Chapter Text
They say that humanity would end in a flood, and the land would be lost beneath the waves, and only the Deity of the Seas, Storms and Streams would remain, his tears the sole witness to his grief.
His first memory of life is the fins of a fish as it brushes against his skin. Somehow, His newborn brain registers the texture, smooth and cool, perhaps a bit slimy, but it is the feeling of home. The concept was foreign, but familiar all at once. Brown eyes with horizontal, slit pupils flicker open to view the offending animal, finding himself surrounded by numerous swimming fishes welcoming Him into the world. A low rumble escaped His lips, an unfamiliar sound that sent the creatures flocking to Him with reverence. He could only feel satisfaction at their worship. Regardless of the form He took, He was still revered as their King.
He was lucky his eyes adapted easily. With how deep He was in the ocean, only minimal, passionate strands of light managed to hit the minute patches of scale texture on otherwise porcelain pale skin. He was far less reptilian compared to His memories, and more fleshy, more mortal than He was accustomed to.
Besides that, the only source of light were the bioluminescent plants sway along with the current, fully in bloom. They radiated through the deep sea in muted hues of blue, purple and pink, from weeds and flowers, to seagrass and algae and kelp. His body rests atop a nest of sprawling corals, wide and round like a throne made for a King. The thriving marine life surrounded Him, as if His resurrection had resulted in aquatic nature springing forth from His body in waves.
The water was just right. Not too cold, not too hot. Salty. Perhaps this body had adapted to the waters long before His consciousness came to be. He knew what He was. By the laws established by the Gods of this world, He was not meant to be.
But He is greater, and He is older than them. Or… He was, in a previous life eons ago, lost to the sands of time that cushioned His mortal feet as he rose from the depths of the sea, towards the light and towards the sky.
That version of Himself no longer exists, written out of history by the Usurpers.
Usurpers. A bitter feeling of resentment pooled in his gut.
Perhaps thousands of years had passed since He first died. His memories from then are limited, but He could never forget the injustice that He was served.
Slowly, He swam upwards from the ocean floor, the webbed nature of His hands and legs gone, replaced with the bipedal form of a regular mortal that He once despised. The cruel irony. Pressing the fleshy appendages together as if to mimic his once serpentine-like body, He began to swim like one would with fins. Unused to having arms, He awkwardly raised them above his head and began to part the water downwards in time with His kicking.
His first gasp of air had nearly sent him sprawling back down to the ocean floor. It felt like He momentarily choked, engaging in a coughing fit before He reeled himself in for a proper breath. It took him several minutes of monitoring His respiration— in, out, in, out — before He could trust himself to relax just fine. With more confident kicks and arm strokes, He brought himself closer and closer to the shoreline, until He was merely treading, the tips of his toes gently brushing against the sand.
As He approached the shoreline, He saw a small human settlement come into view. A dock stood akin to a guardian, well worn and well loved from years of use by the locals. Small boats were tied to the pipe caps, likely because the fishermen were done seizing their catch by the late morning. The signs of life He could spot were small mortals playing by the shoreline, with the little girls gathering shells and trying to show off on who could get the biggest, and the little boys mimicking sword fighting using pieces of driftwood.
The horizon was different from what He remembered, not because of the human settlement but even because of the shape of the mountain and the form of the sea. The sea seemed bigger than He remembered, and less primal and brimming with energy. Tame. Perhaps it was the work of those Gods and that blue eyed Usurper.
He found himself standing on shaky legs, slowly wading out of the water without the reliability of the sea and the buoyancy of water to support Himself. It was akin to a baby bird inching closer towards the edge of the nest, waiting for that one shove to come from its mother before plummeting. Unfortunately for Him, the sea was as cruel a master as a mother, and the waves pushed him nearer to the beach.
The playing children seemed to notice the strange, six foot man emerging from the depths of the ocean. Initially, they seemed panicked, but upon noticing His struggle to stand, two of the children ran over, with one of them holding a large stick.
“Mister? Mister! Are you okay?” The child asked, reaching out a helping hand as he held the stick in the other. “You… You came from the ocean! Were you shipwrecked, can you stand?”
“Stop asking him questions, Takeru!” A little girl said, lightly smacking his arm, taking the stick from her friend and giving it to Him. “Here Mister, use this as a cane.”
Awkward, tentative, and unsure how to react, His cold fingers wrapped around the piece of wood to stabilize Himself. He pushed down on the stick, lightly digging into the sand as He put His weight onto it. It did help His balance with standing upright, having something to lean on, but He was not so sure He could walk straight just yet.
“Thank you.” He said, His voice a satisfying, baritone rumble.
“What’s your name, Mister?” The boy, Takeru, asked tentatively.
A name surfaced to mind. Before He could stop himself— because why would He stoop to the level of that God’s creations? — His mouth moved before him.
