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The relationships of gods and mortals never quite seem to end well.
From the echelons of distant lands to more local affairs—Xu Xian and Bai Suzhen, Orihime with her paramour Hikoboshi, a myriad of truths, some unheard and others a violent thunderclap—passion swirls, tantamount to toothed eddies.
Conferred the name of love (conferred everything but responsibility), those waters churn, a maw insatiable. It tears. It devours. It mourns after ‘neath the gleam of stars. Whether happenstance or by means of purpose, the sea wavers, a living being in its entirety and composed of pliant memory.
First, a whimper. Then, a shudder.
Finally, a wail to all those foolish enough to listen.
And oh, do they listen.
If there is one deed that carries faster than love, swifter than summer illness or the snap of a viper’s jaws, it is gossip—tragedy taken life of its own.
For a god of his age, vessel having been forged eras before, the Spirit of Ri—Hyper, as he had so once been named, bestowment having stuck even centuries after the demise of that particular medicine seller—understands that well.
How could he not? A sword forged to quell that cacophony of passion, that understanding forms his purpose.
Moreover, is it not natural for a sword to stain? For past to influence its being?
Blood upon blood, ink upon ink—from the fabled sword of The Isles to the Muramasa blades, intent dyes the form, ever-clinging even as the cloth brings the metal back to a spotless slate.
But still, he digresses.
Whether love or one of its many forms, passion takes, sweeping away into history and legend.
“…Are you listening?”
Hyper blinks, movement languid as he meets his latest partner’s gaze. A peerless blue, it reminds him of a cloudless night: ever-watchful, vibrant, tides tinged by a faint mournfulness.
“Yes.” He makes a motion for Ri—their names are always Ri, previous attachments severed upon graduation and cast away for title—to continue. On the table between them, the tea wafts, its floral aroma intermingling with earth and kizami. Next to their yunomi sit the trivet-set teapot and a small plate of sweets. “You were recounting our last foray into the mortal realm. If I recall”—Hyper’s lips quirk upward as Ri’s brow furrows—“you slipped. We had to call for aid from the Medicine Seller of Kon.”
No one wishes for their older brother to come to their rescue—the ensuing lecture and doting had apparently drawn a number of giggles from the misfortune-prone Kayo—but embarrassment is momentary.
Death is not.
Even for someone as experienced as the current Medicine Seller of Ri, that would hold true.
“A temporary lapse in judgement,” Ri states, and Hyper catches himself, laughter quickly swallowed in favor of that usual stoicism. It wouldn’t do to tease his partner all too much. While the Medicine Seller of Ri may hold a penchant for jests—how many times has he been reprimanded for that by their superiors?—it isn’t a habit that someone of Hyper’s standing should take part in. It isn’t proper. “There has been little time to rest.”
“Then why not sleep?”
He had chosen to brew chamomile for a reason. One of the Medicine Seller of Ri’s favorites, particularly when accompanied by a generous dollop of honey and a few drops of lemon, it soothes his restfulness, a brief relief. While his partner may not require food or sleep—none of the medicine sellers do—old habits (little joys) are difficult to discard.
The body is too used to it, a leftover from Ri’s days as a human.
“Because”—much like a naughty, petulant child, Ri’s brow remains furrowed, and once more, Hyper stifles his urge to laugh—“there is work to do: herbs to dry, talismans to prepare, a number of tasks that need to be realized before we depart.”
“Is that so?”
Ri’s scowl deepens, but Hyper pays it no real mind, preferring instead to sip at his tea.
“Absolutely.” Ri’s tea remains untouched. “While our primary role may be to purify the mononoke, a medicine seller”—Ri emphasizes those words—“should have a variety of wares to offer. Tonics, topical remedies…”
“Marital aids,” Hyper offers helpfully. Idly, his eyes flit to the set of holiday-themed cookies. A gift from the older brother—the Medicine Seller of Kon is a known gourmet and glutton—it is a souvenir from the modern era. Omiyage as it were. “Those and the shunga are always popular.”
“…Yes.”
Disregarding the unamused look that he receives, Hyper continues, “Still, is rest not important too? A well-rested mind is a sound mind.”
For work such as theirs, a small mistake, one unturned stone, could lead to complete annihilation.
First, the peddler.
Second, the people. Third, the world around.
Unlike a sword, a person could not be mended, could not be melted down and reforged.
Replaced certainly—how many partners has he had so far?—but he doesn’t particularly want that.
Swords, after all, are stained by their wielders—by given purpose and the years that have passed: memories upon memories, passions ‘twined with passions, hopes and fears scattered like blossoms in the whistling wind. While the connection could be cut (is that not reason for his existence?), the ink would remain, having soaked through into the metal.
Too human really. Too sentimental.
Compared to his younger self, that blithe, serious thing without a name, the difference is stark.
But that is what Hyper thinks anyhow.
And for a kind soul like his current partner…would it not be a shame? The Medicine Seller of Ri may be a curt man at times (a rude bastard, one particularly memorable human had described), but there is compassion, nevertheless. An excess if Hyper were to be honest.
Though, should he have expected anything else? The trigram of Ri is one that favors dynamicism—strong emotions and impenetrable coldness coexisting in turn. It is the sort of wielder that the Spirit of Ri trusts.
“I am capable.”
Hyper nods. “You are, but still…take better care of yourself. It would serve everyone well.” He reaches forth, pushing the plate of sweets toward Ri before motioning toward his cup of tea. “How else will you sell your wares? Attract customers?”
Upon those words, Hyper snorts. Sell? More often than not, his partner gives away his medicines; always for a trifling amount of coin or for some half-baked reasoning or another. Sales often stemming solely from marital aids and shunga, the Medicine Seller of Ri only earns enough to travel.
“By sterling review and word-of-mouth. I do not plan to die easily.” Rather thankfully, Ri complies, chamomile soon drained completely from its cup. In return, Hyper refills it. Still warm, the tea sloshes around in the pot. “Or do you underestimate all of your partners?”
“Only you,” Hyper replies. “There is only ever one Ri.”
“Then help me prepare the ingredients later. How else will I have time?”
Hyper doesn’t reply. Instead, he merely clicks his tongue, more amused than irritated.
Long-lived as the sword is, there is no use in immaturity. In genuine rebuke.
Not when their time together is finite.
The relationships of gods and mortals never quite seem to end well after all.
And this would be no different.