Chapter Text
Years after that ship set sail into the sky, Issun still stares at the stars every night. He has an extensive body of work, now; paintings of the gods' great constellations, of the monsters he'd seen, of Ammy in her highest and lowest moments. He works with devotion, grinding his ink and watching the swirling grays and trying to remember. It's hard, sometimes, piecing together bits and encompassing each character, each moment in his brush. When he didn't know what was going on, or saw it all in bits between wisps of fur, he was so enthralled through the journey that he hopes, or at least likes to think, that he can relay the details with a sort of accuracy, in spirit if not in fact.
The demon scroll is his masterpiece. Though littered throughout Nippon, one could find shorter scrolls of the same creatures, the demon scroll is the culmination of his work. It is his ongoing effort to catalogue, in order, the snarled faces and sinister bodies, the disorienting energies, the oni, the ogres, the spider queens, spirits, adversaries, Orochi's eight writhing serpent-necks and the ever-irritating imps. Less of these types are seen now, and — for Issun, always for Issun, and very few others — thinking of them is a strange exercise in nostalgia. Painting their forms solidifies the pleasant memories even more so. With so much of it complete, he gets distracted, always taking the opportunity to review each section. Once in a while, though it goes against his nature, he adds to it, and then curses, as he must wait for the ink to dry before continuing from the leftmost portion. These things elongate his work, and he has never been patient. He inhales and lets it be. He has to do this right, and to be right he must be patient. For Ammy.
In an era of peace, he finds himself the uneasy recorder of history — his mind, his brush, these alone. It is an honor. It would be a waste to do anything else.
It is lonely.
Of course he paints the lovely things too, and lingers on them in his stories. The gods awakening, stretching, bursting forth from their great constellations. Their playfulness (sometimes to his endangerment, he tsks as he paints that scheming cat Kabegami). The harsh weather and lovely swamps, the hidden mountains and beautiful women, all the people, and the love therein. He prays to his stupid furball friend and knows (hopes) she can feel him from way out on the Celestial Plain.
After bouncing out of whatever sleeping arrangements he finds himself in — a lonely patch of grass, a fuzzy leaf in the springtime, sometimes even a new or old friend's fur or feathers or hair or the folds of their clothes — he'd stretch and let the sun ease sleep out of his eyes. Sometimes, just for fun, he draws a circle around the already-risen great flame in the sky, and for a second the world looks a little brighter. Then it's time to bring out his inks, or entertain travelers with his tales. He has to treasure it. He has to remember it's for Ammy, it's all about Ammy.
He likes this job. He likes getting up and going, likes having an outlet for his restlessness. He likes remembering.
But it does hurt, sometimes, to have his purpose tied to a friend he hardly got to say goodbye to. And the world's a lot slower when you're not on the warm, fuzzy head of a wolf, looking for the next enemy.
So he misses her. Big deal. In more shameful moments, he may even miss that two-bit prophet who'd left him in the dark. It's not like they're dead, but he does wonder if they're even able to leave, if they're trapped or in danger or, maybe, maybe they just don't want to.
Maybe they forgot?
A silly thought. He has proven his worth to the gods and to himself and to that cranky old man. To forget the great Issun would be a disservice to all of Nippon! Despite his small stature, the wandering artist's reputation precedes him almost everywhere he ends up.
There are, still, precious few places he feels at home. Kamiki always welcomes him enthusiastically, and Susano threatening to step on him after an ill-conceived comment to Kushi is just a comforting, familial perk. He finds himself stopping by the village often, as he is now. He wouldn't be anywhere else, especially not this time of year; the Kamiki Festival is once again coming around.
-
"And how has my favorite bug been faring?" Sakuya asks. It's a pointed question; Issun knows his aura is glowing a faint turquoise, diverting from his primary forest green tone. Humans and other creatures are able to hide their emotions so well, but this will always be his stupid giveaway.
"Worried about me, babe?" He smirks.
"Well, it's been an awfully long time! And you have not made a single comment on my breasts."
Right, yes. "They're covered," he objects, blushing. Sakuya changes styles with the season, and as it was still a little chilly she had donned a light pink kimono with intricate stripes and flowers. And. "A girl in Sei'an almost squashed me for sayin' some stuff, gave me a real earful. I think she, uh, had a point, when I thought about it."
