Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Wedding
There was nothing aesthetically remarkable about St. Ignatius.
In light of towering cathedrals and ornate basilicas, one could scarcely believe the rickety old cabin was a church at all. An assortment of Japanese maple and Miharu cherry blossoms protected the little shack from being spotted. However, if concentrating hard enough, one could catch the glittering stained glass and smiling Madonna peaking through the tangled brush.
If Hannah had visited on any other occasion, she’d have found the little chapel charming. But alas, there was no charm strong enough to break her melancholy.
And this wasn't a happy occasion.
Examining her surroundings she realized the chapel's interior was as plain as its exterior. Stale incense, seeped into aged oak permeated the air. The small little stained glass windows filtered the morning sunlight in various hues of red, gold and green. Five rows of pews on each side guarded the center aisle. A baptismal font was stationed near the right of the altar. To the left, a lit red candle hovering over a tabernacle indicated that the church had regular parishioners, albeit very few.
Hannah wished a curse would appear from thin air and swallow her whole. Anything but this.
Her feet barely felt the floor as she moved towards the altar. Nervous butterflies pounded in the pit of her stomach with each passing step and the weight of the white chiffon felt enormously heavy. The lace veil obscuring her face and pinned hair, did nothing to invoke confidence. Though she couldn’t lift a hand to touch her cheeks, her skin felt unbearably hot and flushed. She wondered if she was sweating through the dress, the bouquet in her clammy grip visibly shaking. The sour taste of bile coated her throat.
She must have made a sorry sight.
A bride should exude the epitome of happiness on her wedding day. She should be woken up to the cliché of bubbling champagne, giggling bridesmaids, and her mother’s tears of joy as she placed a wedding veil in her daughter’s hair. Her father joining soon after.
If only she had parents to speak of. Not even her dear uncle chose to attend the wedding. Not that I'm surprised, Hannah thought bitterly.
All she had for “family” were the likes of Mother Superior, His Eminence, Cardinal Xavier Wrath, two sorcerers from The Association who she couldn’t identify because of their hoods, and a small group of Benedictine nuns in charge of singing a processional hymn.
Their glowering stares were directed solely at her. Resolute and unyielding, as if daring her to make the mistake of running away.
No use in trying. It was too late for that.
And before she knew it, she was greeted by a priest, dressed in his chasuble and stole. He offered her a sad smile. Pity lined his soft brown eyes. An indicator that, he too, wished for her circumstances to be different. If the bride were to guess, the humble Capuchin was probably “obliged” by The Association to preside over the union. Poor Fr. O'Malley had not been given the option to refuse such a request, whereupon he would swear denial for his involvement later. By all means necessary, this wedding was to be kept an absolute secret.
After all, it wasn’t everyday that The International Association of Exorcists and the Big Three Sorcerer Families of Japan could breathe in the same room. Much less, attend a wedding.
At this point, Hannah thought it appropriate to glance over her shoulder, her hazel eyes spotting the many Japanese elders in attendance. Even through her veil, it appeared most of them were wrinkly old men, their formal hakama and haori made of fine silk. She recognized the Zen'in, Kamo, and even the Inumaki emblems, kamon as she learned they were called, pressed neatly just below the nape of their necks and sleeve caps. It was comical how distressed they all looked, having to participate in this strange Western wedding. No worries though. Since there was no Mass1, the ceremony would only take half an hour at most. They would be released from the awkwardness soon enough.
In an effort to appease both parties, there would be two marriage ceremonies; one Christian, the other Shinto. A naive observer might be believed into thinking this was a show of respect, when in reality both parties were trying to claim superiority over the other. A dangerous game of “my culture is better than yours” and what not. The bride could feel the suffocating tension behind her. It was a miracle no punches had yet been thrown, or fighting words exchanged.
Which brought her back to the task at hand.
The young bride was trying everything in her power not to meet his gaze, eyeing the guests, or looking down at the floorboards. They now stood mere inches apart from each other. If the bride wanted to, she could reach out and touch him, but she didn’t dare.
Hannah knew she was shy, but when had she resorted to such childishness? She had already consented to the proposal months prior, dedicated hours to learning Japanese and practicing proper etiquette, and now she couldn’t muster the courage to look at him? She could already envision Mother Superior’s familiar scowl, shaking her head in disapproval for her incompetence. No, it was better to get this over with then prolong the inevitable.
Besides, didn’t she want to put a face to the name?
Closing her eyes, the woman quietly took a breath. Never had her heart hammered so violently in her chest. Her circulating blood was pounding in her ears, it was almost painful. She just wanted this ordeal to be over with.
Stop being such a baby, she mentally scolded herself. Look, dammit.
She slowly opened her eyes and tilted her head a fraction to the right.
The first thing she noticed were his hands, how enormous they were compared to her own, but more specifically the scars. The fleshy white blemishes covered almost every square inch of his knuckles. Most looked old, while others looked fairly recent, retaining a pinkish hue. She could also make out the tiny calluses blotching the tips of his fingers. He was strong, no doubt.
A sorcerer’s hands told many things. For one, Hannah knew it took many years of training and spell-casting to forge scars like these, meaning only the most powerful sorcerers possessed such features. Particularly, older sorcerers. Not young men. Hannah had recently turned twenty this past January. It was now April. Wasn’t he supposed to be a few years older than her?
The little bride swallowed. There were countless horror stories about jujutsu sorcerers abusing their loved ones, being too powerful for anyone to stop them. Although these were likely fabricated rumors to uphold animosity amongst the East and West, Hannah couldn’t stop the grim imagery from invading her mind. What kind of power radiated from those hands? Would he hurt her?
The emblem, printed on the sleeve of his haori, was not lost on her either. She had memorized its features well; a three tiered pine tree in the middle of a circle.2 The clan soon to be her own.
Gojo.
Her eyes continued to travel upward, straining to see a chin, but he was so damn tall. How troublesome, she thought. The woman had just about made it past his broad shoulders, caught a flash of white locks, when Fr. O'Malley cleared his throat.
"Hannah and Satoru,” he said, shifting his eyes right and left nervously. “Have you come here to enter into marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?"
At the sound of her name, Hannah eyes snapped back to look at the priest. The silence was deafening. Though she knew what words to say next, her tongue felt as if it were made of lead. There was ringing in her ears and the young bride wasn’t sure whether she had spoken the next syllables at all.
“I-I have,” came her reply, but not before being accompanied with another.
The bride and groom would have to answer these questions in unison. He must have memorized what to say. Unsurprising, since she would have to do the same for the second ceremony.
"Are you prepared, as you follow the path of marriage, to love and honor each other for as long as you both shall live?”
“I am,” she replied, relieved that her voice hadn’t cracked. Their words synchronized again. This time, she could draw out the velvety baritone. It was decidedly masculine; seductive enough to coax anyone into doing his bidding, while striking fear in his enemies’ hearts. From the way he spoke, Hannah surmised his English would hold a slight lisp from long usage of Japanese.
"Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God... ”
At the mention of children, Hannah no longer wished the priest to speak. Fr. O’Malley sounded as though he were talking through dense mud. His words began to sink in. Acceptance that the end was near and resistance was futile. In a few seconds, she would no longer be Hannah Thames.
She could almost laugh.
Caught in her sudden nihilism, she hadn’t felt the pair of callused hands sliding a gold ring onto her finger, or his simple reply of “I do.” She hadn’t realized that Fr. O’Malley began talking to her again, or that it was her turn to make vows. She had already tuned half of it out.
“…Do you promise to be faithful to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and to honor him all the days of your life?”
A tingling sensation prickled down her spine, leaving gooseflesh. Her mouth hung slightly agape, less her eyes deceive her.
At last, the young bride had compelled herself to look up.
The chapel.
The Association.
The elders.
Curses.
Magic.
Jujutsu.
Shame.
Guilt.
Fear.
The world faded away.
Because her hazel eyes currently beheld the most wondrous pair of turquoise blue. A cosmic force that defied the laws of nature. No ocean could comprehend their depths, as past, present, and future merged within his gaze. He was impeccably handsome with a long face, strong jaw, and hair white as freshly fallen snow.
Hannah was certain that no greater specimen existed in the known universe.
She slid the gold ring unto his finger.
“I do”
Thus, sealing her fate.
Gojo Satoru, her now husband, pierced directly into her soul.
And his furrowed brows and clenched jaw revealed his silent anger.
Notes:
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UPDATE: 6.4.22
1. Since this is a Catholic wedding between a baptized and non-baptized person, the marriage is not sacramental and does not require a celebratory Mass. These marriages need special dispensation from a bishop.2. This is (supposedly) the real Gojo Family crest. It took me forever to confirm whether this was the correct kamon. I've seen it floating around the internet, but nobody sourced anything, so I didn't include the description and image in the original chapter, plus multiple families or organizations could’ve used the same crest over time. However, the link references the Sugawara clan and some interesting facts about the Gojo family line, which is excellent (use translator). The three tiers might symbolize longevity, good fortune and steadfastness, or possibly the three jewels relating to Buddhism; either way. You can read more about the Japanese significance of pine trees here
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Chapter 2: Meetings and Mishaps
Summary:
We learn something new regarding Hannah's betrothal. Also, Hannah and Satoru share their first conversation.
It doesn't end well.
Notes:
Don't have an excuse, other than life got busy. So to make up for my absence, here is a 3,400 worded chapter. (I tried separating it into two, but the chapters fell flat).
Thank you for all the kudos and comments so far.
Enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 2: Meetings and Mishaps
Four months ago…
“I won’t take no for an answer, child,” Lord Thames said coldly, stroking his beard between two jeweled fingers, a gold signet of a siren visible on his left pinkie.
It was unlike the Earl of Graivmor to dabble in frivolities. Looking more patrician than an Edwardian portrait, his streaky black hair and coarse beard contrasted with the red damask walls and ormolu furnishings of the drawing room. In his youth, he had been quite handsome, but years of heavy drinking and cigar smoke had altered his appearance drastically. The earl now had a protruding belly, a thick neck, and tobacco stained teeth to his aging visage. More concerning were his steely cold eyes, which were attempting to drill holes through the back of Hannah’s skull
On the eve of her twentieth birthday, Hannah had the misfortune of being invited to dine at Wasserton House, the official Thames estate. Her uncle, Lord Thames, seemed cordial enough during dinner, but Hannah suspected that the hospitality had been forced and, to her dismay, she’d been right. She was now trying to process some very troubling news.
Had she understood him correctly? She was to marry the Gojo family’s prodigy and heir? Her? How absurd. There must be a mistake?
No, of course not, she thought disbelievingly. This is nothing more than a cruel, twisted joke.
But the presence of Cardinal Xavier Wrath, who had been sitting adjacent from her, donned in his usual red cassock, proved Hannah otherwise. His Eminence would only have been invited if it was of the utmost importance. His bones creaked from old age, as he adjusted himself to speak.
“From what I understand, a union like this has never been tried before,” he said calmly, finding a comfortable position to better look at Hannah, the pectoral cross glinting around his neck. “Your uncle has gone through great pains to procure this arrangement. Jujutsu sorcerers are not easily swayed, you know.”
Hannah opened her mouth, but quickly closed it, hesitating. The air thickened. The drawing room had turned into a sauna. The fresco of sirens hovering above her seemed to laugh. Her heart was pounding as the words left her throat.
“B-But what would the Gojo family want with a foreigner like me?” she stammered. “I-I can’t even manipulate cursed energy…Uncle, surely there is someone more qualified. More deserving. Cressida would be a better —?”
“Silence,” Lord Thames hissed, bristling at the mention of his daughter.
Though he hadn’t shouted, the hairs on the back of Hannah’s neck stood on end. Her hazel eyes began to burn.
In the opinions of her family, if one had the gall to call them family, Hannah was essentially damaged goods. Born with auburn hair, instead of black, and hazel-green eyes, instead of blue, she bore the consequences for allowing non-sorcerer blood into the pedigree. As was the law, she was required to take the family name, but forbidden to become an exorcist, or train in the art of combat, doomed to the life of an anchorite.
Or so she’d thought.
His mood ever more dour, the earl gave an indignant huff and rose from his chair. Smoothing the front of his suit, he sauntered towards the liquor cabinet behind the many cushioned seats, opened its mahogany panels, and dished out an ornate looking decanter. Then, with an audible “shing,” he removed the stopper from its opening and poured an amber liquid into a goblet. Bringing the glass to his lips, he turned to face his niece.
“Tell me, Hannah,” he asked, his temper easing from the whiskey. “Are you still having dreams?”
Hannah swallowed what little moisture was left in her mouth.
“Y-yes,” she replied softly.
“Are they vivid or obscure?”
Her stomach churned.
“I cannot tell, sir…Most times, I don’t remember."
A lie.
“But you have dreamt of the future, yes?” probed Cardinal Wrath, joining in the interrogation. He looked pensive with his finger tips touching. “Six months ago, it was you who warned that a cursed womb would manifest outside the Louvre. We’re lucky no civilians were hurt in the onslaught. Took six of our best sorcerers to subdue the wretched creature.”
“That was one time!” Hannah sputtered, a panic in her voice.
“It only takes ‘one time’ to know you have The Sight,” said her uncle darkly, taking another sip of his whiskey.
The girl couldn’t bring herself to say anything.
Part of Hannah wished she’d never told The Association about the supposed vision, but the dream, or rather the nightmare, had been too real to keep secret. She could still remember the massacre as if it were last night.
Possessing no eyes, a white kabuki face reemerged from the marbled hallways, smiling evilly at her with thousands of needle-like teeth. Saliva dripped from its overextended mouth. The stench of rotting flesh mixed with ammonia, a commonality between cursed spirits, wafted from its breath. The curse almost looked human, with its bipedal legs and two arms, but Hannah remembered the creature’s thoughts picking away at the corners of her mind. They were the thoughts of a monster.
Must find…Must kill…Not one shall live. Not one!
It’s only incentive had been to slaughter. To devour every last man, woman, and child, bones and all. She watched the predator tear their limbs apart. Their bodies, thrown about like playthings. Entrails covering the halls of the museum. Screams of horror. The deluge of blood. A maniacal laugh.
And those four vermilion eyes watching her from the shadows. A shiver ran down the length of her spine. It was always those blood red eyes. Every time.
“What about the cursed object they recovered from the scene?” inquired Lord Thames sharply, a cautious tone in his voice. He was oblivious to his niece’s distress.
“Just as we feared,” said Cardinal Wrath, his eyes growing dim. He raised one of his bony digits. “A single finger, hidden inside the corpse. Nearly gave the Japanese a heart attack when we told them what we found.”
“Where's the finger now?” demanded the earl.
“We were unable to destroy it. So we handed it over to the Japanese accordingly. It now resides at one of their sorcery schools…You know what this means, Jacob.”
Lord Thames said no more, appearing to have understood the gravity of these words. He sank down in his chair. A heavy silence fell upon the drawing room. Hannah had only been half listening to the conversation, still ensconced in her nightmare. She hadn’t sensed Cardinal Wrath walk over from his seat and grab hold of her shoulders. His grip firm.
“Please, Hannah. You are more valuable than you realize,” implored the cardinal, the close proximity outlining his many wrinkles and beady eyes. “Time is of the essence. The jujutsu world is in dire need of you.”
Hannah, feeling uneasy, looked to her uncle for what little assurance he could offer, but the earl was no longer focused on his niece. Whiskey now gone, he was brooding in his chair, deep in thought.
“We all are.”
Four months later, Hannah Elizabeth Thames was wedded to the Gojo heir.
The nuptials had concluded for the evening and the newlywed bride was staring out the passenger window of a car, bound for Tokyo, her head resting on an outstretched palm. She attempted to stay awake, but the noise of the interstate was lulling her to sleep. It would be nightfall by the time they reached the school.
Mr. Ijichi, who had been driving the vehicle, adjusted his tie and glasses, prior to clearing his throat.
“Gojo-san would like to apologize for being unable to join you this evening,” the man said meekly. He’d been sneaking glances at the woman from his rear-view mirror. She’d been eerily quiet. “He’s been called away on a mission.”
