?

She breathes. Slowly. In and out. One moment at a time.

When she at least has herself back under some level of control, she pulls back, offering Ken the most apologetic look she can. His eyes watch her, brown made gold by the orange flame of the candles. Eyes that look at her with a kindness she could never meaningfully lay claim to. A kindness she-

"I'm an A-"

The words catch in her throat, as the moonlight glints off the shortsword at his side. A sword she's never seen him lay a hand on, a sword she frequently forgot he even carried. Yet, it's there. Waiting.

She looks up into his gentle eyes. He wouldn't. He wouldn't.

But she never thought Jiji would either.

"Thank you," she says, eyes dropping to her feet. "F-For everything."

"There's nothing to thank-"

"It's getting late," she cuts him off. "It's a bit of a walk back to the town… you sh-should head out."

He hesitates. He sees it in the way his boots shuffle, uncertain. Sees it in the way a hand occasionally moves into the edge of her vision, before freezing.

Twice now, she's rejected him.

"O-Okay," he says, with a lilt of false cheer to his voice. "I-I'll see you tomorrow, M-Momo-"

"I, um…" she wants to see him she wants to see him she doesn't want it to be over yet she isn't ready to say goodbye yet she wants to hug him again she wants to talk to him more she wants to know his last name and his sisters' names and his favorite song and she wants to tell him everything she's ever felt in the five years she's had no one to speak to no one to love her no one to look at her the way he does

"Y-You should… You should head home, I think. After the festival. Get on the road earlier, y'know?"

This life has never been about what she wants.

She accepted that long ago. She only forgot due to kind eyes and a soothing aura and a truly special boy.

"…I see." Boots shuffle again, before slowly turning. He's trying so hard to keep a neutral tone, Momo can tell. Maybe he's angry. Maybe he hates her. Maybe he should. Maybe that would be-

Boots turn back to her.

Hands take hold of her shoulders. Firm, strong, but gentle.

"Look at me?"

She blinks once. Again. A third.

Eyes slowly climb up the boy before her. She doesn't see the sword. She doesn't see the leather armor. She doesn't see the spellsinger.

She sees ever-gentle eyes, rimmed with tears.

She sees a smile that feels like it was meant for her and her alone.

"I wish I didn't need to leave," he admits with a soft, sad little laugh. "But even so, your company has been… special to me. Whatever it is you face, you will overcome."

Then, his hands are gone, as he steps out her door, into moonlight. He turns back to face her once more, sad crescent smile still present. "Goodbye, Momo-san."

And then his shoulder turns, as she watches his retreating form.

Two minutes.

It takes two minutes for him to fully leave her sight. In those two minutes, there are perhaps a thousand times when the dam almost shatters, when she almost breaks and screams her full name, begs for him to still smile at her like she could be something deserving of such warmth, and asks him to take her with him.

Two minutes of hellish inaction, before she slams her door shut, collapsing on the other side, a mess of sobs and cries and some pathetic sounds that no functional human would ever make.

A cursed creature.

A wretched creature.

A creature given what she wanted, only to be denied it.

All because she cannot pay the price of trust in blood. Not again. Never again.

…right?

Yeah, I…

Bloodied hands.

What Ken's learned about bloodied hands; the blood never comes off.

The first time he killed, he was eleven. He still remembers it. Remembers the older boy beating him so fiercely, Ken thought he would die. A broken bottle had been all it took. He hadn't meant to kill him. He'd tried so hard to stop the bleeding. So hard, as he watched the life drain from the poor boy's eyes. Watched the hate give way to fear. The fear give way to desperation. The desperation give way to panic. Until it all ended at once.

He'd washed his hands in the nearest river he could find. Scrubbed them raw with pumice stones until he couldn't tell what blood was his and what was his victim's. The blood remained.

Even after Turbo Granny found him, after meeting his sisters, after growing into someone that could defend the people he loves, the blood still remains.

He accepted this some years ago, that the blood would follow him for as long as he drew breath. Such was why he chose to take the missions he did. Aira hadn't had to kill. Rin hadn't had to kill. Unji hadn't had to kill. Ken's hands were already bloodied. And bloodied hands needn't worry about purity they could never recover.

So let him take the assassination jobs. Always targets that deserve it, of course. Traffickers, crimelords, murderers, the like. Bloodied hands can grow bloodier still. All the better, if it prevents those with clean hands from… from becoming like him.

But bloodied hands could only ever be bloody. They cannot heal others. They cannot provide comfort. They cannot hold others the right way, cannot soothe that which disquiets them. No. They were of killing, for killing, and in peacetime could only be allowed to rust and to wither, as all weapons should during peaceful eras.

Bloodied hands could not bring comfort to the girl that had cried against his chest.

Bloodied hands could not assure her that everything would be okay.

Bloodied hands could not convince her to leave with him, nor show her that he accepted her refusal to do so.