He doesn't say the other part of it, the shame that flows through his body around pretty women. He likes them, but there's a nauseous feeling he gets around them, too, like very insecurity, every soft edge, every way he falls short of being a man will become obvious if he doesn't say something stupid fast. It's hard to explain. He likes making a fool of himself, usually. Sakuya is different, or at least has been since he'd begun his regular visits. In his less armored moments, Issun would call her a close friend.
Sakuya laughs, and with it blows a soft spring air, setting a group of cherry blossoms free to fly. The gorgeous fabric she wears flutters, its ends turning translucent, kissing the air.
"Yeah, yeah," he rolls his eyes. "I'm a bit of a dick."
"Oh, Issun — not always, but you did have it coming. I must say it's nice to be more to you than a 'great rack,' as you once said."
"Hey!" His aura glows an indignant orange, "You've always been more than that, girlie, come on! I know we all rely on you. The rack is just a bonus!"
Sakuya smiles with her eyes closed and her teeth showing, a natural and sweet grin. It's a nice moment. He should let it be a nice moment. The sun is setting; surely the festival is about to start. He should say goodbye, and eat the fruit she gifted him, and join the villagers in their celebration below.
"I…" he starts. "I don't know how the whole spirit stuff works, if she can contact you or whatever, but. Have you heard from Ammy recently?"
"From…? Oh," Sakuya covers her mouth and giggles. "It has been a while, but I know Amaterasu is well. Say, Issun, you should go down and mingle."
"Hah? It's still kinda light out! You trying to kick me out?"
She bites her lip. "I think, I really think you should go down there, little bug."
Then he hears it: a wolf's howl, but with something distinctive about it, a radiating sound that conjures the feeling of summer and sweet fruit, too-tight hugs, sweat, slobber, boundless energy, sun.
Issun stares at Sakuya, and rushes a slurred goodbye as he bounces down the path.
-
Through the crowd, he spots a crimson swirl on white fur.
"Ammy!" Issun hops as high as he can.
Then Amaterasu is barreling towards his voice, knocking into people, and the next thing Issun feels is gentle teeth picking him up and tossing him as high as the trees. He screams (very masculinely) on his way back down, but lands on the goddess's soft stomach, laughing. She flips over and bombards him with slobbery kisses. It's gross. Issun can't stop smiling. Ammy. Ammy! Not seeing her was becoming almost unbearable, damn whatever work relationship a goddess and her envoy were supposed to have. Vibrating with excitement, he squishes her cheek, hugs her paw, jumps on her nose and practically buries himself headfirst in her fur. Fuck it, she's his best friend. That's what makes his job so great. How could he forget?
The villagers nearby grin and continue their final preparations, intent on creating the festival worthy of the goddess's presence. Someone nearby clears their throat. "No warm welcome for me, mon ami? "
At the familiar voice, Issun turns his head, half-pressed into thick wolf fur. He squints through one eye to focus on Waka. It's hard to recognize him, at first — he lacks his signature headdress, and a river of sun-colored hair drips over his shoulders, falling behind him. Has he always had so much? It overwhelms his more familiar features; it feels alien. His shoulders slope further down than he remembers, as though finally relaxed.
"Why'd this weirdo hafta come?" Issun pouts.
Ammy barks.
"Oh, I suppose you think I'm nothing but her chauffeur." Waka rolls his eyes and puts a hand to his cheek. "I spent a long time here, you know. I've got things to do, too. People to see."
"People, really?"
Waka winces. "...It has taken a lot of time and energy to get the Celestial Plain back to stability. Believe me, little bug, Amaterasu pushed us to visit the first chance we got. She wanted to see the festival quite badly."
If Issun's crying, he's grateful that no one else is small enough to see it.
Waka tucks a stray lock behind his ear. "Well, I suppose I must see what this is about, no? I'll leave you be, ma cherié. "
It's uncharacteristically considerate. But Issun has never seen him in a time of neutrality – maybe this is Waka when he's not waiting.