Though relieved by this news, Hannah couldn’t resist rolling her eyes. She highly doubted that “Gojo-san” was sorry for leaving.
“When will he be back?” she asked.
“A few days, or so,” replied the driver.
The car became quiet again.
Hannah sighed through her nose. It had been a taxing day.
The Shinto ceremony was so unlike its predecessor in every aspect. As a bridal gift, Hannah was adorned in the most beautiful uchikake, a luxurious wedding kimono made of omeshi brocade. It had purple wisteria blossoms embroidered on silvery vines, truly magnificent.
The shiny layers of fabric had been a welcomed distraction. Since that morning in the chapel, Hannah was trying her best not to avert her eyes from the floor, lest she caught traces of turquoise blue. At least, she’d been spared from having to endure the scrutiny of her “relatives” the second time.
Just when Hannah had extended the Sakaki branch for the offering, almost all The Association members vanished from the shrine, save for Cardinal Wrath. His Eminence stayed until the drinking celebration concluded, paid his respects to the Shinto priest who presided over the ceremony - apparently they knew each other - and gave one last fleeting smile to the bride before disappearing in a veil of light.1
Yes Hannah thought. She was free.
But her elation was short-lived. At once, a sea of people queued up in front of her, eager to bestow their well wishes on the bride and groom. Hannah smiled nervously and bowed to each newcomer as they stepped forward, but by the twelfth person, she had already forgotten most of their names. Also, they spoke too fast. The English-speaking bride wasn't able to catch much besides “Omedetou” and awestruck gasps of “Utsukushii.”
Then, without warning, Hannah felt a pull on her sleeve and soon she’d was cajoled into an empty room, reminiscent of a sacristy, away from the eager crowd, but it wasn’t just her. For whatever reason, both newlyweds were placed in the room. The sound of a large wooden door closed behind them.
They were alone now.
Just the two of them.
Time is of the essence, rang Cardinal Wrath’s voice in her ears.
The butterflies in Hannah’s stomach returned with a vengeance. If it wasn’t obvious already, she had very little experience interacting with the opposite sex. She had no idea how to flirt, or what to say. Years confined to girls-only schools and convents were to thank for it. Instinctually, Hannah’s eyes returned to the floor.
She waited for him to say something.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Three minutes?
Nothing.
More seconds passed.
Experiencing an extreme case of déjà-vu, Hannah slowly lifted her head to take a peek through her eyelashes, but regretted the decision instantly.
Handsome face be damned, Satoru looked as though he had bitten into a rotten lemon.
Soon as her hazel-green collided with turquoise blue, his eyes maneuvered like clockwork, studying the woman’s every minute detail, his expression twisting from anger, to loathing, to boredom at breakneck speed.
Hannah’s soul just about left her body when she noticed his pupils hovering a tad longer than necessary over her chest. A “tsk” of disappointment left his lips as he did so.
She was certain her face held no color. This was worse than embarrassment. In all her twenty years, the woman never felt so worthless.
The hazel eyed woman stared down at her hands, a band of polished gold glinted brightly, as if taunting her.
The pointlessness of it all.
It was a fool’s gambit really, believing she’d be accepted by this man, by these people. Even her own kin treated her as a pariah, ensuring she remained half-in and half-out, but never wanted. All because her mother made the fatal mistake of falling in love with an American from overseas and gave birth to her.
This was never going to work, thought Hannah bitterly. I’m a naive, blundering fool for believing it ever would.
Hannah clenched her fists tightly. There was a dull ache in her jaw when she pressed her teeth together. The ashen hue on her cheeks now held a slight purple tinge. She could feel the tears ready to spill.Why!? What have I done to deserve this?! she internally screamed.
Hannah was on the precipice of having a complete and total breakdown, but just before she could release the first mournful sob, a patch of callused skin seized her chin abruptly. Her head tilted upwards, moving her whole body forward from the contact.
Her breath hitched. In an instant, their faces were so close. Strands of gossamer white hair brushed above her forehead. She couldn’t think of an accurate description for how she felt, her eyes transfixed by his cerulean depths.
“So, you’re the girl everybody’s been talking about, eh?” His thumb was pressed on her lips, while his fingers cradled her chin, preventing her from turning away, their noses less than a millimeter apart. Hannah could make out her own reflection in his pupils. A tremor rolled down her back. Satoru clicked his tongue again. “Yup, I think those old geezers will be pushing up daisies any day now. You’re not at all what I expected…Figures.”
He pouted.
Hannah stood there dumbstruck, her eyes burning from withheld tears. She wasn’t sure what startled her more; Satoru cradling her chin, his blatant disapproval of her, or the fact that he spoke in near flawless English, albeit with a slight accent that she dare not admit was attractive. (So, she’d been right about earlier).
He had yet to remove his thumb from her lips.
For a brief second, Hannah contemplated running her tongue against his skin to spite him, but feared retribution. So instead, she wisely raised her shaky fingers to pry the scar-ridden hand away. With little resistance, Satoru complied to her wordless request, straightening to his full height as he did so.
How is he so tall? Hannah thought warily.
The top of her head barely reached the middle of his sternum, and she could tell by the muscular outline of his clothing that Satoru wasn’t only tall, but solidly built underneath the fabric. She studied his broad shoulders, eyes following the length of his bicep towards his elbow, returning to the familiarity of his hands. The same star marked hands she first spotted in the chapel and cradled her chin mere seconds ago.
Like velcro brushing against silk, she could still feel the traces of static from where his fingers caressed her skin. Every hair on her body prickled with gooseflesh. Her heart sang in a strange, yet repressed delight. Though it hadn’t been loving, no one had ever studied her so intimately before, especially a man. His presence both thrilled and terrified her, and not for the first time that day, she wondered if they’d be expected to share a bed. She took a breath.
“Well…Well, you’re not what I had in mind either,” she retorted lamely, now free from his restraint.
“So she speaks!” mocked Satoru, somewhere between a snort and a laugh.
“What?!” She took a few steps back. “Y-You were the one preventing me from talking just now! I spoke just fine during the wedd — ”
“Psch, please,” Satoru interrupted, as if wanting to gag. There was a humorless glint in his eyes as he rolled them. “Spare me that crap. We both know you would’ve turned into a human faucet had I not intervened just now. Really, you should — Woah, don’t give me that look, Princess. You know it’s true.”
A devilish smirk graced his lips. He was enjoying this.
Princess?! Hannah hadn’t been prepared for this at all. She hated being teased. Her face was on fire, but the bride couldn't think of a suitable comeback. She could picture Sister Edith waging her finger about the virtue of prudence.
An awkward pause settled amongst the two.
“Look,” Satoru inwardly sighed, running his fingers through his oddly colored hair in frustration. “I don’t know what the higher-ups are playing at, but regardless of who you are, know that I don’t give two shits about this.”
He showed her his left hand, a replica of Hannah’s gold ring on his finger.
She was deeply confused by this gesture. Why consent to marriage, if he had no intention to commit? It’s not like they could divorce. The “old geezers” Satoru mentioned would make sure of that. It was more probable that a grade 4 curse would win the Nobel Peace Prize before they’d be granted an annulment.
“I suppose you could just take it off, if it bothers you so much,” she shrugged.
“You could just take it off,” mimicked Satoru, unbecoming of his age. “You mean, you haven’t noticed? The damn thing is laced with some kind of charm. Even I can’t remove it. Not without losing a finger, anyway.”
Wait, really? Hannah looked down at her left hand and tried sliding the ring off with her thumb. Sure enough, the gold wouldn’t budge.
The woman looked back up at the sorcerer. Satoru gave her a bored look as if to say “See? Told you.”
“So what now?” Hannah asked feebly, attempting to hide her dismay.
“What…now?” said Satoru distractedly. He’d begun digging through his pockets, searching for something misplaced, until realization struck. Lifting the fabric of his haori, he retrieved a single pair of glasses, pitch as black, from a hidden chest pocket. Satisfied with his prize, he directed his attention back to the little bride. His brow furrowed once more. “The way I see it, I just spent the whole day playing dress up. Those vows, or whatever they had me say back there, didn’t mean diddly-squat. You’re not my prisoner and I'm sure as hell not your babysitter. In fact, I don’t care what you do, or where you go, so long as you do me a teensy little favor...”
He fastened the shades over his eyes and bent over her as if to scold a young child. Glacial ice peeked through the obsidian frames, and in a clipped voice he uttered.
“Stay away.”
And faster than the woman could blink, the white-haired exorcist vanished from sight.
Splendid.
“What an absolute nutter,” Hannah murmured under her breath, now alone for the first time in what felt like forever.
However, the silence quickly became unnerving, and soon, the bride made herself away towards the exit, her wedding kimono swishing behind her. She opened the heavy cypress doors and ventured outside to find the shrine completely deserted. The sky was blushing with hues of pink and gold. Everyone evidently returned home for the evening, except for one straggler.
Looking like a side character from Men in Black, a lanky fellow in a suit and tie was waiting in front of a sleek Lexus sedan. Introducing himself as Ijichi Kiyotaka, Assistant Director for the Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College, he politely explained to Hannah that he was to escort her to the jujutsu school, which would serve as her new home. And without so much as a roar from the engine and a “thump," of a closing passenger door, the two sped off.
Now weary from the day’s events, Hannah wanted nothing more than to soak in a long hot bath and remove her tightly wrapped obi from her waist. The comfortable leather seats felt cool on her skin and her eyelids began to droop.
Despite her nerves, the weddings had gone off without a single mishap, but the evening with Satoru greatly troubled her. The bride couldn’t help suspect that his rude behavior was somehow her fault.
“Don’t give me that look, Princess,” she remembered him saying, looking incredibly annoyed.
But now that I think about it, I wasn’t all that polite either, she thought sleepily, remembering how she’d been too frightened to make eye contact. I’d be upset too, if someone was too afraid to look at me and nearly cried.
Headlights from oncoming traffic scattered her vision, and the heater enveloped the car in warmth. Hannah rolled onto her side and tucked her hands under head. Her eyes slowly closed, and before long, the little bride slipped into the void of sleep, knowing she’d have to face those swirling pools of blue again in a few days' time.
Chapter 3: The King of Curses
Summary:
Happy Christmas, ya filthy animals!!!!
No Gojo, sadly. :(
Although, Hannah does meet a certain angsty kid with spiky blue hair and two strange dogs.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 3: The King of Curses
The air smelled different.
Sunlight peeked through makeshift curtains of a window.
Blinking to prevent the moisture from leaving her eyes, Hannah craned her neck and rubbed the sleep from her lids. Her head was suspended on a soft cushion. A thick blanket draped over her shoulders. She appeared to be lying on a mattress.
Weird. She hadn’t remembered falling asleep here.
Slowly, Hannah sat up from the bed and stretched out her arms, a tired yawn escaping her lips. She hadn’t slept that wonderfully in ages.
Then she froze.
As she raised her elbows past her face, the embroidered silks of her wedding kimono were replaced with soft pink pajamas. Her pajamas.
They had little succulents on them.
Also, she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Someone had seen her naked. Someone had seen her naked and gone through her stuff.
There was certainly not a spasm in her eyebrow.
Nope. Definitely not.
Trying not to dwell on the matter further, Hannah looked around the bedroom.
In keeping with Japanese sensibilities, the dormitory was very sparse. Situated along eggshell colored walls were limited pieces of furniture, such as a dresser, a writing desk, and a hanging mirror. An alarm clock and lamp were plugged on a night table, near her bed. Next to the large window pane stood a door, hiding a single bathroom, meaning the other door probably lead outside.
She caught sight of a familiar briefcase near the foot of her bed.
Aha!
Quick as lightning, Hannah rolled the duvet off her shoulders and swung her legs over to stand. The smooth wooden floor felt cool on her bare feet.
But just as she rounded the corner of the bed, the poor girl swiveled too fast, and, without so much as a warning, banged her right knee smack-dab in the middle of an unassuming bed post. Hard.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…!!” she cursed through gritted teeth, massaging her kneecap in an effort to dispel the throbbing pain before adding a quiet, “…love me.” Blimey, that really hurt. Why did she have to be clumsier than a newborn giraffe? Would’ve been easier to climb over the bed.
She was sure to brandish a nasty bruise by nightfall.
Still reeling from the pain, the woman hobbled over to her luggage, muttering “bloody bed-posts” under her breath, and grabbed the worn leather handle. Then she hauled the heavy trunk onto the bed, clicked apart the clasps, and opened the compartment.
The pungent smell of mothballs ascended up her nose and specs of dust traveled down her windpipe, causing her to cough.
Her old trunk broke, so the replacement was gifted to her by Sister Edith. It hadn’t been used in a long time.
Which reminds me. I’ll have to thank her for all this later, she thought, striking her chest with a fist in an effort to expel the dust.
Now dealing with a throbbing knee and a cough, Hannah peered into the trunk.
She owned the bare essentials: a few undergarments, three floral dresses, two pairs of jeans and shorts, some t-shirts, a pair of ballet flats and strappy sandals, a hairbrush, toiletries, etc. She even had some worn renditions of The Story of a Soul,Treasure Island and Pride & Prejudice tucked within the slits of the suitcase.
Other valuables included a rosary, a small crucifix, and five sealed paper envelopes, barely full with what sounded like tiny beads when shaken, but they were not beads. Her smile was almost giddy as she brought one of the brown packets to her nose. Scented oil, rosa damascena, still rimmed the edges of the card stock. Their blossoms were sure to be top notch. She very much looked forward to digging into the little beauties later. However, their contents paled in comparison to her most prized possession.
Where is it?
At first, she panicked for not spotting the lapis blue box, the words Chaumet scrolled in gold cursive on the top, but quickly relaxed upon finding it hidden under one of her folded dresses.
With bated breath, she popped open the lid.
Inlaid with old mine diamonds and emerald cabochons, the art deco choker was worth a small fortune. It had once been a birthday present for her mother, upon turning seventeen and officially entering society. The custom piece could be fashioned both as a necklace and a bandeau. A sparkling set of diamond posts completed the ensemble.
Thank God. Everything looked to be intact.
Her mother never left a will or final testimony before her death. When confronted about the jewel’s whereabouts, Lord Thames, sweet as vinegar, pretended having no inclination about its existence, and deigned his “darling” niece too avaricious for her own good. Naturally, this was a worse than average lie. Everyone knew Lady Elizabeth was quite fond of the necklace. Wasserton House held several portraits of her adorned in the glittering bijoux. Though, this hadn’t stopped Hannah from having to grovel on her hands and knees for her uncle to finally relinquish the emeralds.
The throb in her knee now morphed into a new ache. Hannah never had cause to wear the necklace, but it'd been her mother’s most treasured possession. That was reason enough to keep it.
There was a knock at the door, dispelling Hannah from her gloomy thoughts.
It was Mr. Ijichi, dressed in a navy suit and tie.
“Good morning, Hannah-san!” he bowed cheerily as she opened the door. “Ah, I see that you’ve just woke up. Not to worry. This will only take a moment. I’ve come to deliver a message.” He quickly dished out a piece of paper from his blazer pocket. “You see, our principal, Yaga-sama, would be honored if you'd join him for breakfast at 9 o’clock. I'd gladly escort you myself, but alas, a student is in need of transportation. So, I’ve come to give you a map of the campus grounds. You seem bright, so just follow the directions and you should be fine. Have a good day.”
He handed her the map, bowed graciously again, and dashed down the hallway, disappearing from view.
Wordlessly, Hannah closed the door and glanced at the clock on her bed stand.
8:04 AM.
Hannah inhaled the smell of sweet grass. The humid air filled her lungs. It was already getting hot. Good thing she wore her hair in a braid.
Stepping outside the hallway, she stood in the midst of a long veranda, overlooking an impressive dry garden, a karesansui. Rows of pebbles were perfectly combed in symmetrical lines and patterns, reminiscent of cross-stitches. A pond dipped beside the stone bed. Little blobs of orange koi swam below the wading lily pads. Canopies of willow and wisteria trees shaded the landscape as little hummingbird moths buzzed around azalea shrubs and bearded irises, hungry for their morning meal. Their little velvety bodies shining in the sun.
