c h a p t e r  f i v e

—BRAVERY AND FOOLISHNESS, are more intertwined than most people think. To be brave, one must overlook the glaring danger sign, be aware of the consequences yet bypass them for an uncertain outcome and by practicing that ignorance, either be crowned a hero or a failure. To be stamped with such title, one must withstand the blinding luminescence of the spotlight, swallow the creeping fear and dance with the danger. A rational mind wouldn't be as blind, doubtless or even selfless in some cases. Which is why, the ones donning the most courage are often utter fools — special fools if you may. So, to be brave is to be foolish but, bravery in itself cannot be achieved through foolishness solely. Or at least, that was what Aoi no Okina had mused with you.

Bravery is a virtue given inadequate thought, yet, a prevalent theme in the literature and legends of Inazuma. You're well acquainted with fearless samurias unhesitant in ending their lives for honour, warriors charging with piercing battle cries against monsters to defend the land, the court ladies pushing away the paper screen to start a revolution in literature and of her excellency's merciless scarring of her own land — much like any ordinary child of Inazuma.

You were awed at all the different pigments those heroic tales appeared in once, too. Sparkling [e/c] and giddy daydreams making your boring days much vibrant ; you'd imagine then what it'd be like to be the last one standing before a tyrant warlord, no less blood-drenched than you, would the fight be strenuous? Or, would you be able to end him in a single slash of pulsating elemental flare as the pinnacle of your swordsmanship? Ah suppose, it wouldn't need to be as grotesque and you'd convey the loudest messages through silent, bold strokes of ink and colour and the court would be bamboozled, the public would be sent in a buzz of heated debate — everything a dreamer could dream.

The sol's rays descend upon you from straight upwards, you consider it to be a prelude to the approaching summer's merciless noons. The spring's noons are much, much more benevolent with its lulling winds occasionally passing through your hair ; still, it does little to battle the sunbeams heating up your head although, you wouldn't blame the sun solely for a hot head. Wiping a bead of sweat on your forehead with your kosode's sleeve hastily, you adjust your woven basket — its weight unhelpful in your venture.

Both your hands now numbed from the number of shifting from the right to the left and vice versa and the path to the Tenshukaku still not shortened, you passed by the marketplace just a while back (you noted how the bustling had subdued as people temporarily retreated for luncheon) and now were crossing a deserted forestry — by which you meant, the trees still not yet fully dressed as to properly shield you from the sun's rays.

Ha, who said I couldn't be poetic? Take that, Murasaki. You absentmindedly noted to share this with Sumizome when you actually reach the Tenshukaku.

See, the perks of being a shrine maiden was that they'd have plenty of leisure outside of their duties and if, by chance, you happen to be a special case, that free time would be.. all your time, so to say. So, when this abundance of leisure gets occupied with errands and such your strategy is to finish them as quickly as possible so you'd be able to indulge in musings under the sakura trees in solitude — this is not an exception to paintings either.

Which is why, you found yourself in this strange eventful day, multitasking your dearest friend's painting request and Kitsune Saiguu's errand. The former is proving to be all the more difficult as the day goes on and you blame the sudden burst of productivity that hit you this morning for this decision.

Foolish, foolish. To think I haven't even given the painting its finishing touches but am going to submit it. You shook your head, surely, Sumi will understand. She isn't one to get angry over such trivial things — she might even laugh if I tell her I fretted over such a matter.

In present Inazuma, poets think paintings to be a materialization of their cautiously weaved verses at best and an abstract splash of colours that somehow look pleasing at worst. This mindset is not that alien for a time where poetry is all the rage, not that you're including Sumizome in this group as well — you're well aware of the Kasen's genuine appreciation for your works, all the more reason why the inability to fulfill her request is frustrating you.

Your last encounter with Aoi no Okina gave you a good wake-up call, in a time where painting's shallow appreciation is pre-existing, you'd tried your best to make your works stand out even just a little. Though if anyone were to brand you of wanting to revive its former glory, they'd be dead to you.

You're not a foolish moth that chases a flaming ambition til the same light becomes its demise, no. As per your late father's wish, you're merely inclined to lead a mundane life practicing your family's withered craft, perhaps sprinkling some life in it (it's spring, after all) here and there. What intrigued you though was how the same poets theorized as seeing painting as less seemed to appreciate them more than ever, take Aoi no Okina and Sumizome as the 'victims' if you may.