Issun sniffles and looks into one of Ammy's huge, warm eyes. "I'm not gonna hog your night. But I am hitching a ride on that fur. Just know when anyone says they miss you, no one did as much as the great Issun." He says softly. "I was worried you'd forgotten me, furball."
Ammy licks her nose with her long tongue.
"I know," he laughs. "Silly of me. Real silly."
-
The night is loud. Meats sizzle over fire, Tama's fireworks pop and dazzle, noses turn red and sake pouring gets sloppier. Ammy is the life of the party, and flits from person to person as Issun updates her on Nippon's affairs. He prides himself in keeping tabs on everyone, and the people laugh, humbled to be the subject of stories for the goddess, to have the roles reversed. He perches himself on the edges of sake cups and sips the liquid from his cupped hands, and soon he is dizzy and laughing and flushed like everyone else.
They feast. A silly conversation about whether it is acceptable for Amaterasu to indulge in pleasures a wolf might enjoy leads to a crowd of drunk villagers and travelers and sleepy children petting the goddess, rubbing her tummy, scratching her behind the ears. Sleep feels imminent, but for now the festivities continue. Ammy's tail wags like a whip. Issun hops off to let her enjoy herself.
Waka is sitting beneath a cherry tree, looking out at the sparkling ocean.
Issun sneaks up behind him. "Come on, fruitcake, join the party! You're bumming me out."
The old Waka returns, present in the better-than-thou smile he gives. "Ah, but there are many ways to enjoy a celebration. It must be hard to grasp for someone who needs such constant attention."
"Hey now. Don't ruin the good mood."
"I'm trying not to." Waka turns to him, lips formed into a thin line. Of course he falls silent. Of course he doesn't explain what that is supposed to mean.
It's an uncomfortable kind of quiet to see him in, an out of character moment for a man he's used to seeing flamboyant performances and half-helpful riddles from. Issun hops onto Waka's head and knocks his (probably hollow) skull with his fist. "Well just loosen up a little bit! The fireworks won't be as pretty unless you've had some sake."
Waka looks nonplussed, but Issun hangs on as he feels the subtle bounce of his step as he starts to glide closer to the crowd for a cup. "I suppose it cannot hurt."
He sips as they watch Mrs. Orange rub Ammy's tummy, much to the delight of both parties.
"She's not exactly the grace and detachment you'd expect from a goddess and all," Issun says with passive adoration.
"There is value in being able to express emotion while still possessing great power," Waka comments. "I thought you of all people ought to know that, mon ami. "
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean!" Issun shouts instinctively, then pauses. "You think I'm powerful?"
Waka scoffs. "I said nothing of the sort, though you are rather... volatile, let's say."
"You said both furball and I possess great power. You think I'm great."
He laughs and raises his cup to his lips. "Oh, dear. Eh bien, merde, drink makes one say the strangest things."
"You've hardly had three sips!"
As if to retroactively prove himself, he swallows the rest, pours, and downs the refill, too.
-
The Oranges insist on putting Waka up for the night, and so Ammy follows, curling up contentedly on the floor (her preference over the cushions she was offered). It is strange to see the two outworlders so close, but Issun supposes it would be stranger for the two to be apart now. There's a slight jealousy there. He swallows it. He knows Ammy loves him still.
Issun is technically staying with them, as an afterthought. It's alright; he needs very little accommodations (in the literal sense). There is a spot on a low shelf where he sets his pack down and lays next to it, and it is cozy enough and he is drunk enough that soon he's deep in slumber.
The thing about his size is that larger things are so unaware of the feeling of the world. Of how strong winds can be and how trees creak and sway. A light and careful step is still a step, felt less so in the vibration of the ground and more in the air. There only needs to be a slight shift, a feeling, a rhythm just a bit out of the ordinary to rouse him. So when a gust blows Issun's hair, just cold and strong enough to create a shiver down his spine, he is awake with a jolt, ears perked.
He blinks in the darkness and his eyes adjust enough to see a bit of pink sleeve before the shoji slide shut.
Old suspicions return. What the hell is Waka up to?