It was breathtaking.
“Wow,” she said appreciatively, her mouth slightly hung open. “A girl could get used to this.”
Best of all, there wasn’t a cloud in sight. She was free to stare into the endless dome of the sky.
Turquoise blue, she mused dreamily, but immediately struck a hand against her cheek. There was no way she was going to let him spoil a beautiful morning. Not when he wasn’t even here for Pete’s sake. Absolutely not.
Shaking the swirls of blue away, the young woman unfurled the folded map. Mr. Ijichi courteously outlined where she needed to go in bright red arrows.
Shouldn’t be so bad.
She examined the piece of paper thoroughly, glanced down at her watch to make sure she wasn’t too pressed for time, and began marching towards the garan, or main worshiping space, located on the east side of campus.
Venturing past the zen garden and down a flight of stairs, the twenty year old turned right, then made a left, then another left, walked under a large torii gate that was stationed in the middle of the path, only to come face to face with another stone garden.
Where's a Marauder's Map when you need one? she thought, praying she hadn’t walked in one huge circle. She was just here a moment ago, wasn’t she?
Hannah returned to studying her map. Despite the confusion, she appeared to be heading in the right direction.
On she went, her ballet flats softly clicking the cobblestone pavement.
She sauntered up another flight of stairs, nearly out of breath, before spotting the mokoshi pent roofs hiding amongst the many ginkgos and pines. Since the campus was meant to imitate a Buddhist school, seven Zenshūyō hallways surrounded a square plaza, their curved tiers looking like rafters on a boat. Each hall carried a different purpose, though Hannah couldn’t remember what they were, other than the temple, which served as the primary prayer space.
The map was telling her to enter the third doorway on her left.
As Hannah climbed up the steps and approached Yaga’s office, she noticed the sliding shoji doors were left ajar. A banquet of food, large enough to feed a family of six, lay atop a shortened table, a chabudai. Each dish looked more tantalizing than the last; steamed rice, miso soup, tamagoyaki, natto, pickled vegetables, grilled fish, and other cuisines Hannah couldn’t name. A piping hot kettle of green tea sat in the middle of the meal. It all smelled heavenly. Her stomach grumbled, but she wasn't alone.
Two men sat quietly along the low table.
One of them was a hulking figure of a man, wearing an open black jacket and white zip-up. He was huge. Hannah almost mistook him for a retired rugby player. The bloke looked like he could break her arm with a squeeze of his hand. She couldn’t make out the color of his eyes because they were obscured by a pair of large sunglasses, not unlike someone else she knew, though instead of snow white locks, his spiky black hair was buzzed in a serious crew cut. A goatee outlined his chiseled jaw.
Hannah gulped. This man was not to be trifled with, for in his meaty hands he held…
a needle?
Huh?
A tuft of wool lay limp in his other fist.
Wait a minute…is he…is he making…dolls? And why are they so…cute?
It was unnatural, witnessing a grown man using a reverse needle to create adorable animals, but sure enough. Behind the scowling giant, stood a small legion of multicolored puppies, closed-eyed kittens, and grinning bears. Hannah swore one of the dolls turned its head to wink at her, but she quickly chalked this up to being ravenous from hunger.
After all, stuffed animals couldn’t wink. How absurd. But why so many?
The man was so focused in his doll-making that he had yet to acknowledge Hannah’s presence. Using this to her advantage, the young woman turned her attention to his companion.
She recognized the soft brown eyes and Franciscan robes instantly.
It was Fr. O'Malley.
Seeing her, the meek Capuchin smiled warmly and gave a friendly wave, while his doll-making companion looked up from his unfinished plushie. Though he wore sunglasses, Hannah’s spine went rigid from what must have been a very menacing glare.
“Why, you must be Hannah,” rumbled the man in Japanese. He placed the needle and doll on the table. His face, unsmiling. “My name is Yaga Masamichi. I am the principal of Jujutsu High. On behalf of our faculty and staff, welcome.”
A frog lodged itself in her throat.
“The…The pleasure’s mine, Yaga…sama.”
“Ha!” he laughed, still not smiling. ”You’re not one of my students. Only Kiyotaka calls me Yaga-sama. Please, it's Masamichi.”
“O-Okay, Masamichi-san.” Hannah’s voice was soft as a mouse. She wanted to hide.
“And I’m sure you're already acquainted with my friend here.” The principal rested a large hand on the priest’s shoulder, “This is Fr. Thomas O’Malley. He works for the Archdiocese of Tokyo. He also acts as a Window for the school.”
A Window? thought Hannah. She had no idea what a “Window” was. She doubted it had anything to do with the arching katōmado along the buildings.
So, him presiding over the wedding hadn’t been accidental. Here she suspected Fr. O’Malley was a poor random sap, forced to cooperate with The Association’s demands. When, in actuality, he was an insider the whole time. The betrayal stung.
“It’s truly wonderful to see you again, Hannah,” the priest said jovially, a ghost of an Irish accent dancing on the tip of his tongue. “My, you must be famished. Do help yourself to some breakfast.”
The woman needn't be told twice. Too nervous from yesterday, she'd eaten very little. Her stomach was about ready to cave in on itself. Wasting no time, she grabbed a small bowl and filled it with the delicious looking food. Then, making the sign of the cross, she whispered a short “Itadakimasu”, pulled apart a pair of chopsticks, ohashi, and plopped some sticky rice into her salivating mouth. The white grain tasted sublime. She didn’t catch the thoughtful expression on Fr. O’Malley’s face as she ate.
“I must say, you impress me, cailín. Your Japanese ain’t half bad.” He chuckled softly. “Far cry from the likes of England, no? How long have you studied the language?”
Hannah swallowed a mouthful of food. Since Masamichi-san greeted her in Japanese, she only thought it polite to reciprocate, but her fluency wasn’t nearly as good as Fr. O’Malley let on. She had immense trouble understanding people the other day at the wedding. Her comprehension was decent when they spoke normally, but speed talkers were the absolute worst. The bride wasn’t able to decipher “kawaii” from “kowai,” which was problematic because the words were basically polar opposites of each other.
Fr. O’Malley waited patiently for her answer.
Best to keep up with appearances.
“Well, uh, as of now, nearly… four months, I think,” she said in cautious Japanese.
“Four months?!” parroted the two men disbelievingly. It seemed Principal Yaga had been wondering the same thing. Four months was hardly enough time to become fluent in a foreign language.
Hannah cleared her throat, nervously. She hated having an audience. Explaining might be tricky.
“Since my engagement, I’ve been studying under the Sisters of St. Horatia…um…One of the nuns acted as my Japanese instructor.”
“Ah, but of course,” exclaimed Fr. Thomas, snapping his fingers. “How could I forget? Yes, that makes perfect sense.”
“Sisters of St. Horatia?” Principal Yaga asked.
Fr. Thomas nodded and turned to his friend.
“The Ancient Sisters of St. Horatia have the ability to alter the flow of time within a limited space. Elongating it by one hundredth of a second, they can draw five hours out of one minute. It's akin to Domain Expansion. Helpful, if you need to learn something fast. Many excorcists pilgrimage to their convent to hone their skills. However, the nuns are very selective about who enters, but if you're one of the lucky few, they’ll teach you just about anything you want to know; Japanese included...I’m a huge admirer of their gardens, myself. Reckon they have the most fragrant roses in all of Europe.”
Hannah bobbed her head in agreement, glad to have been rescued from speaking.
“I see,” muttered the principal, his folded hands pressed neatly to his lips in contemplation. There was so much the jujutsu world didn't know about Western magic. He’d be sure to inquire his friend about these time altering nuns later. “Anyway, let’s get down to business, shall we? I’m sure you’re wondering why we've asked you to join us this morning, Hannah.”
Hannah pursed her lips. Sensing that the conversation was becoming serious, she placed her chopsticks gently on her plate. She already knew what they were going to ask. “It’s about The Sight, isn’t it?”
Yaga raised his eyebrows, looking somewhat pleased. “So, The Association kept their end of the bargain. Good. Very good. Makes our job easier.” He shared a nod with Fr. O’Malley.
The Capuchin cleared some dishes away to create a small gap and lifted a dark wooden box, no bigger than a cigarette case, onto the table. He dutifully opened the lid.
Suddenly, Hannah’s chest felt compressed by an invisible weight. A wave of dread penetrated the air. The familiar sensation of spidery fingers scratched into the crevices of her brain. A row of sharp needle-like teeth twisted in a demented smile. The rancid traces of ammonia, mixed with rotting flesh pierced her nose. Piles of mangled corpses. That scratchy voice.
Not one shall live. Not one!
Hannah almost surrendered the contents of her stomach. The severed finger looked as if it were dipped in formaldehyde. Its puce colored skin, wrinkled from rigor mortis. A sharp black claw was glued to the nail bed.
“Is that?…”
“Indeed,” said the priest forebodingly. “This is the cursed object recovered from the Louvre. Hard to believe this foul thing was initially protecting the museum, eh? Wonder how it found its way to Paris?”
“We were told you predicted the attack,” bellowed Masamichi, not one for small talk.
“I-I didn’t do much." Hannah mustered. "Just had a nightmare, is all. I wouldn’t —”
“Don’t mistake your dreams for accidents,” barked the school principal. He talked much like Lord Thames, the resemblance was uncanny. “The vision was likely triggered by the volatility in the atmosphere. The amount of cursed energy has been unprecedented these past few — "
Fr. O’Malley nudged his comrad in the ribs with his elbow. The big gimp wasn’t helping matters. The girl was clearly frightened.
“What my friend here is trying to say is," interrupted the priest calmly. "You must have these visions quite often, yes?”
Hannah looked down at her lap. Too often. The nightmares seemed to haunt her almost every night.
An old man sitting on a park bench feeding the birds. A lonely businessman waiting for the a train in the middle of the night. Some teenage girl taking a selfie on an unmarked grave, or a newborn baby sleeping peacefully in its crib. Didn’t matter their age, or who they were. The crunching of their bones and splattering of their insides sounded the same. They hardly stood a chance, most of them caught completely unaware. Cursed spirits were never subtle. It was unfair that she woke up unharmed, while they were silenced forever.
“Hannah?…”
Since the Louvre, The case of the newborn infant was, by far, the worst. She’d never heard a baby wail like that. An innocent life, snuffed out before it had a chance to truly live.
And those four vermilion eyes, sequestered in the shadows.
“Thames,” they hissed
“Hannah!”
The woman blinked, red eyes vanishing. The principal and priest shifted back into focus, as if emerging from a fog.
“Thought we lost you there, cailín. You alright?”
“Y-Yes,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I’m fine. Really.” Despite the bile pooling in her throat, yeah, she was perfectly fine.
The two men shared knowing looks.
“Humor me, Hannah,” said the stone faced giant. “How much do you know about the legendary cursed spirit, Sukuna?”
Scarlet flickered, then quickly faded.
“Sukuna?” she said, testing the name on her lips. “The name sounds familiar, I guess, but…No, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of such a spirit.”
Principal Yaga opened his mouth to continue, but Fr. O’Malley beat him to it, elbowing him in the ribs once again.
“I think it's best that I be the one to explain it, Masamichi,” he said wryly and in a softened voice mumbled, “You’ve intimidated the girl enough as it is.”
“I…alright, fine,” retorted the spiky haired man, emitting a small cough into his sleeve. His cheeks turned pink. “Go ahead, Tom.”
“Right. Let’s see now…” the Capuchin collected his thoughts. His soft brown eyes hardened to stone. “A thousand years ago, during the height of jujutsu, there existed a man who many considered to be the strongest curse user on earth. He was likened to a god and crowned himself ‘The King of Curses.’ Brutal, immoral, and sadistic, Ryomen Sukuna’s cruelty knew no bounds. Humanity was his plaything to torture and dispose of as he wished. The body count was staggering, and many people went missing. It was a dark time in Japan’s history,” The priest's voice grew more solemn. “Eventually, sorcerers from both East and West banded together to vanquish the malevolent king, but not before Sukuna became a cursed spirit and separated himself into pieces. To this day, his twenty fingers lie scattered, waiting to be rejoined with their master.”
“Twenty?” Hannah shivered.
“Yes. You’re looking at one of them now. Sukuna was said to have four arms.”
“Oh,” was all she managed to say. “That’s…not good.”
“Indeed. When all the fingers are reunited, Sukuna will be fully resurrected and regain his powers. Only pain and suffering await such a future. It would bring this country to its knees.”
The number of unexplained deaths and missing persons in Japan was on par to exceed 8,000 that year. Humans were hard pressed enough without the need of a demon dictator, that is, when they weren’t secreting negative energy onto themselves, increasing the abundance of curses.
“That’s where you come in, Hannah,” Masamichi’s thundering voice intervened. “Little is understood about The Sight, since few people have been gifted with the ability, but it’s generally believed that the visions are triggered by intense influxes of cursed energy — Well, powerful cursed objects to be more precise. Their protective seals are beginning to wane, making the quiet ones easier to spot. Until we find a way to destroy the fingers, we need your help to find the remaining nineteen.”
The room grew very still, Hannah could hear the birds chirping outside.
“I don't have a choice, do I?”
“No,” came the Capuchin’s sad reply. “You never did, really. Had you refused, both parties would’ve forced their hands. This task is too important. We need to recover those fingers before more people get hurt, or worse, before a curse user gets ahold of them first. Sukuna still has loyal followers.”
Time is of the essence.
Hannah stared into her lap, thinking. The fear of having to witness more innocents suffer in her sleep was grotesque, yes, but the good far outweighed the bad, right? She would be saving people for once. The Sight would be both the poison and the cure. That left one remaining question. The band of gold glinted on her finger. Cold daggers of glacial blue pierced moss brown.
“You’re not my prisoner.”
“So, why marriage?” said the woman tentatively, her tiny voice barely audible amongst the birdsong. “What does marriage have to do with any of this? Knowing what you just told me, I would’ve done anything you asked.”
“A reasonable question, whereby the answer is well above our pay grade,” came Masamichi’s curt tone. He knew better than to mettle in aristocratic affairs. Burned himself far too many times poking those particular fires. His ordained companion, on the other hand, gave a more diplomatic reply, but not before casting the principal a dirty look.
“I’m sure neither Masamichi and I are best suited to explain the political machinations of sorcerer families to you of all people, Hannah,” said Fr. O’Malley somberly. “But to tell the truth, we don’t know what Lord Thames and the higher-ups have in store for you and Satoru. Of course, there’s the obvious prospect of children, but nothing jumps out specifically.”
Hannah couldn’t help herself. At the mention of her enigmatic husband, the dam broke.
“But Satoru — That doesn’t explain why he agreed to— I mean — Oh, Father, Masamichi-san, he hates me! Made himself scarce, the moment we were alone. Said he ‘didn’t want to be a babysitter’ and all that. How do they expect this marriage to work, if he can’t stand the sight of me?"
The more Hannah talked, the more desperate she became. She’d been so hopeful, anticipating Satoru would accept the roles of marriage with open arms, just as she had, only to have the rug pulled out from underneath her. Nothing made sense. Nobody was giving her straight answers about this man she married. The muscles in her forehead were beginning to tighten and constrict; the early signs of a migraine.
At this exasperated confession, both principal and priest exhaled a weary sigh.
“Goddammit,” cursed Masamichi under his breath. He ignored the menacing glare Fr. O’Malley shot his way, knowing how sensitive the Christian pastor was to the profanity, and removed his sunglasses to massage his eyes. “That idiot.”
“Oh, we suspected this might happen,” mourned Fr. O’Malley, his ire towards his friend soon forgotten. “Honestly, the nerve of that bleedin’ melter. Mark my words, one day he’s going to trap himself ten feet under, and there'll be no Infinity or Six Eyes to bail him out.” Then the priest shook his head and sighed, “Well, Masamichi, you’ll have to speak to him. He’s not a boy anymore. At this rate, the lad can kiss his teaching aspirations goodbye. Last thing we need is 'top-brass' breathin’ down our necks.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to him. The brat,” groaned the principal, waving a lackadaisical hand at the priest. He placed his sunglasses back on the bridge of his nose. “We apologize for Satoru’s behavior, Hannah. In the meantime, feel free to explore the campus grounds all you like. We intend to make this your new home.”