“Oikawa. Tooru.”
For a while, Oikawa adapted to the life above land in the settlement of the humans. They were far kinder than He expected them to be, given His imposing appearance and figure. On His first day in the village, Oikawa had been tempted to return beneath the ocean after giving His name to the children. Instead dragged Him to meet their village chief, spouting and babbling incoherently and far too excitedly for the older gentleman to understand.
He introduced himself as Irihata, before asking Oikawa if he had been shipwrecked. Oikawa’s answer had been a simple shrug of His shoulder to sound unsure, with which Irihata assumed he was merely an amnesiac. According to Irihata, numerous storms had occurred over the last three months that caused several ships traveling from different islands to get lost at sea.
“I can only suppose it is because the Deity is displeased,” Irihata calmly stated, handing Oikawa a cup of tea. With a nod of thanks, Oikawa graciously accepted the cup and enjoyed the warmth of it between His hands.
“The Deity?” He asked, though His mind had already guessed the answer.
Irihata seemed to miss what Oikawa had been questioning. Instead, he stared out the window with a distant look. “Following the death of the previous Deity, a new one quickly ascended to Godhood to replace her. A guy, this time.”
Oikawa hummed. “From what you are saying, I suppose this Deity became so three months ago?”
“A wise assumption. Well, you would be correct. The current Deity of Seas, Storms and Streams, Kageyama Tobio, is a blue eyed hot-head with half the grace the previous one had.” Irihata merely shrugged. “But perhaps that is too harsh to say. He has merely been Deity for three months, and the nation is freshly recovering from a war. I doubt it is easy.”
Oikawa nodded sympathetically. He made a mental note of that name— Kageyama Tobio — for whenever the time came to reclaim His power and His authority from him.
When the conversation drew to a close and the tea had gone cold, Irihata had suggested for Oikawa to seek shelter at the inn. Along with him, he gave Oikawa a letter to give to the innkeeper for him. With a pat on the back from the older man, and leaning on the piece of wood that Takeru had given him, He went on His merry, stumbling way to the inn. In truth, Oikawa had no need for sleep, but He decided that perhaps it would be better to humor the older gentleman who had shown Him kindness by allowing him to return the favor.
The inn was far from being a fancy place, but it was comfortable and warm. It was a cool, brick building with four stories and a painted blue, asphalt shingles as the roof. Vines wined up and down the building, from the flowerbeds to the top of the building. The owner had just flickered the lamp on with a match, stomping on it as he came face to face with Oikawa.
Irihata had clearly been magnanimous and kind to Him, as the letter stated Oikawa could stay in the inn for two weeks, with the bill mailed to Irihata. Impressed, Oikawa had stalked up to the bedroom and laid down, ending His first day in the settlement.
And within two weeks, He found himself idle. Most of His time was spent wandering the village, living like an observer as He watched the people live out their lives. Humans would do tasks in exchange for gold. Sell fruits, vegetables, cloth and even fish in exchange for gold. Give away gold to their children, so their children could grab sweets from someone selling them for gold. It was interesting to see the world the Gods had made.
His favorite pastime consisted of following the children He met on the beach to a net, which He came to learn was a court. On the court, the kids would play a game of two versus two, trying desperately to make sure that the ball would not hit the ground. He learned from Takeru, who He watched play, that the game was called beach volleyball.
Perhaps it was the free-spirited nature of the children, the excitement of scoring a point, or the amusement Oikawa had gained from watching them play that drew Him into the game. When the kids would go for a snack, Oikawa would snatch up the ball and attempt to throw, hit, and toss the ball He watched the kids do.
However, before Oikawa could find His answer, He was approached once more by Irihata with a bewildered grin on his face. “Your full name is Oikawa Tooru, correct?” He asked, gripping a letter and what seemed to be a bouquet of blue lilies and white snowdrops in his arm.
Oikawa merely nodded. “Is it for me?” His gaze was drawn to the massive bouquet, bewildered. Is it something humans usually did? He could only guess it was a gesture of good will.
“From the Deity himself.” Irihata laughed incredulously, extending the bouquet to Him. Oikawa examined the bouquet, His interest caught.
The blues of the lilies, a staple in the land, contrasted with the whites, exuding an aura of softness and boldness with an elegant finish. The petals of the lilies outstretched downwards, changing from the fierce shade of sapphire to the soft periwinkle at the tips, with long stamens at the center like a golden heart. The white snowdrops were like raindrops on a glass pane, decidedly scattered, bell-shaped and pure. He wondered if the Deity— if the Usurper, Kageyama Tobio — already knew His identity and was attempting to get on His good side.
“Quite pretty.” Oikawa said, as He reached for the letter. “Though, I suppose I will read the letter now. I suppose it would not be wise to ignore direct communication from our God.” He smiled, though the words tasted foul in His mouth.