You digress, pessimism was as adhesive to your thoughts as sweets were to teeth and when Celestia seemed eager on deterring you from an objective, it seeped through your carefully sustained ataraxia rather unmercifully.

“Hold it!”

You pause midstep, taking one backwards instinctively. Your brows furrow, your eyes no longer reflect the daylight.

“Drop that basket and we might go easy on ya,”

The same group that'd attempted an amateur robbery at the stationary shop jumps out of the bushes and hollers in unison this time, grating your ears. The leader that'd previously cowered cracks his knuckles alongside his lanky subordinate, a shallow allusion of threat that usually translates to : ‘I'll break your bones if you don't do as I say.’

Pushing aside your obvious irritation, you glance around ; conveniently, there's not a single trace of another lifeform and the sun is even harsher in its delivery of light. From the corner of your eye, you see the member with a Taiko sized belly still gobbling down bananas, carelessly throwing the peelings everywhere, his teammates seemed to be rather impatient though.

“Are ya deaf or something woman?! I SAID drop that basket!”

You surmise that they'd been waiting for this ambush, thus the shortage of patience. You recall the leader's ominous stare through his austere eyebrows when they were leaving the shop, between the imposing Kasen, an influential businessman and his young son, surely the defenseless shrine maiden after she exists their threshold would be the better prey for cowardly men like them. The leader had targeted you since the start.

You return your attention to them wholly this time, they didn't seem to be carrying any weapons but their boss was well built and the lanky one was probably fast ; you wouldn't be able to outrun them especially with the glutton literally barricading your way. Turns out they weren't totally brainless after all, but you aren't going to appraise that when everything's against your favour now, are you? You find your throat dry when you gulp, curse this day.

On the other side, the leader seemed close to exploding, he proceeded in a grabbing manner but halted when you lowered yourself cautiously, your woven basket at front. You feel a sting in your heart, it's always like this, the strong will always emerge victorious, regardless of the means they use, how immoral they are, who they target or how unfair it is. Nothing of that matters when you have strength, power, desire.

You peer through your lashes at the three, they have their teeth bared in sadistic excitement, at the sight of a win, at their pride being restored.

“Now, hands off the basket.” you cannot see the boss's eyes clearly due to the shadow of the straw hat and, you decide you don't want to judging by his degrading tone.

You wonder what the heroes from the stories you'd heard in your childhood would do in this situation, they definitely wouldn't cower or lower themselves like you, they'd take these excuse of men head on and put them in their place. You've come to a realization though, the heroes from those stories had either the strength or the courage to do so in the first place.

Compared to them, what do you have? You're neither a samurai, nor someone of such importance that people bow before your presence. Unlike them, you're not strong, you're not brave.

Your left hand lets go of the basket's woven handle tentatively, the sandy earth feels almost consoling between your fingers. A breeze passes by almost as if to say, it's not your fault.

The leader is barely an arms length away now, crouching to snatch the basket away but your right hand remains firmly on its handle, he doesn't notice.

“See? That wasn't so hard now, was it? Awh, don't start cryin' now, I won't swing you over that tree.”

You hear the other two snickering behind their boss, something in you compels to hold the basket even tighter, suddenly aware of how heavy it feels despite being rested on the ground. Seriously, are you really admitting defeat to these wastes of oxygen? It feels as if a hundred needles has been pushed through your heart, right at the part where some of that pride still slumbers. You might be nothing more than a shrine maiden in people's eyes now, but you've always been taught to live with self-respect. What would Kitsune Saiguu think if she were to see you submit like this? How disappointed would your father be?

The leader's shadow is almost overlapping with yours, as if the power he presents to hold in this situation is consuming you, slowly slowly slowly slowly—

“You disgust me.”

“Huh?”

The leader's face is not given the time to churn in confusion (then to eventual anger) as it's sent hurling towards the far left when you raise your woven basket and hit him with it square in the face, you jump to your feet and notice his goons' flabbergasted expressions.

The lanky guy is the quickest to recover, “How dare you!”

You reflexively side-step his furious jump and he runs straight into a tree, the echo of the impact becomes background noise as the glutton advances towards you. You remember the fist-full of sand in your left hand and without thinking throw it at his eyes.

Oof— that ought to hurt.

His ear-splitting scream proves so, you prepare to run backwards but are halted as he slips on one the banana peels on the ground and slides all the way to his boss, crashing on him.

You're unsure how many bone cracks you hear.