Quietly, Hannah kept staring at her hand.
“Is there anything else you wanted to ask us, cailín?” inquired the priest.
The hazel-eyed woman paused. Actually, there was something else, remembering the tiny scented envelopes in her trunk.
“Hmm. Yeah, now that I think about it…”Masamichi and Fr. O’Malley leaned in, eager to listen.
“Do you have any gardening tools I could borrow?”
Hannah was permitted to leave shortly after the conversation came to a close. Apparently, Masamichi-san was satisfied with her answers for the day. Stomach full from breakfast, she decided to return to her room, head spinning with all the newly acquired information.
Ryomen Sukuna; A former sorcerer-turned-cursed-spirit, so powerful, so evil, that other curses dare not walk where he tread. Now, his resurrection loomed large, placing millions at risk. “It would bring this country to its knees,” Fr. O’Malley had said.
Ha! And they expected her to help? Little ole Hannah, who banged her knee into a bedpost this morning because she’s a total lummox? Come off it. It’s not like she could control the dreams. For all she knew, it would be months before another incident took place. What did they expect her to do ‘till then? Take up knitting? She could use a beanie.
“You mean, you haven’t noticed?”
Her steps came to a grinding halt.
Every time the name “Gojo” was uttered in Western circles, a pause of trepidation soon followed, for fear the jujutsu sorcerers were listening down the hall. It was one of the few times Lord Thames would withhold his judgement, unable to find fault with the family, or rather, too afraid to hurl his usual insults. But why?
Satoru was strong. Hannah knew that. The scarred constellations of on his hands were the evidence. So what had Father meant by an “Infinity” and “Six Eyes” not bailing him out earlier? Suppose it was just another question to add to her long list of inquiries for Sr. Edith.
Hannah became so enmeshed in her thoughts that her sense of direction became basically obsolete. In her haste to leave the garan, she’d forgotten the map Mr. Ijichi so kindly accommodated her. Now, the poor girl hadn’t a clue where she was going, already passing under the same torii for the third consecutive time. Or was it a different gate? They all looked the same.
Anxiety steadily increasing, Hannah hadn’t registered the pounding of paws drawing closer until it was too late.
Suddenly, the woman found herself flung to the ground. Dirt and grass clashed with tufts of black and white as she fell backwards, slamming onto the earth. The whiplash made it impossible to focus. Her hair was undone from its plait, obscuring her vision.
What’s happening Hannah was amazed she hadn’t vomited from the sheer impact alone. She might as well been run over by a bus; The wind was totally knocked out of her. She couldn’t catch her breath.
This was it, wasn’t it? She was being attacked by a curse, surely. Everything Masamichi-san and Fr. O’Malley said back there was just a ruse, making her believe she was doing something righteous to let her guard down, when in reality, they’d been plotting to kill her. No wonder Satoru was quick to flee. He was probably in on the act.
Hannah closed her eyes, tears ready to fall.
Too terrified to move, she couldn’t free herself from the large paws pinning her to the ground. Yips and snarls emitted from bared teeth, as the curse sniffed her hair. There might be two of them, but Hannah couldn’t tell. Her eyes were sewn shut. She could feel the fangs inching closer. One swift bite to the jugular and it would all be over.
“Pl-please,” Hannah begged pitifully. “J-just finish me already.” But her words went unheeded. The curses probably didn’t understand human speech.
I hope it’s painless, she thought morbidly, preparing herself to die.
“Oi! You two!” someone yelled. A pair of footsteps ran towards the commotion.
In a flash, the beasts were yanked off her.
“What did you guys find? Better not be another dead squirrel, or I’ll— Oh, it’s you.”
Shakily, the woman held her breath and slowly, oh so carefully, opened her eyes.
Above her stood a boy, no older than eleven or twelve. Dressed in a simple t-shirt and sweats, his dark blue hair was disheveled, pointing up in various directions. Calculating green eyes peered down at her. Hannah thought the glare too mature for someone so young.
There was something eerily mysterious about this child. Was he really a kid?
He was attempting to restrain two large canines, one white, the other black.
Dogs? Hannah thought in mild surprise, expecting something more ferocious. The two wolf-like dogs sat at their young master’s heels, tails wagging excitedly as if to say, “Look what we found!” Her cheeks became warm with embarrassment.
No longer in mortal peril, she redirected her attention from the dogs to her rescuer.
Their eyes met.
The boy and the woman blinked at each other for a few moments, saying nothing.
Hannah remained unmoved on the ground.
“Uh, sorry about that,” came the boy’s reply, awkwardly running a hand through his messy hair. “You're that guy’s — I mean, Gojo-sensei’s wife, aren’t you?”
Hold on. Gojo-sensei?
“Uh, yeah…That’s right,” said Hannah, trying not to cringe at the word “wife”.
“Here, let me..." The boy drew a sharp gasp and stiffened, the words having died on his lips. Unbeknownst to Hannah, his eyes made the precarious mistake of wandering farther south, discovering what wasn’t meant to be found. Frozen in horror, a prominent shade of crimson bloomed across his cheeks. The two dogs, sensing their owner’s unease, began whining and tilting their heads. What’s the problem? Was there something on her face?
Hannah looked down at her person and visibly blanched.
Wanting to make a good first impression at breakfast, she decided to wear one of her floral dresses
An unfortunate choice on her part.
No thanks to the dogs, the ankle length frock rode up significantly. The translucent skin of her legs were bare for all to see, but it wasn’t the early signs of a bruise on her knee that concerned her. The skirt bunched past her thighs, up her waistline, exposing the skimpy lace of her panties.
The fabric wasn’t very opaque, save the thicker patch covering her (*ahem) lady-bits.
She was flashing the boy, point blank.
Dear God, why?!!
Hannah bit her lip and exhaled through her nose. Auburn hair curtained her face from view as she bowed her head. Didn’t matter if he was a kid. Two hot plates smoldered her cheeks. She lost all feeling in her fingers and toes.
Peals of laughter roared from beyond the void. Turquoise blue eyes racked her up and down, panties included. His pearly whites flashed a devilish grin.
“Hehe. Not at all what I was expecting, Princess,” he teased darkly.
Mercy. One of her worst nightmares came to life and not even her own subconscious would bid her escape.
Welp, so much for first impressions.
“S-Sorry,” she croaked, seizing the skirt with a trembling hand, pulling it down.
The boy shifted uncomfortably, still blushing.
Hannah fiddled with her hair, pretending not to notice.
He looked up, she looked down.
They continued this awkward dance for a few agonizing seconds, eyes un-meeting.
Finally, the boy sighed in defeat. He just wanted to go home. It was best to ignore the incident all together.
“You lost?”
“Huh?”
“Are. You. Lost?”
“What?!…H-How’d you—?”
“Lucky guess,” he shrugged. Although, it was fairly obvious. No one ever walked this side of campus besides him. He sighed again. “C'mon. I’ll take you back to your room.”
He extended a hand for her to reach. She obliged, her bigger hand embracing his slightly smaller one, noting the star marked scars on his palm.
“Say…What was your name again?” she asked as the kid hoisted her up. She was almost a full head taller than him.
“I never said," he added. "It’s Megumi.”
“Um…Well, thank you, Megumi. I’m Hannah, by the way.”
“I know.”
“What?! You do?”
“Yeah. Saw you at the wedding and everything.”
“Really?…How come I didn’t see you?”
“Not really my thing; weddings...I was forced to go.”
“Oh…Right…Um…Hey, Megumi?”
“Hm?”
“You’re not gonna mention…well…what happened here to anyone are you?”
…
…
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
With that, the two strays began their trek back to Hannah’s dorm, wolf-dogs in tow.
Still to this day, Megumi continues to keep his promise, but that hasn’t stopped Satoru from pestering his wife and student about how they actually met.
Notes:
Lol. Can you imagine if I replaced Megumi with Satoru instead?
Thankfully, I'm not that cruel.
*You may have also noticed that I switched Fr. O’Malley’s “lass” for “cailín.” Much better.
We can chat on Tumblr if you’d like. Let me know your thoughts. (I post pictures that inspired the chapters).
Chapter 4: Through Many Dangers, Toils, and Snares
Summary:
Hannah doesn't find trouble. Trouble finds her.
Notes:
Sorry it took me so long.
Also, I think I mentioned in a comment that Satoru is 24 and Hannah is 20 years old respectively.
Now on with the story.
Enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 4: Through Many Dangers, Toils, and Snares
Hannah’s sunburnt cheeks couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she wiped the sweat from her brow. It had been two days since the rain finally stopped, and the auburnette intended to soak in every last ray of sunshine.
Unlike the dreary skies of Berkshire, the outskirts of Tokyo were primarily humid forests and subtropical climate, though transitioning from winter to spring made the weather unpredictable. Following Hannah’s arrival to Jujutsu High, the last two days were nothing short of a torrential downpour.
When the young woman woke up to the pitter-patter of raindrops, for the briefest moment, she believed herself back in England and all had been a dream. The drab colored walls of her dormitory told her otherwise. There was no waking up from this. No turning back. No Mother Superior peering over her catlike spectacles to say in precise Latin, “Pack your belongings, girl. It’s time to go.”
Three days since the wedding and her new life had to take hold.
“Permanence” was a relative term in Hannah’s vocabulary. Since her sixth birthday, the mixed-blood lived her days as a wandering nomad, or a circus act depending on how she was received by her caretakers, most of whom were nuns. Always moving from one stay to the next; Four months with a bunch of French Carmelites in the countryside of Provence. Another six with the Dominicans of Luxembourg. An entire semester in an obscure boarding school somewhere along the Baltic coast.
Once in a blue moon did Hannah return to her native homeland, never staying at Wasserton House for more than a few nights. The twenty year old could count on two hands the number of times she’d stepped foot in the estate, and for that she was thankful. A gilded cage could never be a home. Wasserton had every makings of a prison. She hated those marble hallways with every fiber of her being. At least the nuns were friendly. The servants, not so much. Only the company of her mother’s portraits made the visits bearable.
Her favorite hung in the east library between two grand bookshelves. Gowned in a gold taffeta confection and glittering jewels, Elizabeth Thames’ crystal baby-blues and raven black hair tore every reader away from their books, utterly besotted with the pretty lady in the painting.
After Hannah’s birth, Lord Thames removed his sister’s name from the portraits, so no one would claim her identity except the close friends and relatives who knew her.
A stab of bitterness pierced her heart at the thought. Now half a world away, she would likely never see the portraits again. Her uncle hadn’t bothered gifting her a photograph. All the daughter had to honor her late mother was the necklace.
Arrows of sunlight streaked through the clouds, forcing her to blink.
The cool marble hallways of Wasserton vanished and ginkgo trees and tall pines remerged. A bush warbler serenaded the land with his “hoohokekyo” in search of a female. Worker bees and other insects buzzed excitedly around the neighboring flowers, ignoring the auburn haired woman kneeling on the ground, hand trowel in her lap. A red wheelbarrow full of other tools and opened bags of fertilizer lay beside her.
She was back outside.
Upon her request for gardening supplies, Mr. Ijichi was more than willing to show her the school greenhouse, which, much to Hannah’s delight, wasn’t far from her living quarters. The glassbox conservatory was stocked to the brim with just about every tool and instrument one could imagine, from pruning shears to watering cans, including a bevy of mulch and fertilizer to last the school a year. She would want for nothing.
Now that the rain had stopped, Hannah was eager to test out the hardware for herself. Though muggy and humid, it couldn’t be a more beautiful day.
With newfound enthusiasm, she pulled her gardening gloves back on and grabbed the trowel on her lap. Positioning the tip into the soil, she pushed the steel blade into the ground, and with surgical precision plucked the little green arteries from the dirt. The invaders hidden within the dry bed would have to be carefully uprooted, one by one, or else contaminate new growth.
She continued the regiment for the next hour, sifting through mud and grime for traces of horsetails and stinging nettles.
Taking a moment to catch her breath from weeding, she seized a water bottle near her tools, and guzzled the refreshing liquid down her parched throat. The contrast of the drink cooled the hot blood pumping in her veins. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she withdrew the bottle to breathe. Her t-shirt and jeans clung to her perspired skin. The sun was turning brutal. A second pair of hands would make this go faster, she thought.
Hands.
A second pair of hands.
Large hands belonging to a towering physique with gossamer hair and ocean blue eyes.
Prying off her gloves again, Hannah reached up to touch where callused fingers once caressed her chin. His thumb pressed to her lips, forcing her to stare into the maelstrom of his eyes. The virile warmth emanated from his body. The sweet fragrance of his breath. A free hand stroking her collarbone, sliding purposely down her chest so his thumb and index finger could cup the underside of her...
The cool water bottle juxtaposed the flush of her cheeks.
The hands evaporated like mist.
It had only been three days, yet the bride couldn’t escape the daydreams. Hannah didn’t mean for them to turn so…venereal, but how could she not? He was the most attractive man she had ever laid eyes on. She was twenty years old. There was more pent up hormones swimming in her bloodstream than was deemed emotionally acceptable. Although, the whole affair seemed utterly ridiculous; someone like her, paired with a demi-god like him?
The sorcerer in question hadn't returned from his mission. Mr. Ijichi assured her during the car ride that Satoru might be gone for several days, so it was too soon to fret.
Not that I’m worried about him or anything, she thought indignantly. No, far from it. Satoru was the least of her concerns, considering Hannah had gone three whole nights without a single dream.
Yes. For the first time in fourteen years, there were no needle-like teeth grinning at her. No stench of decaying bodies curling her nose, or blood curdling screams catapulting her from bed in cold sweat. Not even a flicker of scarlet eyes, watching behind the carnage. Nothing. All had been dreamless sleep.
The much needed rest was almost too good to be true, but the anxiety was surmounting. While she agreed to cooperate in locating the Sukuna fingers (not that she was given much choice), the woman began to question her resolve. Afterall, she was no heroine. She harbored as much courage as a petrified goat, which was beside the point since she couldn’t control The Sight to begin with. She attributed the Louvre to luck, not certainty.
“Only pain and suffering await such a future. It would bring this country to its knees.”
Hannah’s throat constricted at the memory of Father O'Malley's sad eyes. It gave her pause. Until last week, all she ever had to worry about was herself. Now it felt as though the weight of the world had been placed on her shoulders. Should she cave into fear - and Hannah was very much afraid - millions would pay the price and die. She wanted, no, needed this to be a success. Use her visions to find the fingers and prevent Ryomen Sukuna from returning.
It would be a waiting game now. She just had to be patient.
Drinking the last of her water bottle, Hannah squished the malleable plastic under her sandals. Stray locks of auburn hair tickled her lips and cheeks as she crushed the carton. Her barrette kept sliding off.
She twisted her long hair, and refastened the butterfly shaped clip into the base of her bun, hastily. Three prongs were missing from the clasp, but Hannah thought the barrette too pretty to throw away. It would do for now.
Putting her gloves back on, Hannah uprooted the last of the weeds. Then picking up a large shovel, she scooped some fertilizer from the wheelbarrow, and began generously spreading it around the dirt bed. Once it was blanketed by a layer of compost, she traded the shovel for a long hand tiller, twisting the two minerals together. The dry dirt cracked like glazed frosting, revealing the soft wet soil underneath. After the dirt was sufficiently mixed with fertilizer, the flower bed was complete.
Old became new.
Without delay, she dug a hole deep enough to cover the “step” of her shovel and whisked out a familiar scented envelope from her other pocket.
Opening the little packet with an exposed fingernail, she gently shook the paper bag. Little black seeds, smaller than the size of ants, landed on her outstretched palm. Cupping her hand so they wouldn’t spill over, Hannah knelt back down and scattered several seeds into the man-made ditch, separating them individually as best she could. Then, clutching a handful of bone meal from a bag, she sprinkled the plant food on top of the seeds, filled the hole back up with dirt, and poured an ample amount from her watering can onto the mound.
