Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Years after that ship set sail into the sky he 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 grinds his ink and watches the swirling grays and tries to remember. It's hard, sometimes. 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, an 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. 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, 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 most 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; it's about time for the Kamiki Festival.

-

"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 awful 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. 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 wore fluttered, 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."

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."

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, 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 says. 

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, Ammy pushed us to visit the first chance we got. She wanted to see the festival quite badly."

If Issun's crying, he's glad 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."

"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 them 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 so that it tickles his face 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 hours, 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 to be the best 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.

Chapter Text

If Issun rubs his eyes any harder, he's worried they'll fall out of their sockets.

"One thing I don't get," he says, as if there is only one thing, "You wanted me to turn into a fuckin' giant?"

"I could think of no one else who would get any use out of it." Waka kneels down to scoop a bit of dirt with his hands. Issun hops down to the ground and silently adds what the hell are you doing to his ever-growing list of questions.

"The soil," Waka says, as if to answer the unspoken question, "It's so big."

A beat.

Issun bursts out laughing.

"That's what's getting to you? That's the first thing you're interested in right now? Dirt?"

"One of two things. It's incredible. You can hold a speck of it between your fingers so easily, like a grain of rice." Waka sighs a sort of lovesick sigh that one does not usually reserve for poetic thoughts about dirt. "The second," he turns, finally, to face Issun. "Is that you really are short."

Where Waka stands about the length of a blade of grass, Issun reaches perhaps about half that. A pained, choked sound forces its way out of Issun's mouth. "I'm a full-grown adult, you half-baked – " Somewhere along the way, the complaint turns garbled, words lost to a new thought. "Wait! Those sandals of yours, that's an unfair advantage!"

Waka looks down at his geta. "Of course," he says, and jumps out of them, fluttering to the ground with a graceful breeze.

Barefoot, there's a slightly different air about him – it strikes Issun that as frustrating as Waka is, he's also just a guy. Sure, he's from the moon or whatever, and they could get into a real ugly and bloody fight about which one gets the title of Ammy's Best Friend, but he's just a strange man with scars on his hands and a slouch in his neck. For some reason, his smaller size makes Issun actually notice these details, now that they're not blown up and obvious in front of him. He's got glowing hair and a stupid attitude and bags under his eyes. A lilting voice and thin, long fingers, and somehow is now very close to Issun, crouching just under the lip of his helmet.

"Why, you're right, our heights are a lot closer on the same scale," Waka breathes. It's a generous statement, considering Issun still only reaches his chest. "It seems I still win, though."

"Hey, hey!" Issun's aura flashes orange at the sudden disruption of personal space and he shoos him away. "Back up, freak!"

Waka eases back into his geta and pulls his lips into a thin line. There had been a moment of comfort, but now the air tastes off again. Issun doesn't know what happened. He was being nice; he didn't draw his sword.

Blinking back to awareness, he realizes his hand is on the hilt, and lets go.

"I guess," Issun bites the inside of his cheek. "If you want to explore more, we can wander a bit."

A funny wince passes Waka's face and fades as quickly as it appeared. "I would love to, mon beau, however…" He nods in the direction of the Oranges' house, where a well-timed mini explosion sets off with a strange little fwoo!

Sure. Sure, why not.

Any remaining drunkenness and tiredness divests itself completely from Issun's body. Of course he just can't have a normal reunion.

There is a cacophony, and the great Amaterasu —

That fucking wolf is sleeping through the whole thing.

The Oranges, bless them, can only huddle together and watch the odd scene. Around twenty smallish demons, each one about the size of a humble vase, have crawled into their home, climbing the walls, drumming on the floorboards, the cooking pan, the roof, old Mr. Orange's head. Issun blinks and it seems there are five more.

"Where – " He coughs, and raises his voice to try and shout over the noise, "Where are they coming from?"

"Pardon?" Waka says, or mouths. Issun can't really tell.

"What — "

He is rudely interrupted by a demon drumming on his helmet, and boy, is that a great recipe for a headache.

Denkomaru drawn, he gets to slashing ankles. Deep down, Issun knows he's not the greatest swordsman in Nippon, but he knows how to hold his own sometimes . He zips between the demons before they can react, and none spot him in time, too distracted in the revelry of their awful music.

Cutting a small chunk of silence feels so beautiful. Panting, he turns around, only to find dozens of furious eyes fixated on him.

With the noise level down, he finally hears Waka's yell. "I'd get to running if I were you, mon chéri!"

Ah, at least that's something he's good at.

