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The second time Yae Miko sees the Plane of Euthymia, there’s a single constellation glittering in the empty sky above her god’s head.
“It’s meant to be a crown,” Ei says, perfectly still in the same position she’s been holding for five hundred years.
She’s answered her question before Yae had been able to ask it. “It doesn’t look like a crown,” she says, stepping closer. “Is that really all you thought to add? Not something reasonable and useful like a bed, or a desk, or-”
Ei’s eyes flicker open; Yae delights in the brief flash of irritation that crosses them. “Still nagging, I see.”
“Some things never change,” Yae says, shrugging. “Yesterday, I would have said that included this place.”
“It still does,” Ei says even though it’s clearly not true. “Maybe you just couldn’t see the stars before.”
It’s quiet for a moment. Yae hates the silence here— it’s completely new for her, which is rare for an immortal. She’s used to the chirping of birds at the shrine and the soft chatter of humans in the city; here, there’s nothing but the sound of footsteps rustling on sand.
“Well,” she says, “I brought you dango.”
Ei’s eyes close again. “I will need the sustenance,” she says and does not clarify.
Yae has lived for a very long time; she knows jealousy when she feels it. Would Ei have ignored her if she’d come with the traveler? Would Ei even eat the dango? If left alone, would it rot or would it just remain in stasis forever?
Yae is immortal. She knows it will take them a long time to go back to how they’d been before. She is just— out of patience for at least the next decade.
Wordlessly, she leaves.
-
It’s midnight and the Grand Narukami Shrine is closed; nearly all the shrine maidens have gone except for Yae, perched atop the roof of one of the buildings in her fox form. In the distance, she sees fireworks— somehow, the reason for the festival is eluding her.
Footsteps. Someone walks across the pebbles and towards the base of the Sacred Sakura, nearly blending in with the darkness.
The Raiden Shogun bows her head before the tree. The gesture lacks even an ounce of piety; it is cold, mechanical. It is the last thing Yae wishes to see.
“Yae Miko,” she says, “I know you’re there.” Yae curls her tail around her body and decides not to answer. The Shogun cannot sigh or laugh or truly express emotion; still, there’s a hint of disappointment in her voice as she adds, “Ei wishes to speak with you.”
Yae slips into human form despite how uncomfortable it makes her perch on the roof. “Then she can come see me herself.”
A pause. “Who are you to deny the will of a god?”
For some reason, the feeling of possessiveness is back; it’s not like the fireworks or the country or the tree or the clone or even Yae herself have any claim over Ei, but the night suddenly feels too crowded for the both of them.
“Not a god,” Yae corrects. “My god.” Once more, she slips into the Plane of Euthymia.
-
“You,” Ei says, “are quite fond of having the last word.”
There’s another constellation behind her; it’s incomprehensible, but Yae does not think to ask what it represents. “It’s very fun, really. I don’t quite think you could pull off my effortless air of mystery, but you should try sometime.”
“Yae,” she says, and there’s something to Ei’s tone that makes all the jealousy and irritation and exhaustion bloodlessly drain out of her. “When I am gone.”
Yae would not dare deny the will of a god, but Ei hadn’t asked her to stay back, so she doesn’t; touch is a bit far for now, but she can tell that the space Ei fills is cold. “You won’t be.”
“When I am gone,” Ei repeats. “Will they hold festivals for me?”
It’s such a childish, petty concern that Yae nearly laughs again. “You’re a god. Of course they’ll hold festivals for you.”
“They didn’t know my sister was gone,” Ei says. The sky around her flickers darker for an instant. “They didn’t remember any of them.”
Her almost-laughter evaporates. “They’ll remember you. You made history.”
A small, trembling smile makes its way onto Ei’s face. Her eyes are still closed. “I am not making history anymore.”
“And we’re all glad,” Yae retorts, unable to stop herself. “You can be remembered without hurting people, you know.”
Ei’s eyes open. No matter how many stars you hang in the sky of your mind, Yae thinks, they will never outnumber what I can find in your eyes. “What else,” she says, “am I good at?”
Yae doesn’t know how to answer. She gets the sense she’s not supposed to.
“It’s a bolt of lightning, by the way,” Ei says, and the world dissolves around her.
-
Ei shows up unannounced in the corner of the publishing house and does not mention their last encounter. “I believe,” she says, “I am lost.”
Yae doesn’t look up from shelving. “This is the romance section.”
Ei makes a peculiar, sour face. “Ah. Not what I was looking for.”
“I doubt it,” Yae agrees. “What are you doing here?”
“I-,” Ei starts, pauses. “I have been told by the traveler’s floating friend that I should… get out more.”
Yae resists the urge to mirror Ei’s irritated face from earlier. “Well,” she says. “Even a broken electro compass is right every now and then.”
Yae has dearly missed seeing Ei’s face, missed seeing the way her mouth twists when she’s trying to hold back her amusement. “I suppose so,” she says. “What are you doing shelving books? Don’t you have more important things to do?”
It doesn’t sound cruel, just curious; Yae can hardly hold it against her. “The shrine maidens can handle themselves for a few hours.”