Now things got interesting.
When one spends fourteen years stowed away in convents, they ought to pay attention. Nuns were fastidious in many professions, horticulture being one of them. The sisters loved sharing their knowledge and Hannah soaked up their words like they were the third installment of the Bible. Every word.
One convent’s lessons in particular.
Hannah stretched out her palms over the mound of dirt and closed her eyes. Her thoughts were random and scatterbrained for a moment, eventually merging into focus. Her breathing slowed. Birdsong and other flying insects were rendered mute. Her skin no longer felt hot and sweaty. The outside world faded away.
After a few meditative breaths, a sense of warmth engulfed her chest like a shot of whiskey. The pleasant calidity burned and festered for a moment, gradually ventilating throughout her body. A bright pulsation of energy coursed through her veins. Her fingertips tingled. She held her hands in place for a second longer, until the warmth dispelled and faded.
She opened her eyes.
Where once was a pile of stacked dirt, now grew a healthy rose shrub. Tiny thorns and leaves covered its stem.
Hannah smiled.
“That’s a neat trick.”
Mater Dei!
Hannah visibly jumped. Her butterfly clip slipped from her hair as she completed a full one-eighty.
Their eyes met.
A woman stood before her. Her chocolate eyes, lined with heavy dark circles, made it difficult to guess her age. Although, Hannah guessed she was no older than her. She wore a blue ribbed-knit turtleneck under a professional white lab coat, paired with navy pants and beige pumps. She tucked a strand of brown hair behind an ear, revealing the beauty mark on her right cheek.
“Whoops. My bad. Didn’t mean to scare you.” A small smile graced the stranger's lips.
Hannah rested a hand on her chest as if recovering from a minor asthma attack. The woman caught her completely off guard. Even in her former state, she should've noticed the woman’s presence. All the more reason not to trust her.
“Um…Not to sound rude or anything, but who are you?” Hannah inquired softly, sitting criss-cross on the ground to better read the lady’s intentions.
The woman said nothing, twirling a strand of brown hair between her index and middle fingers. Her eyes darted back and forth from Hannah to the newly grown rose shrug, which didn’t go unnoticed by the young gardener.
Please tell me she didn’t see everything, Hannah begged. The woman already admitted to witnessing her “neat trick,” but just how much did she catch?
The stranger refocused on Hannah. Dark chocolate eyes looked ready to dissect the gardener’s brain like a medieval inquisitor. But instead of bombarding her with questions, the stranger straightened her posture and dropped her hand to her side, ending her scrutiny.
“Fascinating,” was all she said, turning her back toward the auburn haired girl, but not before handing her a fresh water bottle. Condensation covered the plastic. “Stay hydrated, Hannah.”
Hannah stared at the water bottle for a bewildered second, then realized she hadn’t given the lady her name.
“W-Wait?!” she cried, but it was too late.
The woman was gone.
Ieiri Shoko’s heels clicked down the hallway and out of the mortuary. The basement had no windows. She hadn’t seen proper sunlight in days.
She stifled a yawn and brushed back the sleeve of her lab coat to look down at her watch.
Ugh. Another autopsy at 3 P.M.
Looks like I’m not gonna make it home in time to feed Ghost, she thought gloomily. She was glad to have given him two scoopfuls of kibble this morning instead of one. Mangy fur ball.
Oddly enough, it had been Gojo's idea that the doctor get a pet. Devised some cockamanie bullshit about “stress not being a good look on her” and that she needed an “emotional support animal” to help cope. Obviously, Shoko’s protests did nothing to dissuade him because barely two days later her former classmate banged on her office door to plop an eight week old kitten on her lap; completely white with blue eyes. “So you can always think of me.” He grinned, and flew out the door before she could tell him no.
Shoko sighed. While she wasn’t fond of the cat initially, the Turkish Angora steadily grew on her, but lately she’d become too busy to properly feed him. Hence the reason she gave him two servings at breakfast. There was no helping it though.
“The dead just keep piling up,” she whispered dullfully.
And boy did they ever. Her three o’clock appointment would be the sixth corpse to land on her table that week. A female this time. 35 years of age. 162 centimeters, weighing 74 kg. Had the misfortune of falling from a 25 storey building with the terminal velocity of 50 mph. Transected the cervical part of her spine so her heart could no longer supply enough blood to her body, but the impact wasn’t what killed her. It was a curse, naturally. Pushed her off the balcony once it was done “toying” with her. A shame, yes, though not the worst case imaginable. Shoko would make good use of her.
Normal necroscopies usually took two to four hours, but corpses with cursed energy? She’d be trapped in this bunker for an additional five hours if she was lucky. Never mind the stacks of paperwork sure to ensue. One fake report to hand over to the NHI, (which she bullshitted) and another for the school database listing the actual cause of death. It was grueling work, but necessary. The cursed energy couldn’t remain in the cadavers for more than twenty-four hours without spawning something dangerous.
Still so much they didn't know about cursed energy and its effects on the human body.
The doctor grabbed a water bottle from the vending machine. She needed a break, some fresh air. So when she saw Gojo’s new wife in the garden during her little mid-day stroll, she couldn’t resist a closer look.
Shoko was too busy to attend the wedding. She’d yet to see the bride for herself. What she found was most intriguing.
Hannah’s records indicated she was unable to manipulate cursed energy, and yet the doctor watched as the younger woman willed the little seed into a young plant. There were only two people she knew who could do that, herself included. The Reverse Cursed Technique was incredibly complex and difficult, but Hannah seemed to pull it off, no sweat.
That wouldn’t explain the gold light emanating from her hands, though.
Fascinating. Very fascinating.
The doctor deliberately withheld her name from the gardener. Not for any particular reason other than it was hot outside and she needed to get back to work. There'd be opportunities for proper introductions later. The bride looked too tired to answer questions and spooked easily.
Best to keep her abilities a secret for now, thought Shoko. Until I know what we’re dealing with.
The muscles around her mouth curled upwards.
Oh, if only she hadn’t quit smoking last year.
She could really use a cigarette.
Streaks of gold and indigo painted the twilight sky. The sun was about to set.
So entrenched in her gardening, Hannah chose to skip dinner. By the time she was finished, four healthy rose shrubs dwelled in the flower bed. Two more would fit, but they'd have to wait until tomorrow.
The lady in the lab coat hadn’t returned. Why was everyone at this school so cryptic?
The young woman rose from her crouched position to stretch out her arms. Tiny pops traveled up and down her spine as the vertebrae separated. Oi, She was going to feel that in the morning. The kneeling pad did little to take the pressure off her weight. Thankfully, her knees didn’t feel too bad.
The bruise she sustained two days ago was completely healed.
Massaging her lower back, she chucked her tools and trash into the wheelbarrow, and steered the wagon towards the greenhouse. Arriving at her destination, she hung all the tools back on their respective racks, throwing the torn poly-bags and plastic bottles in the recycling bin. Using a garden hose, she washed off a layer of grime from her hands, cooling her slightly sunburnt arms. She desperately wanted to peel off her clothes and take a shower.
By the time she finished cleaning up, the sun dipped well below the horizon. The street lanterns flickered around the many ginkgo trees, their silhouettes twisted into shadows like phalanges ready to grab her. It was dark. Hannah gulped.
Suddenly experiencing a case of the heebie-jeebies, the woman ferreted the shelves for a flashlight with no luck. Apparently, flashlights weren’t essential to gardening.
Great.
An inckling of half-familiar, half-dreamt terror washed over her. Acid coated her throat. Her stomach coiled. No matter how she told herself to move, the muscles in her legs wouldn’t budge; clamped up like a mollusk.
Hannah felt like something was out there.
Waiting for her.
With a white kabuki mask and needle like teeth—.
Oh, come off it, Hannah! she chided herself angrily. Nothing’s gonna get you. That curse was exorcized long ago, remember?
And with shaky breath, Hannah propelled her rubbery legs forward, and slowly, oh so gingerly, departed the safety of the greenhouse into the stillness of the night. Her sandals clicked the pavement as she dashed past the zen gardens, up the flights of stairs, and under the black torii gates.
The drop in temperature made the sweat on her skin feel like ice water. Wind rattled the trees to the tune of little spiders scurrying behind her, chasing her. Her scalp prickled as gooseflesh surged across her skin.
Keeping her head down, Hannah’s pace quickened, transitioning to a light jog. She was so close.
Almost there, Hannah. Just make this right turn and you’re Scot free!
The woman rounded the corner towards the final flight of stairs, leading to the veranda, but immediately came to a grinding halt.
The corridor was pitch black. No lanterns illuminated the stairway. Parts of the handrail were visible from the outer light, though the rest of the steps were swallowed in total darkness. An abyss.
Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach like an anchor. There were no alternative routes. The only way to her quarters was down these stairs.
No sense in waiting.
Her clammy hands gripped the handrail tightly, stretching the skin and turning her knuckles stark white. Just when Hannah’s sandals landed on the first row of steps, a loud metallic sound screeched from behind her like a gunshot.
Hannah’s head whipped around so fast, she nearly twisted her arm, hand glued to the railing. Her heart rammed wildly in her chest. She looked up from her shoulder towards the sound.
One of the lanterns, hanging on a squeaky hinge, swung on its steel rod like a pendulum. The sound was akin to rosined fibers gliding across a stringed instrument; high and shrilly. Shivers ran down the length of Hannah’s spine.
Then something moved in the shadows.
She sucked in a breath.
She wasn’t alone. There was something here with her. It was hiding just behind the light post.
“M-Me-Megumi?” quivered Hannah, amazed that her voice still had sound. It was barely audible amongst the screeching of the lantern.
He was her last hope. The boy might be out with his wolf-dogs. She was waiting for him to pop out of the bushes and escort her back to her room, just like last time, but the boy never showed.
Instead, a predatory growl rippled through the night like cracks of thunder, low and guttural.
Hannah’s muscles went taut. Her tongue stuck to the hard palate of her mouth as the putrid stench of ammonia and rot ambushed her nose like a bomb. Her insides churned. The cursed energy constricted her chest. Phosphorescent residuals littered the ground like smudges on a page, mapping a trail to the thing that put them there.
Finally she saw it.
It had the bare faced skull of a horse, with long sharp incisors, and saffron bulges for eyes. Standing upright on its haunches, the curse’s body looked like a cross between a man and an emaciated feline. Every ridge of its spine and pelvis were visible, down to its forked tail, coiled like a whip. Oily black skin coated its skeletal frame, rendering the phantom almost invisible to her mixed-sorcerer eyes.
Though it stood hunched over roughly eight yards away, Hannah could catch salt and iron commingling with the rancidity of its breath. Claret liquid dripped from it’s jowls, steaming into vapours from the coolness of the night.
Blood.
Human blood.
Her eyes honed on the red pulp in its talons, bubbling and squelching as it bit off another chunk and chewed. Squinting, she could just make out the pearly splinters of bones and pink flesh shining in the semidark. Tufts of what looked like hair and shredded clothing.
It was the broken remains of a body. A rather small body. Little limbs dangled in its clutches. Her eyes widened.
Oh, God.
The twenty year old keeled over to retch, but nothing came up except the sour tang of acid. She hadn’t eaten anything that afternoon.
A child. It had to be.
The curse was eating the remains of a young child. Right in front of her. She almost sank to her knees.
No! Please, I can’t do this. I just can’t!!
She’d watched this movie countless times. Always with different beginnings, but the same macabre ending. It had to be a dream. A nightmare. Another vision triggered by The Sight. But, of course, if it were a dream, she would’ve woken up by now. The carnage never lasted this long. The fear never tasted this real. She hadn’t remembered falling asleep in the first place.
The terror of dying from wolf-dogs was poultry compared to this.
The emergence of adrenaline shook Hannah so violently that it became difficult to feel her heart beating in its ribcage.
The beast hissed and groaned, tearing off another mound of flesh. It’s food supply was running low. A few more morsels and there’d be nothing left for it to eat.
Except me.
Despite her dry-heaving, the curse seemed too preoccupied with its meal to notice much larger prey standing within a few yards. Another reason why Hannah hadn’t bolted the moment she laid eyes on the wraith. They were too close. Its back wasn’t facing her. The shadows could only hide her for so long. All it would take was five long strides from its gaunt legs and it would have her in its grasp.
A pitiful cry welled up and died in Hannah’s throat.
No, she couldn't afford to make a sound, remember? She needed to concentrate. Stay quiet. Stay hidden. Find a way to escape. If she messed this up, then she’d be next on the menu. It’s not like she could do much else. She hadn't the faintest idea how to fight curses. Her mixed blood status didn’t permit her to study such endeavors.
It was nothing short of a miracle that the ghoul hadn’t lunged for her yet, although that alone was unusual. Cursed spirits didn’t solely rely on sight and smell like humans did. Hannah was probably secreting copious amounts of cursed energy from fear alone. Enough so that the phantom should’ve “sensed” her the moment she reached the stairwell, but by some miracle it hadn’t.
She was still breathing. Still alive.
More than enough reason to make herself scarce.
“Time is of the essence.”
Yes. Time to go.
She stealthily walked backwards towards the route she came from, tip-toeing so as not to let the heels of her sandals click. She silently began to pray, Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil...
But St. Michael must be a sadist because just as Hannah made it past the stairwell, round the bend, the butterfly clip lodged in her hair slipped from its hold, ricocheted off the pavement,
and descended down the flight of stairs.
Tap...Tap….Tap…..Tap……Tap……....Click.
Run!
Fear and survival intervened. Like a bat out of Hell, Hannah sprinted down the concrete slabs, legs numb with adrenaline, not looking back. She wasn’t exactly an athlete. Her heart threatened to explode from her chest with every stride. Her lungs were on fire.
A malefic shriek trailed not far behind like a cadence of harpies, rattling the bones in her ear to the point she was sure they were bleeding. The ground shook underneath her, or maybe it was her knees that shook? She couldn’t tell.
Another shriek.
It was coming closer at frightening speed.
She ran harder.
The pathway swerved right, then veered left. Soon, she lost sight of the concrete all together. Darkened trees closed in on her like a whale’s mouth. Her sandals were atop blades of grass. Where was she going? Another shriek. What did it matter?
If I could just warn —WHAM. Hannah was unable to finish the thought. A force strong enough to rival a steam locomotive sent her hurling through the air. Twigs and sharp branches scratched her cheeks and arms as the momentum carried her forward.
She heard the impact before she felt it.
The sound of ribs smashing into solid brick, followed by an unspeakable pain that should've knocked her out cold. Though she didn’t know it at the time, the woman bore the brunt of a retaining wall. Her breaths came out like staccatos, desperate for oxygen. Every staggered wheeze felt like a stab wound from a knife. Tears streamed down her face.
Get up. Get up. Hannah’s mind commanded. She clutched her side and used her remaining elbow and legs to try and stand, but cold scissored claws grabbed hold of her neck. Her feet left the ground. She cried out in agony as gravity re-stretched broken bones.
A torrent of speckled dots blurred her vision. Hannah strained her eyes to see.
She wished she hadn’t.
An equine skull with infected yellow eyes and serrated teeth held her throat like a rubber chicken, its panting wet and ragged. Rivulets of blood and saliva trickled from its jaw onto her cheek. She couldn’t prevent the sweet carrion breath from reaching her nose and festering inside her stomach. The curse licked its incisors with predatory glee.
Hannah went limp, paralysed by fear. There was nothing she could do.
She was going to die.
For real this time.
The world began to recede as sandpaper skin clamped tighter around her throat like baling wire. She was losing consciousness. Her chest and body felt numb. The glow of the lamplights became hazy. The shadowed trees disappeared. Death was certain.
You were wrong, Edith, she thought.
The curse pulled back it’s head to bite.
A stray tear trickled down Hannah’s face.
So terribly wrong.
The earth beneath them trembled. A great wind rushed past the trees, arching their trunks like bows in need of arrows. Hannah heard the whistle of something slice through flesh and bone as a sultry voice uttered the incantation.