Issun bolts. He bounces, zigzags, strafes, and every second or so hears a thud among the groans of the crowd he'd attracted. Waka was no longer in the spot he'd been standing; he catches a flash of a pink kimono moving through the crowd, causing some dwindling in numbers. Issun also notices, with some pride, that a couple are marching forward on broken, bloody stumps, where he had cut their limbs below the knee.

The fight continues in a blur. Where did these things come from? He has never seen demons so small. And hadn't they all disappeared when Ammy defeated Yami? He has half a mind to wake her up and ask what the hell was going on, but the other half says she won't know either.

But she could at least wake the fuck up and help them.

"Ammy! Ammy!" Issun runs up to bounce on her nose and tap the side of his sword against her. Nothing happens; even her breathing stays even. "Come on, you big lug…"

The demon crowd comes to close the gap, which he takes as his cue to start running again.

And it's getting a bit tiring. He's got stamina, but like every living thing there has to be some limits. At some point, he won't be able to run anymore, and Waka at this size isn't fast enough to get to all of them before that happens. It is, still, a little satisfying to see Waka on his level, even with the whole 'life in danger' thing. Part of the crowd notices Waka as well, and forms a new faction dedicated to chasing him instead. There's a problem; Waka is evasive, dodging between obstacles, but even with concentrated energy giving him a boost and allowing him to float he still can't move around that fast consistently. Issun's seen him in action; to use an apt comparison, it's as if he's more of a sprinter than an endurance runner. The poncle curses.

The damaged house shakes, and a scrap of wood falls into the irori, leaning against the cooking pot.

There.

"Mrs. Orange!" Issun screams.

Mrs. Orange looks ahead, confused. The woman's hearing is going, and the situation probably isn't helping, but her ears are still a lot better than her husband's. "Huh? What's that?"

"Mrs. Orange, I need you to take the lid off the pot!"

"Issun?"

"The pot!"

"The what?"

He sighs and rushes to her, bouncing onto her shoulder. "Take the lid off the cooking pot, lady!" He yells in her ear, and she moves her arm involuntarily as if trying to swat a fly. He hops off; good timing, anyway, to lead the horde away.

"Alright, alright, no need to shout about it!" 

There was, in fact, much need to shout about it, but any frustration is replaced with a feeling of victory when the old woman marches over and pulls the pot lid off.

"Okay, get ready to put it back!"

"Silly bug! You just told me to take it off!"

"Just–" Was he the only one thinking here? Issun feels like he's going crazy. "Just do it on my signal!"

Waka, having caught on, is already making way for the fallen wood, and Issun follows suit, both leading their respective mobs. The bridge it makes is steeply sloped, but workable; they rush up and onto the edge of the pot.

Issun balances on the edge. "Hey-hey! Come and get us!"

The demons rush up the slope, slowed a bit as they cannot all run up at once, and from now on it's a game of knock-down. When some come up to the pot, the two slice and jab them into the bottom. Some, in their rush, do the favor of ramming into other demons on the way, sending them both inside, and some lose their footing immediately. They aren't exactly the graceful type. Still, it's sweaty work knocking the remaining ones inside, and small steps back over time has sent Issun nearly all the way around the pot's rim, close to Waka.

Which is convenient enough. Once the last demon is knocked down Issun grabs a fistful of Waka's yukata. "Now, now, now! " He hollers, and jumps off, dragging Waka with him.

The demons moan and writhe and crawl in their massive clump, tripping over each other in an attempt to spill out, but Mrs. Orange presses down hard with the lid before they can. The arm of one hangs along the side, squished and limp. From within, there is screaming and arrhythmic knocking.

Issun wields his brush, lights the irori, and steps back.

The screams become louder, higher, desperate, until, finally, there is silence again.

"Yay." He falls to the ground.

"Good work, mon cher," Waka says. He can still stand, which is irksome, but he's swaying just the smallest bit, back bent forward in exhaustion. It's a lovely sight. Through the fatigue, Issun idly wonders if he would ever lose balance on his tengu-geta, or if it is impossible to truly knock Waka down.

A more pressing matter comes to mind. "Something's wrong with Ammy," Issun says, and faces the snoozing goddess. "Furball's a heavy sleeper, but even she would have woken up during this."

Waka, taking back his air of composure, crosses his arms and nods. "Correct; it is not a natural sleep." And he sounds so sure of it, too, as if knowing more than he is letting on. Always the case.

Well, if Waka won't tell him what the deal is, he can at least try to get someone reliable to help. "We should talk to Sakuya."

