Chapter Text
“Although the wind …”
By Izumi Shikibu
Translated by Jane Hirshfield
Although the wind
blows terribly here,
the moonlight also leaks
between the roof planks
of this ruined house.
Bakugou Katsuki stood silently within the rot filled waters of what once used to be a koi pond with a look of absolute revulsion. The black muck, filled with the corpses of birds, fish, insects, and rodents, clung to his legs as he walked towards the decaying dead stump at the edge of what days ago had been a pool of crystal clear water.
The squelch of his feet echoed throughout the deserted forest, the feeling of emptiness intensifying with each step he took until he could walk no further and stopped before reaching the edge. The thick substance bubbled around each foot; he clutched at his chest, the sudden stabbing pain making him bite down hard on his bottom lip until it bled, and then a rage filled howl came from deep within him.
The howl traveled to the edge of the forest, echoed throughout the grand valley in which it was enclosed in, the remnant of such a sound traveling out of the valley and as far as the small village that lay at the edge of a kingdom. And in that village, a witchling raised her head from her newly finished potion; she’d heard the troubles that were to fall on her village, on the kingdom, and on its people.
Ochaco rose from her seat and walked to the window of her cottage, peeking out of her window in search of what had made such a sound. She saw and heard nothing. The sky was bright and blue, the neighbors carefree and with large smiles, and the newly assigned Royal Guard had returned for the commissioned ointment only she knew how to brew. As she handed the parcel to one of the knights, her eyes searched the invisible road that led to the edge of the grand valley in hope that she’d heard wrong.
Two dry leaves floated across the grass as the wind picked up, the small forming whirlwind throwing them up into the air and twirling it rapidly into the sky. Another gust brought them down, swaying them back and forth, and letting them fall on the armored shoulder of one of the dutiful knights of the Royal Guard traveling back to the palace, blocking the bright shine of the reflecting sun from the armor.
Iida patted the leaves off his shoulder and onto the stone floor beneath him, keeping his gaze on the silhouette of the palace before him. He made sure to keep the ointment he had received away from direct sunlight, placing the small parcel within his chest plate until he entered the palace and found his lord impatiently pacing back and forth in front of the King’s study. Thinking his arrival had been expected hours ago, he quickly handed the parcel to the young Price and bowed, repeatedly apologizing for his tardiness, and moving away only when he was dismissed by the Prince.
Todoroki Shouto, the young Prince of the kingdom nearest the grand Green Valley, continued his pacing down the halls of the palace, opting to remove himself from the place his father was soon to arrive in. His answer remained the same; there was nothing his father could say that would change his mind about the lands that were sacred to many of the people in the kingdom, no action that would lead the young Prince to help clear the land for further human settlement.
He, of course, had no valid argument as far as his father was involved, his pleads of there being no king greater than the probable gods that roamed the earth fell on deaf ears. If anything, his pleads only serve to further ignite his father’s rage, the hatred of his past still burning bright within his eyes, and the Prince doubted it would ever die off.
Not the conquering of the grand valley, the forest falling at their feet in a pile of ash, nor the expansion of the kingdom to the coast would ever rid his father of that hatred. Killing the very god, although never seen, supposedly dwelling within the valley at the center of the forest would never put an end to his father’s hatred for anyone deemed greater than him.
The parcel he had received from the knight lay forgotten amongst the books, loose papers, and inked pen he didn’t bother to place back in the inkwell that sat on his bedroom desk. He had no need of it, didn’t care that it was said to restore any wound, and would sooner throw it out his window than ever use it. For now, he would hide it from sight, throwing the small parcel into an old bag beside his bed before throwing himself onto the mattress.
Tomorrow would be another day. A better day.
That was all anyone could ever hope for.