Rin could have. She was sweet, good with words. She knew how to heal people's hearts in a way Ken never could. Aira could have been more convincing; as stubborn as she was, her determination was always so easy to have faith in. Unji, in his own stoic ways, knew how to make others feel protected. Like he could shield them from anything the world may throw at them, in the same way Ken himself always sought to.

Momo's luck might have been rotten. Of his siblings, any of them could have done more, done better for her than he had.

But bloodied hands do not exist without purpose, even with one as grizzly as his.

The festival had started sometime ago. The moon hung low in the sky, the light recently faded. The streets were busy. He sat atop the same tower he had called his sisters from the day previously. A good vantage point. The wind was cold, but when he was like this, everything was cold.

The streets below were awash with lights of various shades, only some which were natural, perceived by the naked eye. The rest, auras that could only be seen by those with the gifts to see them. And like this, he could.

A key-change. The core component of his spellsinging. Reshaping the core fundamental of his aura, and letting it reshape him in the process.

It was the worst. It hurts. Really, it was agonizing.

But it made bloodied hands easier to live with.

Looking out over the town, he wasn't sure precisely what he was searching for. Granny had given him a very "you'll know it when you see it" sort of briefing, so it wasn't particularly helpful. Ah, well.

He still wasn't all that hopeful that they'd be here. Really, he'd love to report back that this mysterious mark has left Izakina, that he was wasting time, that maybe there was no need for this hit to be placed at all.

But if they were here… well, better it be him than anyone else.

No one should know the look of someone's eyes as life fades from them.

A killer cannot unbecome a killer. It was all he could ever be.

Better that Momo push him out. Even if it cut deep, he could accept it. Accept that this was for the best, for her. And for him. A reminder of what he is.

A reminder that he cannot escape his own bloodied hands.

I hit the bottom,

and escape…

Momo Ayase is a wretched creature.

A fool, an idiot, a jester for an audience unknown to her, dancing on a stage she cannot see, reading from a script she does not have.

After a day spent oscillating between staring blankly at the ceiling, screaming into her pillow, and crying pathetically, she finally rises.

A fool, an idiot, a jester.

She wants and wants and wants still. She longs and longs and longs. How long has she been like this?

How long has she been numb to it?

Fool, idiot, jester.

She wants to leave. Wants to say goodbye to this purgatory of want and denial and loneliness. Five days she's known him, and five days she's longed. Longed for their friendship to not be one of temporary happenstance, but true connection.

Even if that meant telling him. Even if that meant being seen. Being known for what she was.

Really, that was what she longed for.

Fool, idiot, jester.

She dreamed of him last night. Of them, on the road together. Laughing and speaking easily. No weight of her hidden nature. No running away from connection to keep herself safe. He knew exactly what she was, but still looked at her so gently, with such affection.

Unbidden, she remembers his words from earlier in the week. That he would like to believe that he could befriend even a yokai. That he cannot trust that such a thing would be wholly evil when he has yet to meet one.

He hasn't met an Ayase either, insofar as he knows. Would… would the same logic carry?

Fool, idiot, jester.

The sun has set when her feet hit cool earth below. What she wouldn't give to see his shadow darken her doorstep once again. What she wouldn't give to have those eyes look at her and see her, in all of her ugliness and her shame, in all of her taboo blood and hellish birthright. What she wouldn't give to be seen and be loved all the same.

Could he? Would he?

Her scar beckons, a reminder, a constant reminder. The most important gift Jiji had given unto her. Proof of her place in this life. An indicator of her position in the world. Constant reminder, trust was dangerous. Trust was deadly. Trust bleeds and bleeds, as you run from brass-horned battle music, somewhere behind, searching. Trust bleeds as you burn the wound that night with still-glowing firewood, just to make sure it doesn't get infected. Trust bleeds as you look at the home you'll never be able to return to. Trust bleeds.

Fool, idiot, jester.

She shouldn't hope. Shouldn't. Hope and trust were too similar in effect, and both will cut you just as deep, should you allow either to root too freely.

And yet. And yet.

She wants. Hellish creature, she wants.

Wants, even if the risk is death.

Because how different is death from the life she already lives? What does she truly have to lose?

Fool, idiot, jester.

She's walking out the door, barely having the good sense to dress properly, to grab the dagger that she always holds close. The walk to town passes in a haze, until she's assailed with a wall of sound, unlike any she's heard in a long time.

Crowded streets, screaming children, laughter all about, merchants calling out deals they're running, musicians along every corner, and so many attunements blaring in one, horrifically discordant symphony. Her brow twitches, every part of her wishing to leave, and yet, she feels so compelled to continue on.

To find him.

To tell him everything.

To beg him to take her with him.

Fool, idiot, jester.

She takes a free mask that's being handed out, a typical decency for such an event. Funeral masks, covering the whole of the face. Fitting, she thinks for one of the Graces.