“Jutsushiki Hanten, Aka.”
Then, in one swift movement, she watched as the cadaverous hand around her throat burst in an explosion of purple blood, accompanied by a deafening howl of pain.
Hannah fell to the ground, rolling her body so as not to cause further injury. She gritted her teeth, locking herself in a fetal position.
The earth shook violently again. Manifestations of red and black detonated around Hannah like fireworks. More slicing of flesh and ear-splitting screams penetrated her ears. She couldn’t watch the battle, her periphery only caught darkened silhouettes amongst the bright red cannonading. Everything sounded like it was bouncing off soundproof glass. Her head throbbed with every heartbeat and her body became hot with sweat. The pain in her side was fading, which probably wasn’t a good sign. How much blood had she lost?
It was over before it begun. She barely registered the wailing phantom plummet to the earth with a resounding thud, until it convulsed no more. Lifeless.
The curse was exorcised.
Hannah could scarcely believe it. She cheated death for a second time. If she weren’t sprawled on the ground like a pile of spaghetti, she would've sobbed in relief. Allowing the adrenaline to exit her body, she felt her muscles relax.
Footfalls fell on the grass next to her. A tongue clicked.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
It’s him. Hannah slowly tilted her head.
Sure enough.
Though he wore a smile, Hannah could tell Satoru wasn't happy to see her. She felt like a tiny insect under his skyscraper height. His moiré blue eyes peered down at her behind dark colored frames, hands in his pockets. Remarkably, there wasn’t a scratch or blood stain on him. She wished she could resent each well defined muscle that curved beneath his black jacket and pants, but her eyes were barely hanging open. She tried to talk, to say something, though all that croaked out was, “Huuh….currhmmn.”
“Hey, now. Let’s keep the talking to a minimum, okay?” His voice held a soothing edge. Large callused hands slid under her legs and shoulders, lifting her gently in his arms. “Don’t worry, Princess. You can thank me later.” She felt him chuckle underneath his shirt, rich and hardy.
Hannah was too tired to blush. She likely resembled a wet rag to him; Gross sweaty skin and tangled long hair, not to mention the broken ribs. Part of her didn’t like that, the idea of his perfection soiled by her myriad insufficiencies.1 He was beautiful. A real Adonis if there ever was. Heaven.
This was how Hannah fell asleep that night. Cocooned in his arms where her head rested just under the chambers of his heart, its steady rhythm drowning out her own as her hazel eyes began to close. Her body ached, but none of that mattered so long as she remained in his embrace, protected from harm and all distress. She wasn’t sure if she imagined fingers brushing away stray locks of auburn hair or not.
“Sleep.”
She didn’t argue.
When Hannah awoke the next day, she was back in her dormitory. Her injuries were completely healed.
A stray butterfly clip laid intact on her nightstand.
Notes:
Hopefully, I managed to stick the landing. This chapter was a bloody torture to write.
Let me know your thoughts.
Come chat with me on tumblr.
UPDATE: 6.4.22
1. "myriad insufficiencies." My Fault in Our Stars, reference. Book written by John Green.
Chapter 5: The Strongest
Summary:
Be honest. You don't care where I’ve been. You just want the story. ❤️
A meeting takes place behind closed doors, a girl and an Irish priest talk for a bit, and four jujutsu sorcerers walk into a bar.
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
There is mention of child sexual abuse in this chapter, but you will see why. Also, I’d written the second portion of this chapter long before the Uvalde school shooting. I’ve in no way taken inspiration from the incident. You’ll see why that matters as you read. Lastly, this chapter incorporates some historical facts, including real people and places in Tokyo, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom and inserted superscripts throughout the chapter when needed.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Also, this is not going to be a Satoru-converts-to-Christianity love story (I laughed as I typed that). I want this to remain an interreligious marriage between Hannah and Satoru. You’ll see how that plays out in later chapters.
*6.8.22. In the original chapter, I mentioned how Pope Paul III sent missionaries to Japan, but that isn’t true. It would be Pope Clement VIII who ordered that Christianity be brought to Japan in 1600. I have changed the notes accordingly as well as in the chapter. I placed this note here because I ran out of room at the bottom.🫠
Come chat with me on Tumblr and let me know your thoughts. I post images and other things inspired by the fic.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Like water rushing down
the river rapids,
we may be parted
by a rock, but in the end
we will be one again.
— waka by retired Emperor Sutoku
Chapter 5: The Strongest
It goes by many names.
Augury, Divination, VooDoo, Sangoma, Magic, Sorcery, Jujutsu.
The strange phenomenon known as cursed energy has mystified the likes of humans for millennia. To the frustration of most, there is no consensus regarding how and when people first began casting spells. Though, a popular theory attests that spell-casting first appeared when Neanderthals began burying their dead some 130,000 years ago. Fear and evil began corrupting human minds, bringing about the emergence of fearsome creatures, commonly known as curses. Various religious beliefs of an afterlife coincide with this theory, including the “exorcising” of demons.
Once humanity began to evolve and migrate across the globe, the effects and capabilities of cursed energy also mutated, giving rise to the emergence of “sorcerer families.”
Only a handful of these families exist today, primarily divided amongst the Western families of Europe. And the Eastern families of Japan. With exception to the Voodoo, Sangoma, and Nyongo practitioners throughout Africa, the Navajo and First Nations of North America, and various other sects throughout the Assam district of India.1 However, it should be noted that these factions have voluntarily chosen to stay out of Western affairs; colonialism mostly to blame for the mistrust.
Having been formally recognized within the Vatican after years of conspiracies and brutal witch hunts, The International Association of Exorcists aligned itself with the Western families, while the jujutsu clans of the East managed their own affairs. During the great battle to end Ryomen Sukuna in the 11th century, both continents fought admirably together, but lost contact years later. When Pope Clement VIII sent missionaries to Japan in the beginning of the 17th century, dialogue was attempted, but with the rise of the Tokugawa’s Shogunate, and calls for isolationism against the “barbarians,” and stubborn ignorance on behalf of the Jesuits, these attempts were soon thwarted.2 Feudal Japan was labeled a swamp where foreigners weren’t welcome and Christianity went to die, despite having fought alongside each other as equals years ago.3
But times were changing.
As Japan entered the modern era and was no longer ravaged by war and conquest4, the country started opening its borders, becoming the cultural and economic powerhub it is today. Little by little, the sorcerer classes began communicating with each other once more, due to the overabundance of curses and scarcity of sorcerers. And when rumors began circulating about Lord Thames' niece, who was said to have The Sight, action was swiftly taken. Now with the marriage of Gojo Satoru and Hannah Thames made official, the first of its kind, a bridge had finally been established. Relations between the jujutsu and Western factions practically improved overnight, bringing hope that Ryomen Sukuna would be exorcized at last. However, not everyone was pleased with the arrangement. News of yesterday’s incident spread rapidly and an impromptu meeting was summoned.
The Association’s fury was palpable.
“Outrageous.” A heavy fist slammed atop a wooden table. “Simply outrageous. You promised us the girl would be safe once we relinquished her in your care.”
“Do sit down, Bishop Matteo,” a bald man wearing Buddhist vestments said appeasingly. “We are carefully looking into the matter, rest assured. Jujutsu High remains the safest place for the seer. Unless you honestly believe those old convents with no protective charms whatsoever would serve her better?”
Bishop Matteo scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve been closely monitoring the child since her sixth year. She’s never left our watchful eye.”
Another voice, a man, spoke from the jujutsu sorcerers. “Your eyes are useless these days, Bishop,” he spat. “If it weren’t for your inquisitions and witch hunts, the number of Western sorcerers wouldn’t be reduced to the sham it is now. You have your precious Vatican to thank for that.” His voice twisted. “Or perhaps it's too busy housing pedophiles to concern itself with curses.” Several of his comrades jeered and nodded their heads approvingly.
If there was any politeness to be had, it was quickly fading. The sex abuse scandals plaguing the Church had reached shores far and wide, calling the Vatican’s credibility into question. It was a painful topic for everyone involved, victim and faithful parishioner alike, but at the mention of pedophiles, blades slid from tethered sheaths and cassocks. A wave of veiled threats whispered amongst The Association, their anger bubbling beneath the surface. What business was it of theirs to talk of such things?
A nun with cat-like frames stood from her whispering colleagues, hands folded in her scapular. A small hourglass hung on a chain along her white kerchief. “You should know better than to cast stones, Kamo Ryoichi,” she quipped. “We’re more than aware of jujutsu’s own moral failings, particularly within your bloodline. Word has it you named your progeny Naritoshi. My, how scandalous. Any human experiments we should know about?”
It was the jujutsu sorcerers’ turn to hiss. Like a homing pigeon, the Christian nun knew just where to strike, re-splitting an old wound.
“You old hag,” Ryiochi growled. “It’s been well over a century. The Kamo family has atoned for its sins.”
The nun grinned wryly. “Tell that to the dead.”
The airy whispers reached a fever pitch. Wooden chairs scraped along stony flooring and cups filled with tea spilled to the ground. East and West rose to do battle.
“Jujutsu skum.”
“Barbarians.”
“ENOUGH!!”
The ferrule of a golden staff struck the ground in a cacophony of blinding light. Bolts of lightning sputtered across slabs of gray, channeled by a powerful wind. Swords and various other armaments abandoned their wielders. The lanterns lining the walls were extinguished, covering the room in total darkness. Soon the bedlam decrescendoed into heavy fits of gagging and confusion. The dust settled.
Cardinal Xavier Wrath lifted the hooked crosier from the ground and with a flick of his wrist the lanterns relit themselves. His beady eyes shone in the flaming embers.
“Sit,” he commanded.
All sorcerers acrimoniously returned to their seats, hiding insults under their breath, but obeying the cardinalate’s order, nonetheless.
Cardinal Wrath surveyed the room, making sure knives weren’t hidden under cloaks. His heart saddened at the perfectly good tea spilled on the floor. Such a waste, he thought bitterly. Had centuries of war taught these people nothing? He turned to his companion.
“Yoshinobu, my old friend. It’s been too long.”
The eldar, Yoshinobu, bowed in greeting, his many piercings jangling from flabs of aged skin. “Likewise, Xavier,” he said in a gruff voice, heavy eyebrows like Spanish moss over his eyes. “Though, I wish it were under lighter circumstances.”
“Yes, quite so,” replied the Cardinal. It had been twenty years since the two men last saw each other, before Xavier donned the red cassock, and Yoshinobu was initiated as an elder. For various reasons, they were unable to meet at the wedding. Happy to see his friend in good health, the Cardinal looked around the room and saw the Gojo seat vacant. He pressed his lips together. “My friend, perhaps I misread your letter, but wasn’t the husband invited to join us? It appears he’s not here.”
Yoshinobu grumbled in agitation. “I told you, Wrath. It’s like herding cats with that boy.”
“Can you really call him a boy now that he’s married, Yoshi?” The Cardinal said, releasing a sigh.
“Marriage has little to do with it. He’s a boy until he learns to take responsibility for his actions. We’re fortunate the seer’s injuries weren’t severe.”
The Cardinal made a sound of agreement, though he was fairly certain broken ribs counted as ‘severe injuries’ under any opinion. “Where is she being kept, you say?”
“She was transferred to her dorm early this morning.”
Cardinal Wrath raised his hands in exaltation. “Praise Jesus.”
Yoshinobu grunted in opposition. “I wouldn't thank your god just yet, Cardinal,” he warned cooly. “When, and if the boy arrives, there will be much to discuss. It seems some ground rules will need to be reestablished. He’d do well to listen this time.”
The Cardinal could only nod at his companion. “Yes. I share your sentiments entirely, my friend. But, while we wait,” he picked up his cup of unspilled matcha, “might we finish our tea before it gets cold?”
Quiet returned to the room. Westerners prayed the rosary, while the jujutsu sorcerers meditated silently, and Cardinal Wrath and Yoshinobu drank their tea, waiting for the Six Eyes wielder to turn up.
The doors closed shut.
Hannah blew out the match stick and allowed the aroma of melting beeswax to fill her nostrils.
It was 1 pm. The pews were empty.
Chevrons of dim sunlight cascaded from high windows, bathing the sanctuary in natural light. Sekiguchi Cathedral looked like something out of a Frank Herbert novel. Its wooden architecture, once gothic, was bombed during World War II, and reforged into Tange Kenzo’s steel and concrete masterpiece in 1964. It was ahead of its time, a precursor to Vatican II5, which meant there was little iconography and almost no decoration, except a honeyed glass waterfall flowing behind a large wooden cross with a halo in the center. Red candles burned at the base of the rood, but the tabernacle was obscured by a long Carrara marble altar draped in a white and gold Easter cloth. A bed of lilies skirted the bottom. Hannah clutched her chapel veil, rosary beads in hand, and listened to the thrumming rainfall drench the metal bastion in noise like a requiem.
An ambulance zoomed past, siren fading in and out as it hurled down the street. She could hear a taxi horn blaring; rubber tires trundling on wet pavement; the splashing of shoes. The rain tuned most of it out. The air-conditioning kept whirring off and on at odd intervals. She shivered, her dress and sandals still damp from the rain. How unsettling to see a cathedral so empty. Where was everybody?
In an alcove, down the left hallway, Hannah knelt amidst twenty-six candles. A statue of St. Jude smiled down at her, holding a medallion and walking stick as if shepherding the burning votives encased in red glass. Each newly lit flame representing a lost life. Hannah wasn’t permitted to attend their funerals, so this was the closest she came to paying her respects.
Tobiishi Elementary was a little known school located south of the Namidabashi6 intersection in Tokyo, famous, or rather infamous, for its raucous Trivia Nights and parent fundraisers, and its (occasional) dedication to school curriculum. The primary source of income for most households came from day labor jobs; the neighborhood was poorer than most.
Yesterday, as the evening drew to a close, three rows of first graders were sitting behind their desks, waiting eagerly for Nishikawa-sensei to dismiss them; Their backpacks zipped with homework; Play dates established; Stolen cafeteria snacks passed around and shared; Tiny eyes glued to the clock for that final, freedom inducing bell. But the dismissal never came. In less than 3.4 seconds, a cursed womb manifested outside the classroom, possibly the fastest gestation ever recorded, and birthed an unholy creature so evil, it must’ve spawned from the pits of Hell.
When the carnage ceased, twenty-five little carcasses, their flesh whittled down to splintered bone, lay atop each other in a mortem sacrifice. The curse managed to escape through a crater it made above the ceiling, leaving the classroom in shambles, save the four walls circumferencing it. Nishikawa-sensei was the lone survivor, barely breathing.
However, the twenty-sixth body wasn’t recovered until late last night from an obscure religious school outside the city limits. Face mangled beyond recognition, the little girl could only be identified from her school I.D. badge, pinned to the torn rags of her uniform.
Her name was Nakamura Ami, four days shy of her seventh birthday. That tender age when it’s still cool to hang out with Mom and Dad, and begin wondering whether the boy that sits next to her in class likes her or not. The six year old was known for her long ebony hair, often festooned in ribbons and bows. She enjoyed picnics in the park, playing football with her friends, and beating boys twice her age at the one game she cherished more than anything in the world; chess. Her total winnings? A full ¥15,677.89, which her parents kept safely for her in a pickle jar, and an impressive collection of Pokémon cards, including a shiny Charizard that hung in a picture frame overlooking her bedroom. She won it from a seventeen year old who liked bullying the younger kids for lunch money. As the old saying goes; All is fair in love and war.
A chess prodigy, the FIDE7 would’ve hailed Ami a Grandmaster by the time she entered her teens, but that dream was laid to rest alongside her cremated bones. A shining star, lost to the ether. Few would know she ever existed.
The last of her obituary read the following line, “Survived by her loving mother and father,” but that wasn’t entirely true. After all, here was Hannah, standing in a church, alive, still breathing, a bonafide survivor. Had the curse not been busy devouring Ami’s lifeless body, Hannah's presence would’ve been discovered a lot sooner. It was ultimately the clattering of a hair clip, ironically shaped as a butterfly, a quiet and unassuming creature, that betrayed her. Nonetheless, Hannah’s heart was beating and Ami’s was not.