Wait, the path is clear. With all three of them out of the way you can finally see the rest of the road leading to the Heart of the City like a shining tunnels end. Hastily, you avoid the banana peelings, about to break into a sprint only for the human-bamboo equivalent to jump out of nowhere and block your way.

“Think ya'er funny, do ya? I'll make you regret this!!”

You notice blood-trickling down the side of his face, there's a mania swirling in his dark eyes, if he didn't look disturbing enough before, he'd surely win a competition for it now. Your heart drums against your ribcage without mercy, had you been in a more placid state of mind you could've marvelled at what you'd managed to do to this gang. But the only thing your mind screams now is survival.

“Wait!”

He raises an eyebrow in jogged mixture of irritation, signalling you had his attention. You rummage through your woven basket, fingers grazing what Akahito had given you upon your departure, an idea forms.

“You want Mora, don't you?” the words somehow drawl out more slyly than you'd intended them to be. Nevertheless, the mere mention of 'Mora' seems to turn a cog in his head. You almost visibly cringe as his defense vanishes and the same avarice returns in his eyes, as if you tried to dye a black canvas in colour and then, disappointed with no expectant outcome, splashed it with black again.

You make a little show out of rummaging through your basket more, then looked up and invited, “Come get it.”

It's almost pathetic how briskly he makes his way to you, “Where is it? The Mora?”

The corners of your lips quirk up, a thought crosses through your mind (you wonder how this smile appeared to the man, sinister? Or, if it looked anything like one at all) and disappears in the quicksand of it at the same time.

You watch as he falls, the coloured rock falls with him a little far away. You're heaving when it's finally quiet, the birds have resumed their chirping. You glance towards the way leading to Tenshukaku and then backwards to where it'd lead to the Marketplace. Contemplating which way you'd turn to now, but you couldn't ponder here all day, you're sure these brutes will be up in no time, you'll have to move fast.

You spin on your heels, heading instead towards the Grand Narukami Shrine. Sumizome's painting would have to wait, right now, your safety was the most important.

⚝

The flame of the lantern of your humble room flickers and occasionally flinches because of the night winds' probbing, there's no moon illuminating the sky tonight and you almost feel sad. Gazing at the never-changing moon of Teyvat had always calmed the incendiary thoughts evoked by your circumstances, you wouldn't deny you'd desired its solace tonight more than any day.

You loosen your yukata's collar slightly, letting the air cool your skin.

What a tiring day.

For a few minutes, you just sit by your window idly, going over everything that occurred today, some parts of your day seemed almost unbelievable now but reality is as it is and memories would always trick the mind.

A knock pulls you out of your musings, you're certain all the other shrine maidens have already retired for the night so the only person who'd seek you out now was...

“Kitsune Saiguu?”

The shoji slides aside and a pair of snow white ears peak through the crack, the Kitsune slips through it and then closes the door as gently as possible. Her smile is ever benign but the usual hint of tease is replaced by concern, it seemed as if she was trying to mask it but some fractions managed to slip after battling with her affections for you.

“I heard from Suzuka that you practically ran all the way up to the shrine, did something happen, my dear?”

The Guuji takes a seat beside you, unrushed. Of course, nothing escapes the Kitsune Saiguu's ears. You'd expected her visit actually, knowing she would come to check on your well being no matter how busy she's been. You'd be lying if you said you weren't the tiniest bit excited to share everything that happened the past few weeks, okay, that's still a lie — you were extremely excited.

With a sigh you plopped down on the older woman's lap, the fabric of her red hakama wrinkling here and there but that didn't seem to be her concern.

“A plethora of things, where should I start?”

That seemed to ease some of the Kitsune's nerves, the glint in her golden eyes that usually appear at the serving of gossip sparkles.

“From the very beginning,”

This willingness to talk was a newcomer, but not unwelcomed at all. You're not usually this chatty, especially if draining events had plagued your time. You don't open up about everything even to her, who'd technically raised you since the day you're left at the gates of the shrine.

All her years of observing humans fail to assist her in understanding you, every time she feels like she's got a grasp of what your heart desires or what goes through your head, she discovers more things that she's yet to understand. You're unpredictable, yes. But that's not what makes you so intriguing (she could lable almost every human and yokai as one), it took the Guuji all the years spent raising you to figure out that, what actually makes your incalculable nature stand out was the unintended nature of it all.