And if that allows her some anonymity, some safety from townsmen, well… added benefit.

Fool, idiot, jester.

Still, she needs to get away from all of this sound, all of this noise, all of this… everything. She needs to hear that lovely attunement that will drown out all others. That gentle violin, that will whisper to her again that everything will be okay.

She turns down an alleyway, off one of the backroads, finding it graciously empty. The moon hangs low in the sky, soft in its light as it basks her. She can hear the music still, can hear distant chatter and whoops and yells and merriment. Never for her to experience, and that's okay. Because if she can find him… if she can-

Fool, idiot, jester.

She hears the music fade. The attunements fade. The sounds of the festival attendees remain, but with the attunements gone, it… it's like they're being obscured by something. Yet she can't hear that lovely chord. No, this is something else, something-

A discordant sound. Notes that stray and bend, out of tune, atonal. Growing in volume. An odd feeling takes hold in her gut, in her mind, in her very bones.

dangerdangerDangerDANGER

Fool, idiot, jester.

This spike of adrenaline saves her life, as a flash of something flies by her, blade sparking against dagger.

She was fast enough to prevent a fatal blow, but its sword had still managed to cut into her neck. She could feel warm blood on cold skin. The wound didn't hurt. Not yet.

Because before her stood the instrument of her demise.

Crouched low to the ground, its arms and legs are spindly, giving it a gaunt appearance, yet it manages to exude this primal sense of power. Grey skin, and white hair, tinged with red, flows like an ethereal flame in the moonlight. A mask of teeth smiles at her, though the event horizon eyes tell her that it is merely the mask.

What is most striking, though, is its attunement.

Twisting and writhing, it feels as though it's trying to play a chord, yet the notes keep changing, or rather, it's forgotten what notes are meant to be. It varies between different notes, constantly out of tune.

Atonal.

Atonal.

Fool, idiot, jester.

Her grandmother had warned her. The only creatures with atonal attunements…

Yokai.

This was a yokai.

It moves again, with a speed utterly inhuman, and she only barely manages to sidestep. The blade carves into her mask; were she not wearing it, it very well could have been a lethal strike. Even so, she feels cold iron carve into her cheek, and she cries out in pain.

She doesn't want to die. Not in a back alley in some backwater town. Not without seeing Ken again. Not without seeing her Grandma again.

She throws a panicked slash that the yokai easily maneuvers back from, evading without effort. Trying to use what space it's given up, she turns to run, run back to busier streets, run back to-

Fool, idiot, jester.

She's slammed into the wall, head colliding with the stone hard enough to daze her vision. Standing before her is the yokai. It's taller than her, she realizes. Like its limbs and torso have been unnaturally stretched out. Its red, sunset eyes twist with something like pity. Something like remorse.

"I'm sorry for this." Its voice. Deep. It's familiar. So familiar. So familiar. She knows it, even if she wishes she didn't.

Then, it lays a hand on her shoulder, as the other raises its blade.

For a moment, clarity. Of thought… of feeling… of… understanding.

FOOL.

The blade rises ever higher, but she can hear it now. The atonal nonsense of noise, it's just covering what lay underneath. And, its… his hand on her shoulder, she has enough clarity to hear it.

F.

G#.

C.

D#.

F minor 7.

The same notes as F major 7, just in a different key.

She chokes out a sob.

"Ken?"

IDIOT.

He freezes. It's hard to breathe. His hand remains on her shoulder. His sword arm lowers. He blinks, and red eye turns brown. Minor becomes major. Mask dissipates.

She can't see his face.

Her thigh burns and burns, embers settling onto flesh, a reminder she had neglected, she had run away from. Her neck burns, molten lava of blood oozing out and she can feel the wound now, better than before. Her cheek burns, aflame in such a way that tears could never douse, even as a foreign, trembling hand removes her mask for her.

She burns and bleeds and burns and bleeds and she has to get away to get away to get away because this is just like the last time just like Jiji just like jiji just like jiji just like

"…Momo?"

What does an explosion sound like? How would that be represented in music?

Hyperventilating, she knows the answer, and she brings it forth. A hand on his chest. Clarity remains.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

An eruption of violent brass, and an explosion of utter force. The wall behind Ken is obliterated before he can slam into it, but he's still carried by the inertia, smashing through the next wall and tumbling into city streets. For a terrifying moment, he lay still. The festivities pause. A hundred eyes turn to where she stands. As though this was performance. As though she were upon a stage.

JESTER.

Discordant symphony returns. A thousand auras sing out to her.

For once, she is deaf to it.

She runs into the night. Fool, idiot, jester.

A fool to hope.

An idiot to pursue.

A jester to perform.

To spellsing, for the first time, and it was to save her own life from someone she thought to be a friend.

Fool, idiot, jester.

escape.