Chapter Text
With each breath he took, it felt like fire crackled beneath his skin, sandpaper rubbing against the insides of his throat, oxygen feeling like too much and nothing at once, tasting like ash.
“Ow…” He groaned, tears lining his eyes, as he attempted to move his limbs… His muscles hurt, his skin and fur burnt, his vision straining to see things clearly. He can't hear much but the deafening silence and the submissive crackling of fire.
He doesn't remember what happened to him.
“War,” A lady appears in his vision as if she was moonlight and the night sky herself, “happened.”
“...War?”
He does not remember.
“...With whom?”
She does not answer.
His throat burned to utter a dying sound.
The woman stands up straighter, looking away from him — he tries, but he doesn't know what she's looking at — and onto the destruction left behind: local flora scorched to a crisp, if not withered, his kin and soldiers he does not recognise fallen, sprawled about with varying degrees of injuries. Some bathed in their own blood, burnt, and some suffering even in death.
…what?
There is a dark purple miasma further back, in the shadows, he can't see it well — he does not believe what he sees — but the shadows take these youkai and humans and spread onto them like a disease.
He sees a living soldier clutching his head, crying, begging, muttering nonsense about the fake sky, of fate, of something beyond this world.
His vision blurs.
And then just like that, they were gone.
That miasma, those shadows, and that lady now standing in front him as the soldier falls onto the ground with a quiet thud, peaceful. She clutches onto a fan, adorned with symbols that he's sure is from the ancient past, either she is from there or merely got lucky with obtaining it.
His chest hurts.
“Wait here,” she said sternly, looking back at him. “Do not move. If you must… Stay under the moonlight, kitsune. It will swallow you otherwise.”
Within a blink she was gone. He does not know how to feel.
There is an ugly beast clawing at his heart, tearing it into pieces, his lungs choking for ash, hiccuping. Huh? He blinks again and the world becomes blurrier, fainter from the sound of his heartbeat. He kicks at the ground, rolls over to push himself off but to little avail.
A pain cry escapes.
Dirt gathers in his nail, forcing strained muscles to move, to crawl inch by inch — closer, closer, if he survived then they must've too, they can't have, they can't–! — to his nearest kin, his confidant, to his loyal brother, his friend.
Each breath he forces in and out burns.
Thunder rumbles in the distance, followed by a harsh shrill cry, the earth shakes hard by the time he reaches his friend. “Hey, hey…” He does not need to see to hear the water thrash, rushing in waves against the far shore, but whatever that was… paled in comparison to the cold silence he felt.
No.
The next he goes to is a mortal, he rarely interacted with humans — they were little fun, how could they ever be interesting with their short lives? It was unfair. Makoto was far nicer to talk to, she liked talking about them, something about the beauty of ephemerality and how transience makes every sound count further — and just like his friend, there was no pulse to feel.
…
By the third, he knew there was no point.
None of them struggled for life like he did.
…None of them.
That woman returns quietly, handing him a bottle of water. He drinks, and it soothes the burns it passes through inside, and although he sees the water finish… It was full again moments later.
He glances at her. She holds his gaze for a moment, blinking away to look further beyond him. “Adeptal arts from the mainland. That space is connected to a freshwater spring. Drink. Gather your strength, and I'll nurse you.”
“...Why?”
She glances at the moon.
“You’re better off asking Makoto.”
Oh.
“...Mm.”
Just as she promised after he drank his fill, she… he doesn't know how, but brought him back to his village. He sees his other kin who did not participate in the war, hurt, but they lived. That miasma had spread here too, and damaged his home.
Carefully, she undid his armour and clothing, and far more gently did she clean him. In quiet silence, numbing for him, did she begin to bandage his injuries, even sewing up some servers ones.
“You nearly died,” she finally says after fastening the last bandage. “You only survived because of this—” she holds up a gem; not just any gem, because it makes his breath catch, his fur standing, disbelieving, “—vision.”
It crackled faintly with lightning.
“Careful now,” she whispers, “Your ambition will be a threat.”
“...To?”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
“Will they…” He trails off, looking at his village, his eyes lowering as she places the vision in his lap.