Amusing as your lively chattering was, it still couldn't compete with the contents, Kitsune Saiguu found herself more surprised with every sentence that left your lips.

“You met Aoi no Okina and Akahito in the same week? And why have you never mentioned that you're almost routinely meeting Suikou??”

She appeared more flabbergasted than mad, a small pout forms on your lips,“You're making it sound weird— It's Suikou himself who just barges in on my free time, how do you expect me to bluntly shoo away a Kasen as distinguished as him?”

“Understandable,” she nods her head a few times for emphasis.

You make the mistake of looking up at her face, her neutral visage has shifted to her signature mischievous grin and her next words has you wishing you never mentioned the Kasens at all.

“Say [Y/N] dear, has any of them catched your fancy?”

“What?”

“Oh, don't play the oblivious maiden with me, they're Inazuma's most eligible bachelors. Surely, at least one of them has made your heart thump?”

The stare you direct at her reflects something akin to hearing the most nonsensical prose, sure, you cared little for the gossips that the shrine maidens indulged in but even that indifference hadn't hindered you from knowing the extent of the Kasen's popularity. You enjoyed and greatly appreciated some of their works as well (not that you'd like to be biased but, mainly Sumizome), you don't deny that they deserve their titles. What doesn't register to you is why you should throw yourself at them solely because of that.

“Oh my Shogun, [Y/N], I know I say this a lot but it's okay for you be a normal girl your age — it's okay to be a little foolish, a little indulgent.” her hand slips in through the locks of your hair, her gaze now is the same as every time she's given you that advice ; understanding and distressed.

Unable to bear that stare, you avert your eyes to your woven basket, comfortably sitting on the bundai at the corner of the room beside a stack of papers ; the lantern's light stretches its shadow, forming a mighty illusion betraying its true form, had it not been for Kitsune Saiguu's presence, you would've loved to imprint that moment on paper and— why did it feel like you're forgetting something?

“I'll let you know that I'm a very indulgent woman ; yesterday, I had three extra sticks of dango and I also bought new red paint today,”

Oh, right.

Kitsune Saiguu chuckles, the corners of her eyes crinkling in resigned mirth. Her amusement is cut with a sigh, “I really can't argue with you.”

You hum absentmindedly, a little lost at the feeling of her hands combing through your hair, “Also, I almost got robbed,”

Her ministrations stop, face dropping.

“Not to worry, I kind of.. beat them up? If you can even call it a beating, eh.”

She grabs you by the shoulders and hoists you up straight, turning you left and right thrice then doing the same to your face, seeing no change in your reactions and no indication that you're hurt by extension, she lets go.

“You said you gave them a beating?”

You nod your head, preoccupied with holding back a laugh at her dead serious face.

The Guuji closes her eyes, the red tint grazing the corner of them become clearer, “Attagirl,”

Then, both you break out in laughs.

You're the first to recover, with a small smile still clinging to your lips you advance towards your woven basket and take out the suzuri-bako that'd birthed the circumstances for that last laugh.

“And here's your precious suzuri-bako, safe and sparkling.”

Kitsune Saiguu takes the box in her right hand, wiping little tears from the laugh. She unfolds the embroidered cloth to reveal the box itself, the golden lacquer shines in the lantern's soft glow and Kitsune Saiguu appears much pleased.

She decides to comment on something entirely different although, “Sumizome sent one of her ladies in waiting to escort you today, but I unfortunately had to send her off since you weren't returning. I remember you mentioned something along the lines of a painting for her?”

You're still rummaging through your woven basket, squinting to see the more intricate contents that were placed there ; you see the ink stones and the red paint in place and even find one of the coloured stones Akahito had given you intact.

“Ah well, I was planning to visit the Tenshukaku after fetching your suzuri-bako but because of a certain group of idiots, I wasn't able to.” the Kitsune halts her examination of the half-guilty box upon tasting the tidbits of salt lacing your words.

“I took the painting with me so, it should be still here.”

But your speech loses credence when your hand returns empty of the expected sheet of painted paper. You blink owlishly, rummaging again and return void of said painting. You take a deep breath to control your nerves from breaking in a frenzy for the who-knows-how-many times today. You can see Kitsune Saiguu's perplexed face from the corner of your eyes but you cannot find it in yourself to address that. Opting to grab the lantern laying about and hold it above your woven basket.

Despair slowly spreads across your face, you shakily face the Kitsune and the placid hue of your eyes, cracking like a frozen lake.