“Suppose I'm to tell you it’s all part of ‘God’s plan,’ and we should rejoice that they’re in a better place…”
Startled, Hannah whipped around to see Fr. O’Malley’s soft brown eyes striding closer towards her, his sandals squeaking atop the marbled floor, Fransciscan robes swishing. In one hand, he held a large black umbrella, dripping behind a scant trail of rainwater. He stopped beside her, leveraging the umbrella like a cane. “But, frankly, I feel for any parent who is told to ‘rejoice’ in the loss of a child.” He shook his head and bestowed a sad smile. “Apologies, cailín. I couldn’t help myself. Spotted Kiyotaka’s car outside on my way to see the archbishop. Doubt he’s here for Confession, so thought I’d better have a look inside.”
Her heart jolted as she stood from the kneeler.
“I-I won’t be much longer, Father,” she said tremulously, turning for the exit. “He’s probably wondering where I am.”
“Nonsense,” quelled the priest. “Kiyotaka is used to waiting. A few more minutes won’t hurt him.” He lowered his voice. “Besides, the poor lad’s had it up to ninety with all the work Masamichi’s been dealing him. He could use a break.”
Hannah began gnawing her lower lip, afraid to meet his gaze. Technically, she wasn’t permitted to leave the school. Convincing Mr. Ijichi to chauffeur proved rather difficult and left her feeling a tad guilty. In ensuring her escape, she had placed it upon herself to “educate” the deputy director, albeit with embellishment, the importance of Christian funeral prayers as they relate to unbaptized persons, and the urgency that such prayers be performed quickly and solemnly in a holy place of worship lest the unbaptized be damned, which was ludicrous given that no amount of intervention had the power to send souls to Heaven or Hell (excluding the teachings on Purgatory, which were largely misunderstood). Either way, she doubted the director, a staunch Buddhist as she recently learned, would correct her bad soteriology. And using his own ignorance against him, her only serious lie involved Principal Yaga’s behest that she leave immediately, provided Mr. Ijichi be her escort. To her gobsmacked, hardly thought possible astonishment, it worked. Mr. Ijichi believed her. However, looking at Fr. O’Malley, clothed in his humble brown habit and cincture, it was unlikely he’d find her argument equally compelling. Hannah didn’t think herself so clever.
“Was it wrong of me?” she asked, gauging him for a reaction. “To come here, you think?”
The priest melted into a half-pitying smile. “There’s nothing wrong with praying for the dead, Hannah. You’ve done these children a kindness few strangers would think to do. Except, next time you decide to sneak out,” he flashed her a look, “might I suggest actually asking permission first.” When Hannah didn’t say anything, he added, “The jig is up, cailín. Kiyotaka started squawking the moment he saw me. Now, what’s this I hear about funeral prayers and unbaptized persons burning in Hell? Mind you, it’s a sin to bear false witness against your neighbor. Perhaps, I should have you apologize to him right now as penance.”8
An uncomfortable warmth flanked down her neck. Hannah couldn't hide her shame for having been caught, and judging by the priest's expression, he knew it, but he instead turned around, and with an outstretched hand made a cross over the candles, saying.
“May the Lord grant them eternal rest and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls, and all the souls of the faithful departed, rest in peace. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
“Amen,” Hannah whispered, crossing herself. For the next few minutes, the two pilgrims silently watched the red votives dance in the invisible wind, their little flaming tongues lapping up whatever oxygen they could. Heavy raindrops continued their bombardment on the ceiling as another car horn blared outside. Fr. O’Malley exhaled deeply.
“I’m sorry this happened, Hannah,” he finally said. “We should’ve sent someone to fetch you when you weren’t at dinner.”
Hannah didn’t break from the candles. “Please. Don’t apologize for my sake,” she murmured, tiny infernos reflected in her downcast eyes. “I’m sorry it happened too. Those kids deserved better.” Then her face slightly withdrew. “Although, there’s something I don’t understand.” She looked up at the priest perplexedly. “I thought curses can’t leave their point of origin. How was this one able to break free?”
Given his faint surprise, the priest hadn’t expected her to make such a sensible and otherwise excellent observation, but he quickly composed himself. “Oh, uh, don’t you worry about that, cailín. The higher-ups are conducting a full investigation as we speak. They’ll have it sorted out in no time. You have my word.”
“But I was a key witness. Won’t they want me for questioning?”
He paused. Shy though she was, it was wrong to label Hannah a simpleton. She was asking all the right questions, taking things seriously. And if her escape from campus had anything to show, she could be fairly cunning with enough nerve. The Irishman shook his head.
“No, my dear, that won’t be necessary. Satoru debriefed the higher-ups last night while you were recovering, much to everyone’s surprise.” He nudged her with a wink. “Guess he’s not such a useless eejit after all. Who knew?”
Hannah continued biting her lower lip and fingered the crucifix on her rosary. “Yeah,” she squeaked. “Who knew?”
She saw the hope bud in his eyes. “Does this mean the two of you have reconciled, perchance?”
Hannah felt her heart drop through her stomach and onto the marbled floor. He’d misinterpreted.
“No,” she conceded flatly. “We haven’t.” The words were dry in her mouth.
“Oh.” The Capuchin’s posture slouched. “Well, I’m sad to hear that. Truly, I am.” He gazed up at the ceiling as if forfeiting a long running argument. “I guess there’s no point keeping it a secret then. Someone’s bound to tell you sooner or later.”
Hannah opened her mouth, but when Fr. O’Malley gestured for her to sit in one of the vacant pews, she fell silent and quickly slid herself between the nearest row to sit down. The priest soon joined her, setting his umbrella along the back cap and crossing his legs, which were hidden under his long woolen robes. He fussed with the troublesome fabric a moment, grumbling irritably to himself, then leaned back into the polished bench, his hands folded in his lap.
“But before we delve into that little fiasco, I find it pertinent to ask. Did anyone ever explain to you how that Sukuna finger found its way to France?”
The seer shook her head. “You said the Louvre was still looking into it, last time we talked.”
“Ah, yes, that I did,” exclaimed the friar, appearing to have remembered the very conversation in Principal Yaga’s office a few days prior. He clapped his hands together. “In that case, you’ll be happy to hear that the mystery has been solved. Turns out the finger was smuggled into Europe long ago, during the early 1600s. A thieving missionary, ‘Padre Leroux,’ brought it back with him to Paris, where he buried it underneath the Wall of Philip Augustus just outside the Louvre Palace — How do we know this, you might ask? — Well, it’s because the bleedin’ fool confessed to the deed in his journal entries we found hidden in the museum's archives. Apparently, he was aiming to harness the cursed object’s power for himself.” The priest snorted. “Those Jesuits were really something.” 9
Hannah raised her eyebrows, “But, Father,” she started. “If that’s true, how do we know the other fingers haven’t been smuggled out of Japan? Who’s to say there isn’t one frozen at the top of Mount Everest, or another below the Mariana Trench?” She mentally pictured a puce colored finger, swimming with the fishes.
Fr. O’Malley merely shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, cailín, but given the sharp influx of curse outbreaks, it’s unlikely the other fingers have fled the country. Only an immense disturbance could trigger such a phenomenon, say the unsealing of nineteen special-grade cursed objects for instance.” He craned his neck to peer back at the red candles. Hannah’s gaze followed. “I just hope The Sight shows us where they are, and soon. The death of one child is one death too many.”
Hannah’s insides felt as though they were stiff clumps of dirt, stuck together. With a heavy heart, her eyes returned to the rosary beads bunched in her lap. She would pray an extra Hail Mary for each child when she returned to the school. “So, why’re you upset that Satoru and I haven’t reconciled?” she sighed.
Hastily, the Capuchin roved through his pockets for a silver chained watch, an old Glashütte by the looks of it, his one secret indulgence, and pressed a thumb to its crown, squinting. “Hmm, yes, about that.” He closed the heirloom gingerly, placing it back into his pocket. “You’re aware it took six high-level sorcerers to exorcize that curse in Paris, correct?”
“Yes, and I heard what happened,” Hannah said, her voice carrying a somber note. “Two of them couldn’t be saved and died before making it to hospital.”
“Indeed, very tragic.” Fr. O’Malley lamented, bowing his head mournfully. “Ivan Leibowitz and Vera Avery, two of The Association's finest, gone,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that.”
One of those names caught the seer’s attention. “Sorry, did you say Vera Avery? As in Lady Vera Avery, daughter of the late Viscount Belgaven?”
“Why, yes.” The priest raised an inquisitive brow. “I assume you knew her?”
Hannah pressed her lips together. “No,” she said a little too quickly. “Just surprised, is all. Forgive me for interrupting. Please continue.”
The priest sensed there was more to the story, but it would have to wait another day. He cleared his throat to continue. “Anyway, as I was saying, you can imagine the incident now has everyone concerned. A normal cursed womb normally takes two or three sorcerers to properly excorcize, but Sukuna is a completely different beast, and it’s uncertain whether his remaining fingers will spawn cursed wombs. Therefore, to mitigate fatalities, the higher-ups have decided that only one person should venture forth to retrieve them for us; A partner to work alongside you, if you will.” He eyed her down purposely. “And I’m sure you know who they have in mind.”
Hannah wilted in the pew like a sunless flower. Unfortunately for her, she knew exactly who the priest was referring to. It’s why he asked whether they’d reconciled. “Please, tell me there’s someone else,” she softly begged, the words tasting like dirt. “Anyone.” But the priest shook his head.
“I’m afraid not, my dear,” he said sympathetically. “While you may have reason to disagree, the higher-ups are right to choose Satoru for the job. He’s probably the only sorcerer who can return to us in one piece, should anything go awry — And, besides, the two of you are married, no? Why it makes sense for you to work together. I can see it now; Husband and Wife, The Dynamic Duo.” He started throwing fake punches in the air, woolen sleeves folding over his fists as he took a few jabs, but Hannah didn’t share his enthusiasm.
“How is that possible?” she murmured.
His punches halted in mid air. “Pardon?”
She raised her head. “I mean, how is it that he’s the only person who can return to us unharmed? Are cursed objects his specialty?”
A heavy silence fell between them. Rain continued pouring outside like buckets, roaring in both their ears. The friar measured her cooly, searching for behavioral cues that would indicate she was lying, but found none. Hannah's question was sincere and she hadn’t a bull’s notion regarding the answer. A slight simmer roiled in his gut at the implications, Jacob Thames, he seethed silently to himself. What have you done?
The priest's fists dropped to his knees. Closing his eyes, he prayed the Heavenly Father would grant him wisdom for what he was about to impart. It was of vital importance that she knew. He leaned back into the bench with his hands interlocked.
“Hannah,” he said, opening his eyes serenely. “If you don’t mind me asking, how much do you know about the Gojo family?”
The seer’s grip tightened around her rosary beads, along with the fabrics of her skirt. She didn’t like the way he asked the question, the austerity in his eyes.
“Everything I know? she asked. The priest nodded once. Nervously, she swallowed. “W-Well, I know they’re one of the Three Sorcerer Families of Japan and, um…” she stopped to think, “their lineage dates back to the Heian period and up until the Meiji period they served as imperial historians and clerical workers and, uh…” She ciphered her brain for anything useful, trying to remember Sister Edith’s lessons. “I think I read somewhere that they’re the most prominent of the Three Sorcerer Families, but…” She paused again, coming up blank. “Other than that, I know little else.”10
“I see.” The priest lined his mouth. “So, you don’t know why they’re the most prominent then?”
Hannah could only shake her head. “No, Father.” she said. “I haven’t a clue. Most knowledge outside of Japan is limited.”
The priest gave out another long winded sigh and looked up to the ceiling for guidance. Then, to the best of his ability, on that rainy April afternoon in the church he proceeded to tell her all he knew about the Gojo family. About the legends relating to the brilliant scholar, Sugawara no Michizane, and the emergence of the Six Eyes and the bloodshed that ensued between the Gojo and Zen’in families throughout the centuries. He told her about the secret inherited curse technique known as the Limitless, the abilities to repel and attract, and how Satoru had been the first Gojo born with both the Six Eyes and the Limitless in over 400 years “Subservient to only God and His angels,” Fr. O’Malley declared. “He is the strongest sorcerer known to Man. People even claim him to be a bodhisattva of some kind.11 Though naturally I’m skeptical…”And all the while, the Capuchin watched the color drain from the young woman’s face as he prattled on. When his sermon concluded, Hannah looked as though she’d downed an entire bottle of gin in one sitting and was about to hurl it back up, her complexion so pale, she could’ve blended with the Carrera marble.
“The strongest?” she whispered. “Y-You’re telling me he’s…that I’m his…” Her tongue was like a wet leaf on dry clay.
Westerners cowered at the name of Gojo, never uttered it aloud for fear they’d be struck dead, or turn to pillars of salt. The Six Eyes? The Limitless? The fact no one, not even Sister Edith, inclined to tell how Satoru wasn’t only a clan leader from the Three Sorcerer Families of Japan, but the strongest sorcerer alive, meant her duties would entail far greater challenges than tea culture and wearing kimono.
While the jujutsu aristocracy played a pivotal role in maintaining order, it wasn’t solely based on blood and ancestry alone. Rank was also determined by a meritocratic system. The stronger the sorcerer, the more influence they imbued over the other families, a privilege which extended to spouses, particularly wives, since noble women were seldom allowed to hold power in their own right, and often relied on the status of their grandfathers, fathers, or husbands. Should Satoru be indisposed for any reason, Hannah, as his wife, would be obligated to take his seat at table, placing herself at the epicenter of jujutsu politics, rather than orbiting around it, something her foreign brain was having difficulty processing. Sure, her reihō12 wasn’t terrible and her Japanese, fairly decent, but would it be enough to navigate the jujutsu social elite? Could a bastard from overseas, who rammed her knees into bed-posts, and stuttered when nervous, accomplish such a thing?
They’ll tear you to pieces, said a voice from someplace dark. You’re already a failure as it is. The gold around her finger felt as though it were burning, grafting onto her skin, a permanence that could not be undone. There’s nowhere to run, it hissed. Nowhere to hide. She felt a hand grip her shoulder.
“Mea culpa, Hannah,” Fr. O’Malley said. “It's just…we thought you knew.”
Hannah hadn’t realized tears were streaming down her cheeks until she tasted salt on her tongue, nor had she noticed the clean handkerchief held out in front of her. She politely took the linen from the priest’s hand and brought it to her eyes.
“I’m cursed, Father,” she blubbered, wiping the drainage from her nose. “Cursed with The Sight, my mixed blood, and now a husband who utterly loathes me.”
The priest couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh.
“Nah, he doesn't loathe you, my dear. Quite the opposite, actually.”
“The opposite?” Hannah lowered the handkerchief from her face in disbelief. “You of all people should know better than to joke. This isn’t funny.”
“I never said it was, cailín,” the priest parried with a grin. “Only that there’s a fatal flaw in your character assassination, I mean, assessment."
She glowered, not appreciating his tongue and cheek. “Oh, really? And what might that be?”
There was a glint in his eyes as the friar leaned forward, the pews creaking under them. “He saved your life,” he lifted both brows. “Tell me, does that sound like ‘utter loathing’ to you, or does he perhaps care a great deal more than you think?”
Hannah’s rebuttal dissolved on her tongue like powdered snow. She couldn’t think of an argument against that, for he spoke the unvarnished truth. By all means, Fr. O’Malley should be presiding over her funeral today. They were only having this discussion because she’d been rescued from the jaws of death. Swallowing, she lingered on the priest’s brown eyes momentarily, until her own eyes glided to her hand. Contemplation flitted across her pale features as she traced the gold ring on her finger. She stared at it, thoughts channeling through sluice gates holding back recesses of memory.