“Whoever it is will not come for your people. Just this.” She taps on the amethyst, glowing faintly in response. She carefully stands, “Your kin fought by the forest’s entrance.”
He watches her wash her hands, the dirt and the blood off, and dusts herself off. Just as she was about to take her first step away, “...Why did the war happen?”
…
She did not answer for a very long time, but she stayed, and held his gaze even when he shied away.
“Resent of the fate that will never be arrived like a plague,” she murmurs, now gazing up at the moon, “That hatred seeped into human hearts and committed a grave act, they were punished, but that anger… That miasma you saw rushed here.”
“The abyss covets all that it doesn't have, but like a deeply engraved sickness in a plant, you can't get rid of it so easily. It will linger.”
“Kitsune,” she continued, watching him take shaky breaths, a look of non-understanding present, “Seek the truth at your own cost. For now, I suggest you recover and learn first about this war.”
She turned her back.
Never did he truly ever see her again.
…
The scent of wine is strong, floral and sweet with a hint of nostalgia, filling the whole space of the tavern. It was his first time here, in this city named after the moon and praised the winds and its thousands of blessings and kindness. He orders their most famous Dandelion Wine, the man behind the bar wearing clothes too noble for such an establishment. And yet, even he knew better than to say that.
He came here initially seeking answers, of the abyss, of Makoto, of her. The day ended before he could, so here he is. At a tavern.
It has been five hundred years since then. Five hundred years when the abyss suddenly overflowed from the roots of this world, five hundred years since the loss of his kin, five hundred years since he's last seen her.
Five hundred years with no answer as who she was, is, or if she's still alive.
Because the only other person he can ask is dead. Makoto isn't coming back, because she had sacrificed her life for another tomorrow — not hers, no, but to everyone else who lived in this world.
He nurses the wine in his glass, listening, watching a bard clad in green singing tales of old and new, of local and far lands. He sings a poem of his home, and he thinks Makoto would've liked this song, this bard, and of this land.
His reflection stares at him. Time never really did soothe his heart. He still finds himself missing friends and folks who left a long time ago.
He closes his eyes and takes a sniff of the drink, and it smells distinctly of this land — verdant plains as far as the eye could see, windmills scattered and even more so for its native flora and fauna.
He takes a sip.
It tasted like home, oddly enough, but it carried no hint of the sweet wagashi, of bitter tea, and rice wine. It had no sakura in it, nor did it have anko paste in it. Just that fermented sweetness from grapes, and the strange taste of dandelions. He thinks it's dandelions, he isn't too sure. He wouldn't put one in his mouth to try, you see.
He isn't sure how that's happening.
He takes another drink because maybe he's just weirded out by the taste, and he begins to wonder, jokingly mind you, if they served time in a bottle here.
…Because the next drink tasted like his joys shared with his fallen kin all those years ago.
Hah.
He wishes they were here to experience this.
The chair skids back beside him at the bar and comes a woman clad in black, decorated tastefully with sparkling hues of fabric, the scent of the sea and near otherworldly strong on her as she pulls overflowing sleeves back and takes a seat. Pearls and ivory trinkets adorned her belt and skirt among other accessories, her hair half down into a jade clip and half ornately tied into a floral bun kept together with more jade. Her skirt was long and layered, reminiscent of the night sky and moon…
…?
“A bottle of Dandelion Wine,” she slides the gold over, glances at who's playing music, and adds more, “and another for the bard.”
The bartender says nothing more.
His heart picked up. He doesn't know her and yet she was familiar.
With a soft clink of glass against the wood, the wine is poured in front of her, the same delicious deep grape red liquid in his, “Ma’am.”
“Thanks.”
She takes the glass by the neck, swirling it for a moment, pondering. Then, she turns, staring right at him.
Their eyes meet.
His heart stops.
“Have we met before?” She asks, and it makes his heart jump because that's an impossibility, he swallows down the lump in his throat as she takes a slow sip. Before he could utter something, she whispers, “You do know that it's rude to stare, kitsune?”
...It's her.