“I-it's not here...”

A gust of wind twirls the windchimes hanging over your window, the elegant tune permeates the tense atmosphere but to you in that moment, that usually calming jingle sounds sinister, like a premonition.

Don't tell me..

⚝

When the forest path is devoid of any signs of a maiden in shrine attire and pained groaning has taken over the spring birds' songs rather rudely, a new pair of sandals retrace the fleeing maiden's footprints on the sandy soil, they're as light as a canary's feather in flight yet smudge the existence of the aforementioned figure without much effort. The so-called boss of the bunch currently sprawled on the ground manages to push away his heavier goon with some struggle. His straw hat had been knocked off to somewhere as per the effect of the hit and because of said hit, the apparently imposing man seemed to have trouble recognizing the approaching figure immediately.

“Look at you, sent grovelling in the dirt by a mere shrine maiden-one without a vision, at that!”

There's a chime, then, a voice laced with a certain richness-refined as the finest sake yet, lacking the extra layer of saccharine to mask the speaker's pretentiousness ; making every word blunt, condescending, demeaning. For the boss although, that much indication is enough to crawl into himself on the ground, head lowered in respect (Or, is that fear? If you squint close enough, you can see him shaking).

“Forgive our insolence, my Lord.”

That seemed to have shook his other two goons from their involuntary trance, their eyes fall on the billowing red ribbons hanging from the stranger's straw hat and they scramble to follow suit.

The addressed ‘Lord’ ignores such gestures altogether, swiftly turning towards the right. His shadowed eyes inspecting two coloured rocks with faint smudges of crimson abandoned on the ground.

“Ah yes, insolence. Perhaps the only educated word in your lexicon.” he spits again without any trace of mercy and the two goons flinch rather violently.

Their boss remains unmoving, not even appearing to breathe, he knows better not to say anything else, or, anything that the newcomer wouldn't like to hear, at least.

“If you took those theatrical skills to the streets instead, you could've long repaid your debt — but ah, where is the amusement in that?”

The bells attached to the crimson ribbons jingle again, it's thought to be a mirror to the shrine's bells, a crystalline reflection of the wearer's status — but everyone who'd had the honour of hearing this particular sound know they're nothing more than funerary chimes. The goons (who are more dimwitted as to not being able to read the room and dare to sneak glances) are caught between comparing which one is more forbidding : the bells or the smile peaking behind the shadow of his hat that has the afternoon sun's rays dimming.

This man.. is an anomaly in his kind. A vicious, venomous snake lurking, waiting for an opportunity.

The boss peers through the cracks of his fingers, his 'Lord' pays no heed to his gang, finding more interest in the dirt and naked trees.

“Hm? No objections? Did she send your ability to speak soaring along your hat or something?”

The more talkative of the gang opens his mouth in reflex but is quickly shut by the kick his boss delivers to his arm as discreetly as possible. His goons' lack of patience is almost on par with their braincells, this, he's long grown accustomed to. However, the man before them isn't as benevolent, despite his refined mannerisms that construct together a portrait of nobility — truthfully, he's as noble as a hornet's nest. The acrimony of his speech makes his displeasure quite clear, but it's also apparent that he's deriving some twisted form of entertainment from this whole ordeal. If this supposedly role-model nobleman could just watch a woman getting humiliated by his own men from behind the trees, then, the possibility of what further torture he could bring upon them is something the gang's leader wouldn't like to find out.

The chimes are ringing louder than ever, conquering the silence. The Lord stands like a sunspot, the mundane surroundings paling in comparison to his regal attire. A hand rises to fix the straw hat, a piece of papyrus dances before orbs of melted violet, the same hand grasps the paper.

“Hm? What is...”

The still bowing boss peeks to his Lord again, he can see reflections of black and green on his Lord's glossy eyes. The Lord's expression is indiscernible, brows sometimes creasing, orbs slightly widening in vague recognition and then back to being still. The man quietly tucks the paper in his sleeve, fixing his hat and finally the bowing group gains his attention.

“What are you waiting for? Scram,”

The three scurry to their feet, eager to get out from this humiliation and to anywhere where they could escape their Lord's fastidious gaze, temporarily, but still. Their limbs involuntarily freezes when the hatted nobleman's voice is heard again.

“ —And oh, don't go chasing the shrine maiden again if you have any semblance of dignity left.”

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

*ominous fandango plays*