Despite their minuscule stature and reclusive tendencies, poncles' strong legs, less weight, and natural powers mean that, when trying, they can generally travel at a reasonable pace. This keeps them a little more even with beings of larger size, even if they would usually lose in a race. However with the scales balanced…

Issun looks back and realizes Waka is trailing far behind.

He bounces back. "What's going on, slowpoke?"

Waka tilts his head. "Should I be running?"

While acting as bait (which was totally planned and calculated), Issun exerted himself greatly, and despite his best efforts is feeling a little slow on the simple trek to Konohana. Waka must be slower, then, too, having used a lot of energy in the same endeavor. The adrenaline is still flowing, but less strong. He could wait, but they really should hurry. If this was tiny-sized Waka at a brisk pace, they wouldn't get anywhere.

"No, sure, this situation doesn't require any urgency at all!" Issun snaps. "Come on, fruitcake, just use the mallet and get back to your normal size."

"Ah, no can do, mon ami."

Issun feels a headache coming on. "Look, we're done playing around, alright?" Be serious for once .

Waka just shrugs and shakes his head. An involuntary grumble comes from Issun's throat. "If you're gonna be difficult, fine. " He holds out his hand and ignores the queasy feeling that comes with it. "Grab on."

With a funny little smile, Waka takes it, and the smaller man gets to running up the hill. Issun's grip is tight – he's sweaty, and doesn't want their hands to slip and have to waste time circling back for this stupid prophet who can't even keep up, can't even tell him what's going on. Because he has to know, right?

And — how long has it been since Issun held someone's hand? Maybe as a kid, when he was closer with everyone else in Ponc'tan. Maybe when Ishaku was dragging him around. Maybe when he would sneak out to spend time with Kai, and sit in her outstretched palm trading jokes and listening to her stories. But that wasn't the same. There is something firm and harsh and real about this grip. Waka uses his spare arm to grab Issun's wrist for a more secure hold, and the poncle sets these thoughts aside before they are too much to bear.

"Oh, Issun! And… " Sakuya squints at Waka. "I recognize your presence, but not your shape, my friend…. Are you the same being who came from the Celestial Plain with Amaterasu? What can I help you two with?" She smiles. "I heard the festivities from here, but there also seemed to be some commotion."

"Ammy's in trouble — she won't wake up!" Issun blurts out. He doesn't have the patience to explain everything right now.

Sakuya hesitates. "Well, it is night-time…"

"Amaterasu is a deep sleeper, but generally more reactive than this. It feels unnatural." Waka speaks up. "I sense a curse. A magical mallet I possessed has gone missing, as well, so I believe this was a calculated attack."

Issun nods. "Yes, by demons, there are still — wait." He coughs, turning to Waka. "The mallet is missing? The mallet went missing and you didn't mention this?"

"I did tell you earlier, my bouncing friend."

Issun fumes. "Not in so many words!"

"Boys," The scent of fresh blossoms draws them back to Sakuya. "Be quiet. Have the villagers bring Amaterasu to me; the sacred tree will protect her for the time being, and I will watch for when she wakes." She smooths out a strand of hair, and bends down. "You two have assisted Amaterasu before, have you not? I believe I can trust you to find the source of this curse and retrieve the mallet. I am sorry, friends, that there is no more that I can do."

It is plenty. Issun knows it's plenty, but still has to bite back complaints, and tastes iron in the back of his throat.

After setting Ammy up to rest under Sakuya's protection, Issun flops down in the grass by a cherry tree on the cliff. Waka is nearby; Waka has been nearby, Waka cannot leave him alone, and it's already getting on his nerves. He opens his mouth to complain, but too many words want to come out and so none do. A choked noise escapes instead.

"You are angry." Waka states.

And that, that, that is the last straw.

Issun shoots up, bouncing with rage, temperature rising. "Of course! Of course I am! You come back here with Ammy and try to act all thoughtful but now look where we are! I'm stuck with you instead of her, you let some low-life monsters steal the mallet, and we have no idea how to get her back to normal! Meanwhile who's the one who's gonna have to drag your sorry ass all over Nippon to fix this mess, when you won't even tell me why these demonic freaks are back? I mean, how many are there?"

Waka is silent.

"Are you even — " listening to me? Issun falters. Waka is not paying attention, but there is no sense of playfulness to his face. Instead, his face appears the most alien he's ever seen it — he is wavering, head bent forward and tilted at an odd angle, moonlight shining on his cheek. Strange, Issun thought they were fully in the shadow of the tree beside them. The pupils of Waka's eyes are dilated, open without looking. His mouth moves silently, just slightly, as if reading.

"Uh. Fruitcake?"

And then it happens; Waka falls, and it's not nearly as satisfying as expected, and Issun is not quick enough to catch him.