“Perhaps,” Ei says, and the only thing that stops Yae from commenting on the ominous word choice is that she knows Ei, she always has, and she knows it means nothing. “It’s rather… busy in here.”
Yae doesn’t point out that they are the only two people in the shop. She understands. “If you have an alternative,” she starts, but then Ei takes her hand and her touch is electric and soothing and warm and cool all at the same time, and suddenly they’re not in the store anymore.
-
There are no new stars this time; Yae looks around and finds a small, unused bed next to a wooden nightstand with a glass of milk resting atop it. “Oh,” she says, delighted, “you took my advice.”
“Don’t expect it to happen again,” Ei says, and it’s a joke after centuries of nothing and it’s so startling that Yae forgets to laugh. “I just thought it might be necessary.”
Ears twitching, Yae fakes a gasp. “You have to ask a girl to dinner first, you know.”
Ei rolls her eyes , and Yae remembers to laugh this time, part at her and part at the absurdity of the situation. What had happened to put Ei in such a good mood? “It’s good to see you haven’t changed much,” she says, and something about it is so sincere Yae can’t bear to make another joke.
“You’re happy,” she says; an observation, a concern, she’s not quite sure.
Ei shrugs. “It won’t last.” A pause. How does she handle the silence? Yae wonders. “They write history books, you know. I’m in them.”
“I run the publishing house,” Yae says. “Of course I know that.” She also knows it’s not the point of Ei’s statement; she says it anyway, just to watch her goddess’s lips thin.
“History books aren’t festivals,” she says. “They’re not- happy. But they’re a memorial, and I am content with anything that ensures I will be remembered.”
Yae manages the house; she does not personally read the books, but she wonders what they say. Do they only talk about the Vision Hunt Decree and its cruelty? Do they mention the war that had come before it? Do they know the Shogun, or Ei, or both, or neither? “You’d be remembered nonetheless,” she says. “You will live, and I will live, and-”
“Jealousy,” Ei interrupts, “does not become you.”
“I’m not jealous of books, ” Yae snaps, although it’s a bit of a lie.
“Then why are you upset?” Ei says, terribly, terribly clueless. “I am happy. Is that not cause for celebration?”
Yae turns, making sure her tail swishes dramatically behind her on her way out. “It would be,” she says, “if your happiness included me.”
-
There’s another festival. Yae doesn’t want to stay in the shrine but she also can’t quite bear to see others happy, so she compromises and finds a bench on the side of the mountain where she can watch the fireworks and pretend they do not mean anything.
It occurs to her that likely nobody will remember the head of the Grand Narukami Shrine in five hundred more years when she finally gives up and dies. She can’t quite bring herself to care.
“You’re being ridiculous,” a voice says from behind her. “She’s quite upset, you know.”
“You don’t feel anything,” Yae tells the Shogun. “What would you know?”
“She does,” the puppet says simply. “It’s close enough.”
Another firework explodes in the distance. “If you have a message to pass on, now is the time.”
“Not a message, exactly,” the Shogun says, and everything goes dark.
-
The Plane of Euthymia has lost all its stars, and the glass of milk, and the pattern of the pebbles seems more erratic than usual somehow; Ei is sitting on the bed, her back to Yae. “Nothing you said aloud was right,” she says.
Yae knows what she means. “Clarify.”
Ei stands, but does not turn. “You were jealous. And… unfair. But you were also right. I have been forgetting about you.”
Taking a hesitant step forward, Yae traces the pattern of Ei’s braid with her eyes; it is something she can commit to memory. “I want to protest being called unfair,” she says slowly, “but I don’t think you’re wrong. I… have spent a long time without you.”
Ei’s eyes are blindingly violet against the deep black of her mind’s sky. “You don’t have to,” she says. So quiet Yae almost can’t hear it: “I cannot be remembered for eternity. But while you’re here… it can be almost enough.”
“I am going to die someday,” Yae says. In the distance, a small star begins to flicker back to life.
“Yes,” Ei agrees. “So will I.” She reaches out, grasps Yae’s hand. “I said almost, didn’t I?”
I have lived for you for such a long time, Yae thinks. I will do it for centuries more if it is what you wish. “They will remember,” she says. “I will make sure of it.”
Ei’s hand is warm now. “Good,” she breathes, “good.”
For a moment, there’s silence. Yae doesn’t wish for the silence to end now, not when Ei is looking at her like she’s discovered something new for the first time in this half of immortality. “They dream of you sometimes,” she says. “I have good hearing, and they do not pray quietly.”
“Are they good dreams?”
Yae smiles. “Not nearly as good as mine,” she says, voice nearly catching in her throat, and Ei’s eyes sharpen with something she likes far too much.
“I think it’s time for me to light up the stars again,” Ei says, and gently tugs Yae down to the bed— which is, in typical Ei fashion, as hard as a rock. Yae finds she doesn’t quite mind. “Don’t you agree?”
The line between them is blurred now, both of them pink and purple and sunset and midnight and goddess and servant together. “Yes,” Yae whispers, “I do.”
She kisses Ei, and behind them the sky explodes into a million brilliant galaxies.