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War, by its very definition, is devastatingly human.
Bishamonten is everything but.
Empathy and regrets are left on the lethal stretch of land between trenches while those with everything to lose fire at the stragglers on no man’s land just to stay alive. The battlefield is its own hell, but worse so, it’s bookended by pain. Vengeance, desperation, and a desire for peace all at once are often the beginning of war. Hands emptied of everything but the blood they spilled are always the end.
War, by its very definition, is as much a thief to those who lose as it is a hollow charity to those who survive.
In the end, nobody wins, do they?
Humans taking each other’s lives is inherently wrong. It is not their place to pass judgment on one another. A battlefield lacks empathy because it’s where humans are allowed to play God.
And a god is never wrong.
That is what separates Bishamonten from those in the trenches. Her empathy is stored inside every single one of her blades. She doesn’t fight for money or for pain or even a desire to stay alive. A goddess doesn’t have use for anything so human.
Ostensibly.
The one thing that anchors Bishamon’s heart to the near shore is her ability to feel pain. No, her similarity to humans does not lay in her fear of death but her fear of loss. It is only when she encounters the god of calamity that she realizes, for the very first time, what kind of pain draws humans to the battlefield.
For Yato, she can forsake her empathy too.
But first, it hurts.
The grief carves into her with insistence, as if pain is her heart’s method of memorializing the family she lost. None of this is right, nor is it fair to their sacrifice for her to eulogize them with such remorse.
“Good morning, my lady.”
I failed you. I’m so sorry.
“Goodnight, my lady.”
I named wandering spirits gone too soon, only to have them suffer again .
“Good morning, my lady.”
I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
“Goodnight, my lady.”
How can I save wayward spirits when all I know how to do is let them die?
“Good morning, my lady.”
Again.
“Goodnight, my lady.”
Again. And again. And again.
“Good morning, my lady.”
Sunlight filters in through the windows and she hears the gentle creak of wood bending under footsteps. The days don’t amount to much when they’ve existed infinitely before today, and will exist infinitely after. She will still be Bishamonten as she is now.
She’s a god of fortune tainted by calamity.
For the first time in weeks, she follows the voice leading her into each new day. She finds liquid-brown eyes and a face etched with worry lines. Her gaze falls to the name branded onto his delicate hand.
Kazu .
“Kazu...ma,” she croaks, the last syllable cursed and haunted.
She reaches for his hand, tracing the edges of the kanji that illustrates the name she gave him. She closes both of her hands around his. The intimacy of where their skin connects makes her heart race.
“Kazuma,” she says again, the last syllable a precious relic.
His hands are so warm; he feels alive. She brings them up and presses her lips to his fingertips. Electricity sparks between them. A fire comes to life in her chest, and the flames lick against her bones and ignite her veins.
Kazuma’s chest hitches and his skin flushes a beautiful shade of scarlet. In that moment she remembers he’s so young, at nineteen years old, dead at what should have been the very beginning of his life. The unfairness of it is why she named him, why she vowed to protect him.
You’re all I need , she thinks. My precious Choki. My second chance.
Kazu is a gift from her soul to his body.
Viina is the gift that binds the two together.
When he gives her this name and she calls him in turn, something feels different. He comes to her in a flash of gold, a rush of warmth, a loyalty so honest that it sinks into her own bones. They intertwine and find purchase on each other’s strength.
She pulls.
He steadies.
They look up and watch the light fall away in a rain of embers. She feels the ground beneath her as if she is spiritually anchored to the earth. A welcoming pull from her spine to the near shore.
This is peace.
This is right.
Choki is no longer a nail piercing her skin, but an elegant cherry blossom earring whispering in her ear. He is brimming with confidence in them both. Their souls come together in a resonance reserved for those who have been hurt the same ways, loved the same amount.
Bishamonton and her hafuri.
This is how they move forward together.
“I’m sorry, Viina.”
They fall to their knees and his blood is warm against her skin. His name flutters. She winds her fingers into his blood-soaked shirt and pulls him into her, staining him with blight, once again on the verge of losing what is most important to her.
Hundreds of years pass through her like a ghost. So much fire, so much hatred, wasted in chasing after a lie. She should feel angry. At the very least, she should feel betrayed.
She feels Kazuma’s blood on her clothes and his shallow breaths against her skin.
There is no room for anger or regret when her heart is held captive by grief. The Ma Clan, the Ha Clan, the time she spent pursuing Yato with sadistic sadness are gone.
She feels Kazuma’s blood on her clothes.
It’s all gone.
His shallow breaths against her skin.
She falls apart.
And when the dust is settled, they pull each other back together because that’s how they’ve learned to exist. She’s a goddess of war with armor forged in pain. He’s a blessed vessel with a catastrophically human heart. A god is never wrong, but even so, a choice resulting in collateral damage is what she trusts her hafuri to guide her away from. Her humanity exists in her shinki –in her love for them and their innate ability to feel beyond her realm of comprehension. In the ways they’ve known ephemerality and how precious time can be. In how people can perish like seconds–inevitably, irrevocably.
“I’m sorry,” Kazuma says once again. He bows his head, keeping his eyes trained on the name etched onto his hand. “I will never betray your trust again.”
She reaches for the back of his neck and gently brings his forehead to rest against hers. He swallows and flushes. She smiles.
“You’re doing fine,” she says. Her eyes close. “Thank you, Kazuma.”
Love, by its very definition, is devastatingly, beautifully human. It is ambrosia to the soul, ice over a burn, an incentive to fight and a reason for grief. It encompasses what it means to be alive, in the truest sense of the word.
In that way, she thinks perhaps even gods have much to learn from the near shore.