There's of course no reason to worry, he thinks, while getting up anyway. From the crust in his eyes, he judges that it has been a few hours since the party wound down, and the true morning will come soon when Amaterasu wakes and rises the sun. Now it is early and there is no reason for anyone to be awake.
But there is something off about Waka, always unsettling in the way Issun knows he ought to move past. Issun follows him outside as quietly as he can, holding in his breath as if the man could even hear his tiny exhales in the first place.
Waka goes to the bridge and does nothing. He looks down at the water first, the full moon reflecting back on his skin, and then dares to gaze up at the celestial body.
Just wistful prophet shit. It's nothing to worry about. Time to go back to sleep.
And that's when he feels it, truly feels it, a dissonant hum of the earth. It is hard to grasp, impossible to communicate, only to say that the air suddenly tastes different. There is still the homely smell of cherry blossoms and salt. But something new, too, something stale and sad. It is not from Waka, but the prophet must feel it, too, as his posture changes suddenly. He is poised now quite like a curious bird, sniffing the air. And then he speaks.
"Light, but eyes leaden,
creatures of the world sleep well.
Grieving hands reach for
great tales. Do not bend to loss.
Look for fear, for trails of hope."
Issun snorts. Waka does not seem surprised at his presence. He probably knew he was there all along, the ass.
"So are you a bad poet now, or just still an awful prophet?" Issun asks.
"I fancy myself a bit of both," Waka says.
He can insult Waka all night, but the earlier shift still echoes in his bones. "Was that a prophecy?"
"Yes."
"But it didn't even say anything! You know, I've always wondered about that stuff. I think you hold words back for fun, don't you? To confuse the rest of us. It helps your persona. All mysterious and pretty and shit, I get it, the image gets in your head." Issun rolls his eyes. He didn't miss this, the convoluted and frustrating form of 'guidance' Waka offers. "Then, what's it about?"
"You."
"Me. Me? " Issun feels his pitch rise an octave and he jumps onto the bridge railing. "Me? Come on! You're shitting me! I've had enough of your mystique, alright? I did my journey already. You were there for it, if I remember. You know, gossiping about me with my grandpa? Everything you said to prove I was unworthy? The ark?"
Waka is silent.
"Well, I opened the door, and I stayed behind, and I've been doing my job. So, I'm good. You can shut up with your nonsense and all."
Ever unphased, Waka tilts his head. "You act as if I am all-powerful. I'm flattered, ma puce, but I do not control the prophecies, only communicate them."
"Sure. shit job of communicating you've done." Issun is not pouting. He is only crossing his arms and squishing his face in frustration. It's not pouting.
"Well, you are the one who followed me. If you did not wish to hear it, you wouldn't have come."
And just what is that supposed to mean?
"Anyway, if you will forgive the pun, it's lucky you're here." Waka's voice lilts in amusement, ever the fan of bad jokes. "I have a gift for you."
With a swift motion he reveals a familiar wooden tool, well-crafted with red swirls reminiscent of the gods, and glittering with magic. The lucky mallet.
"How did–" Issun starts. No, better not ask how he got it. Ammy probably lent it to him, but the thing also tends to have a mind of its own. "What makes you think I want that?"
"It should be convenient, no? It serves no use kept with us in the Celestial Plain." The mallet responds by twirling in the air. Waka waves it off. "It was not my choice, it called for you."
"I don't need it." He takes a step towards it still, and the mallet freezes. "See? It doesn't want me."
Waka brings a poised hand to his chin. "Strange, it—" as he leans forward, the mallet spins to meet him, hovering threateningly in front of his nose. "Ah. I see."
And Issun hardly has time to think what the hell is going on before Waka nods to the mallet, seemingly having reached the end of some sort of nonverbal conversation with it. The thing pulls up in the air and swings down swiftly, slamming into Waka's head with force.
And he goes down. No — he is not knocked down, only staggers slightly as his body turns into different, smaller phases of itself, like a piece of wood whittled down at high speed. The tree of him turned now into a twig.
Issun looks down from the railing at a now-tiny Waka, smiling and rubbing at the new bruise on his skull.
"What the fuck?" Issun says, because really, what the fuck?
"That is what it wanted." The prophet states, as if this answers every question in the world.