"H-Hey! Come on!"

"Be quiet." Waka croaks, eyes wide and looking far away. As much as Issun resents the command, to hear some words from him is a relief, and there is truly not much else to do.

A few minutes pass, which feel like hours, the way time ticks by at a snail's pace during childhood. Issun watches Waka's hair bleed into the dirt, moving silently in response to his small twitches; he notes the muscle tension down to his fingertips. It would be a pretty sight, in some strange way that only Waka can be, were the situation not so odd. His mouth goes dry anyway, and some seed of shame stirs in his stomach.

Finally, Waka closes his eyes and lets out a deep exhale. Had he been breathing at all during this?

"I see." He says. Now it's Issun's turn to hold his breath. "We should not worry too much. The mallet will be to the west. And…"

"And?"

Waka seems to think better of it, and lazily waves one arm. "Nevermind. It wouldn't be fun to spoil everything, yes?"

Issun prickles. There it is, the unsettling feeling of having the prophet know more than him, unwilling to help for the sake of some sick fun. "I thought you already had given your prophecy for the night."

"Ah, earlier... something had just come to me abstractly. A loose feeling. This was…" Waka now comes fully back to himself and sits up. "A little specific."

"Do you always shut down like that?"

Waka rolls his tongue around in his mouth, thinking. Still hesitant to give himself away — Issun hates it, hates it, hates him.

"Come on. If we're going to help Ammy, the least you could do is tell me what's going on! I thought the demons were gone. " He's been digging his nails into his own hand, and it stings when he lets go. "I don't give a shit about fate or my role or whatever. My friend's in trouble. Our friend's in trouble." He murmurs the last sentence like a secret.

"It is not shutting down, as you say. And it happens only sometimes." Waka confesses. "For large things." He touches his face as if ensuring it is still there. "It will be alright, mon petit. But whatever will happen, you and I do not play a large role." He stops. "Well, not directly, I suppose..."

"Huh? Uh, I'm pretty sure we have a big-ass role to play right now."

"Sure. If thinking of it like that is helpful."

Which, of course it is. Of course it is. Issun has lived his whole life having to prove that small things are meaningful, and he isn't about to stop now. He's no sun goddess, but if there's a task to do, he's going to do it. Idly, he kicks a grass seed on the ground.

"How did they take the mallet?" He asks. "I didn't see any of those demons get away. Is it still in the house?"

Waka shakes his head. "They were a distraction to keep me busy so I could not react in time. I sensed it, but could not fight it in the rush — a small and nimble creature took the mallet and ran."

Feeling awkward standing up, and with exhaustion creeping in, Issun sits. "And this is all connected to why Ammy can't wake up?"

Silence. Issun takes this as a yes.

"Right. Well." The poncle yawns. "If you know where to go, we can set foot in the morning. Or, I guess just after waking up, since it's nearly morning already. Whatever, I'm not taking another step until I get some sleep."

Waka hums in agreement and lays back down. He looks pale; truly, Issun probably could make it back to shelter, but he doubts the prophet could, and he's had enough of dragging him along. Besides, there's nothing wrong with a bit of fresh air.

He watches Waka's breath steady. Must really have been more tired than he was letting on. He looks nice at rest, with the smirk wiped off his face.

The truth is the man of the moon tribe has always been pretty. Objectively. His hair frames his face well, or whatever. And there's something strong and delicate about his features, even when he looks stern — it doesn't make him appear weak, just softens him. Issun wonders if he ever had a choice in becoming what he is. Whatever that is.

So it seems the era of peace is a little more unsteady than initially thought. Issun supposes it makes sense for some vestiges of evil to linger — it is hard to fight off an infestation and keep it away for good, and evil always persists when good shines through. He wonders how many signs of lingering malice he's ignored thus far in his travels. Should he now warn the villages he stops in? The travelers, the animals? If Waka's vision is any indication, this isn't his fight, but if there is any danger to Nippon he would feel some duty to at least tell others.

He would think that Waka of all people would see the importance of mitigating potential threats to a civilization, but then again…

Well. Anyway. It seems that sometimes, feelings are often prone to mislabeling. What he feels for Waka is not hate, he admits, a secret between himself and the setting moon. He hates the feeling of being so small in his mind, and kept at arm's length — these are what stab in his chest and fill his stomach with disdain. But if it is a matter of returning to normalcy and helping Ammy, he will put up with the man. For whatever stupid journey they have to make, for whatever events Waka foresees but refuses to speak of.

The things I do for you, furball, he thinks, as the night catches up with him and his eyelids finally become too heavy to bear.