She could still hear the healthy rhythm of his blood sloshing from one heart ventricle to the other, lulling her to sleep as she stared into his eyes, beautiful and nacreous. Those colourless pools, scattering light away from the irises, giving them their blue appearance where God forgot to separate the sea and sky. He was so warm, so present. She wanted to bury her nose in his jacket and smell the coffee and incense clinging to the threads and remain in his arms forever. Allow the Six Eyes to fill her, every crevice, every vessel.
It left her wondering how someone could be so terrifying and at the same time a shelter. Wasn’t it only yesterday she was sifting through weeds in the hot sun, trying everything in her power not to think about him? Trying not to remind herself that she would never see her mother’s portrait again? That he was the reason for it. Now, every preconceived notion she ever concocted about the sorcerer was circling the bottom of a drain. She couldn’t be mad at him, at least, not anymore. Not when he saved her life. Whether it was genuine, or not, she owed him a great debt.
"Don’t worry, Princess. You can thank me later."
She waited for Sekiguchi’s gray walls to replace the sea of turquoise blue before turning to face the priest, her voice small.
“You really think that?” she said. “After everything he said to me, you really think he cares?” The friar made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
“Satoru says a lot of things, cailín. My advice would be to ignore 90% of what you hear and instead focus on what he does. With him, actions speak louder than words ever could.”
“Actions.” Hannah’s eyes returned to her wedding ring. She continued brushing it absentmindedly with her thumb. “Has he always been that way?”
“What? A stubborn gobshite?”
A ghost of a smile stretched the ends of her mouth at the Irishism. “Yes, a stubborn gobshite.”
The priest draped an arm over the pew and re-crossed his legs. “Yes and no,” he breathed glumly. “You have to understand, Hannah, there hasn’t been anyone like him in nearly half a millennium. The higher-ups have kept Satoru on a tight leash since his first cry. Never gave him the opportunity to experience a normal childhood, or show him proper affection for that matter. As a result, he lacks basic social skills and rebels against authority whenever possible. It’s only gotten worse since Sugu — ” His voice faltered. “Well, it’s gotten worse, let’s put it that way. Masamichi and I worry that if his behavior doesn’t improve, the higher-ups will inflict punishment. They’re this close to washing their hands of him altogether.”
“Altogether?” Hannah repeated, her brows furrowed in concentration. “Wait? You’re not talking about execution, are you?”
The friar stroked his chin as if it were a reasonable possibility. “Hmm, executing him would bring about dire consequences — but, yes, something more or less of that nature.”
“That’s mad," she replied. "You said so yourself, he’s the strongest sorcerer alive. They can’t do away with him at a time like this. There’s children dying.”
The priest gave her an exasperated look. “My thoughts exactly, cailín, but you can’t always reason with these people. Satoru should thank his lucky stars his abilities are so valuable. Otherwise, they’d have dealt with him a long time ago.”
“Gosh,” Hannah murmured, feeling a smidge remorse for the Gojo heir, having been quick to judge without knowing anything about him beforehand. She understood from experience what it was like to have your life overruled by someone else, wanting so desperately to break from the chains that bind. “What of his parents?” she inquired, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “He won’t listen to them?”
The priest’s frown deepened. “No, my dear. Satoru’s parents have been…absent, shall we say. Though, I believe he lives with a housekeeper. A rather lovely lady if I’m not mistaken. Bollix, what was her name again? Mikasa? Momoko?...” He imitated Winnie the Pooh, knocking his knuckles on his head, listing random people under his breath.
Hannah sobered from this. It explained why neither’s parents were in attendance at their wedding. They were both hostages to circumstance. “Do you know what became of them?” she said. “His family?”
The priest stopped his muttering, expression turning grim. “Afraid there’s not much I could tell you. I wasn’t told the gory details and Satoru never speaks of it, nor would I think it wise to bring it up next time you see him.” He rifled through his pockets once more, checking his watch, face lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Janey Mackers! Is it really two o’clock? — Sorry, my dear, but it seems we must part ways. Bishop Okada insisted I meet with him and I’d hate to keep the ol’ prelate waiting. Send Kiyotaka my blessings, will you?” He hurriedly snatched his umbrella and rose from the pew.
“W-Wait, please,” Hannah cried, blushing at how her voice carried across the cathedral, her chapel veil sliding off her plaited hair as she reached for his robes. “You haven’t told me what to do about Satoru?”
The Capuchin turned sharply to look at her. “Why, nothing,” he said with a simple shrug. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Hannah appeared taken aback. “But how am I — ” The priest raised his hand.
“Patience, Hannah,” he said kindly. “There is no rift, however wide, that God cannot mend. These things have a way of sorting themselves out. Satoru will likely come to you when he’s ready to talk. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
If this was meant to make her feel better it missed its mark. “And if he doesn’t?” she implored dully. “What then?”
Fr. O'Malley chuckle was soft, brown eyes glinting. “Oh, he’ll come around, cailín. Trust me. If there’s anything I know about Gojo Satoru,” he shook his head, smiling, “the lad never ceases to amaze. All I ask for is your patience. Give him the chance to redeem himself if he hasn't already. In a fallen world like ours, a little grace can work wonders, no?”
Then, without so much as a polite bow and a wink, the Irish priest edged his way to the end of the pew, genuflected towards the altar, and padded merrily away, humming a happy tune that sounded an awful lot like St. Dallán’s “Be Thou My Vision.” Hannah watched him go and when it came time for her to leave, she pushed open the tall doors of Sekiguchi Cathedral, raised her eyes to the heavens, past the skyscrapers and tall buildings, and gaped.
Turquoise blue skies as far as she could see, not a rain cloud in sight.
The Six Eyes gazing down at her.
Later that evening, twenty minutes from Sekiguchi Cathedral on Omoide Yokocho13, affectionately known as “Piss Alley” by the locals, red paper lanterns hung above university students, tourists, and corporate hawks as the smell of grilled meats, primarily fish, roused their hunger. Boisterous laughter and pleas of “Sumimasen” shouted across tables. Servers poured saké into glass goblets until their rims overflowed, a cultural custom when drinking the rice wine, and a birthday celebration began clapping in the corner. It was so clamorous in the izakaya, Shoko wagered hardly anyone heard her best friend’s fist pound against the table.
“You. Did. What?!!”
Oh, boy. Here we go again.
“Hey, no need to get so loud, Utahime. Yelling indoors is unladylike, ya know.”
“That’s Utahime-senpai to you, and don’t play dumb. You idiot. The hell were you thinking, firing a curse technique that close? You’re lucky you didn’t blow her head off!”
“Psch, relaaax.” Satoru waved his hand, nonchalant. “I had the whole situation under control. The girl’s alive, isn’t she? — Nanami, come help your fellow man. Tell her I did nothing wrong."
“I agree with Iori-senpai,” Nanami said.
“Huh?”
“What you did was stupid.” Satoru opened his mouth to object, but Nanami would hear none of it. “Limitless or not, your first order of business is to ensure the safety and well-being of others. A rudimentary concept you seem unable to fully grasp.”
Satoru squinted at his comrade behind dark colored frames. “You know what, Nanami? I think I liked it better when you weren't around. Can’t tell if there’s one pole up your ass, or two.” He rested a palm on his cheek and sipped his club soda, annoyance maring his face. He already endured this conversation with Principal Yaga earlier today, which was lackluster compared to the earful he received from the higher-ups. Long story short, a lot of people were unhappy with him.
A lot.
Nanami scowled, eyebrows narrowing. “Believe me, I didn’t want to come back, but the higher-ups insisted. I gave them three months' notice. No more, no less,” He loosened the silk tie around his neck and slicked back his parted blonde hair, his glasses resting on the table. “Don’t misunderstand, you’re the last person on earth I’d entrust with a wife, but she’s the closest we’ve come to excorcizing Sukuna, and in your haste, she very well could’ve died.” Exhaustion circled the shadows under his eyes. He reached for his mojito. “So, save your breath. My sympathies are with her, not you.”
Utahime chimed in, parting her lips from her beer to issue Satoru a side-eyed glance. “Yeah, and when morons like you get in trouble, so do the rest of us. You’d best remember that.” She took another swig and re-positioned her legs under the booth. Her violet hair freed from its white ribbon, still wearing her miko and brown lace-up boots. With the alcohol in her bloodstream, Utahime’s flushed cheeks made her scar more visible, a year old cicatrix that spanned across her right cheek to the bridge of her nose. “I’m guessing Mei’s not joining us this evening?” she added.
“No,” clipped Nanami. “She stayed in Osaka. Apparently, a client hadn’t paid their dues. You know how it is with her.”
Utahime sighed. “Yup, that’s Mei Mei for you. Always thinking about money.” She glowered menacingly at Gojo. “At least she’s competent at her job and doesn't wait till the last possible moment to rescue a dying person.”
A sardonic smirk lifted the corner of Satoru’s mouth. “Gee, Utahime, you’re right. Mei would never be so callous.” He hooked his middle finger over his index. “Because unlike you, she’s actually strong and a whole lot prettier — ”
The white-haired sorcerer needn’t dodge the pair of chopsticks aimed for his eyes. They froze in mid-air, an invisible barrier keeping them in place like a dartboard. When Satoru unhooked his fingers, the sticks fell to his lap.
“So mean,” he laughed. “You’ll never get a boyfriend with that attitude.”
“I’m only like this when you're around, you prick!” Utahime spat. “Ugh, you should hear yourself sometimes. I bet your ass is jealous of all the crap that spews from of that big mouth.”
Satoru slowly began clapping his hands in applause. “Wooow, congratulations, Utahime. Those are some fighting words coming from you. Seriously, what would Gramps say?”
This time the woman reached for a knife, but Nanami forced her hand down. “While I hate to interject,” he said, ignoring Utahime’s death glare. “We need to talk more about last night.”
Satoru clicked his tongue. “What's there left to talk about?” He placed his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, his dark sunglasses perched on his nose. “Didn’t you hear me? The girl’s fine. Shoko healed her up and everything.” He careened his head towards the person sitting next to him. “Right, Shoko?”
The doctor hadn’t expected her name to be called. Granted, this was the first time she’d been out in days. Couldn’t she just enjoy her alcohol in peace? What gives? Anyway, she didn’t want to broach the subject any further because, as a matter of fact, she hadn’t been the one to heal the girl.
Hannah’s injuries healed on their own.
But before Shoko could craft a believable lie, the bartender jacked the television volume louder. A news reporter breached through the torrents of laughter and inebriation. The shamans heard every word.
“A tragedy unfolded yesterday as thirteen school children, ages six and seven, were killed in a gas explosion at Tobiishi Elementary, a small parochial school located in San’ya. Authorities believe the blast was triggered by faulty gas pipes, setting off a chain reaction reducing the classroom to near rubble. The third school incident in over four months, parents from all over the country are now asking themselves; ‘Is my child safe?’…”
Utahime placed her beer on the coaster, her face sullen. “Those poor kids.” she murmured.
The mood surrounding the table followed suit. An entire first grade class, killed by a gas explosion. At least, that’s what they told the public. They’d used that cover-up before, only this time the story went viral. #Tobiishi and #Prayfor26 trended on every social media platform imaginable. Protests and hunger strikes paraded throughout Japan. Photographs of aggrieved parents and their children, some dead, others missing, splashed on every front page newspaper. Politicians and school officials taking heat from their constituents. And gobs and gobs of online conspiracy theories running amuck.
It was becoming impossible. With too many curses and not enough sorcerers to exorcize them, unwanted casualties were bound to fall through the cracks, with Tobiishi Elementary situated along one such fault line, including two other schools and a hospice that shared similar fates.
Satoru clenched his jaw, encasing his empty soda can with cursed energy. It shriveled in his palms. His mission following the wedding ended on a trail gone cold. A Window reported a curse sighting, level 2 or above, but when Satoru arrived at the scene he found nothing. If only he’d returned sooner. Failure didn’t mesh well with his pride. Nanami’s voice cut through his internal brooding.
“In this line of work, our job is to protect the living. It serves no purpose, pitying the dead. The best we can do now is ensure more won’t follow in their wake, which is why the seer remains our top concern. We need her alive.” He stared heatedly at Satoru, who turned away, pretending not to notice. “Whatever the cost.”
Utahime pulled a face. “She’s from The Association. How do we know she can be trusted?”
A fair point.
“We don’t,” replied Nanami. “But that’s not what worries me at the moment.”
His voice held a stitch of caution. Even Gojo, amused by some university students playing a drunken game of Jan-Ken-Pon, bent his ear to listen. Utahime and Shoko waited to hear what the man had to say. Nanami Kento? Worried? When was the last time that happened?
The quasi-businessman propped his elbows on the table and laced his hands under his chin. “The investigation is still ongoing. We know Master Tengen’s walls aren’t impervious. However, that doesn’t explain why the protective charm on Hannah’s ring failed to work. Cursed spirits shouldn't be able to detect her signature within a hundred meter radius.” His eyes darkened. “So, how was this curse able to track her down for two whole minutes, before causing injury?”
A dead quiet hung over the exorcists. It was a good question, possibly the most consequential. Yes, how was the curse able to bypass the charm? How was it able to see her? Did the ring reject the magic? No, highly improbable. The spell was an extremely old incantation, and magic didn’t expire the way food and medicine did. Nor was it the first time curses managed to slip through Master Tengen’s walls.
Unless…
Unless………
Shoko’s saké glass clattered to the table at the sudden thought, her heart racing. The words planted themselves in her brain before she could take them back, rolling off her tongue like hot oil.
“Unless, it was being…manipulated,” she rasped, scarcely above a whisper.
Bingo.
Immediately, beer siphoned up Utahime’s nose, causing her to erupt into violent coughing, while Satoru's neck whirled around like a snowy owl, his widened blue pupils scrutinizing the doctor for the barest trace of a lie. It can’t be.
Nanami’s expression remained stoic.
“Hold on — cough, cough — Let’s think about this for a second,” wheezed Utahime, hacking the booze from her lungs. “Say the curse didn’t wander in by accident, and…“ she chose her words carefully, “he’s to blame for it — cough — Why would he want her dead? — cough — That makes no sense.”
“Perhaps, assasination wasn’t the goal.” Nanami looked entirely unperturbed, anticipating this would be the group’s reaction, but Gojo’s stare couldn't be overlooked. He could feel the arctic chill crystallizing from across the table. “Anything you’d like to add, Satoru?”
“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I would,” Satoru seethed, voice matching the temperature in his eyes. His muscles coiled like metal springs, ready to pounce at the slightest upset. “What makes you think he’s the culprit and not someone else?” It sounded more like a threat than a question.
Nanami crossed his legs and brought his hands to his lap, calm as a monk. “Residuals don’t lie, and I fail to think of another user possessing the Cursed Manipulation Technique. Hardly a coincidence.”
“Bullshit!” The table shook. “There’s hundreds of unregistered curse users running around. I would know if my best friend — ”
“That psychopath isn’t your friend, Satoru.” Nanami’s voice was like the slicing of a guillotine. “He’s a traitor. A murderer. Whatever feelings you still harbor are grossly misplaced.” His fingers brushed the handle of his cleaver knife near his foot. “So too are your antics.”
“My…antics? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means.” Namami’s eyes were gunmetal grey. “You had direct orders to report back once your mission was complete. Not dick around and go sightseeing.”
Satoru slouched, exhaling a heavy sigh. “Ah, crap, not you too — Look, I already explained this — There was no curse. I searched everywhere. Someone must’ve gotten confused and rang a false alarm. Happens all the time.”
“Sure it does.” Nanami shrugged. “Too bad the higher-ups didn’t see it that way. Once again, your gift for pissing off the wrong people has everyone riled up, including The Association. I hear they’re asking for your head right about now.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, tell them to get in line,” Satoru growled and threw his head back, arms crossed. “Dammit. Why is everyone acting like this is my fault?”
“Because it is your fault.” Nanami shifted his oxfords so they were square on the floor. The pub became very still. “She’s your responsibility. Your charge to protect. Your — ”
“She’s a political pawn. The higher-ups should’ve never brought her here. This is Tokyo, for fuck’s sake, the curse capitol of the world.”
“Except they didn’t bring her here, Satoru.” Nanami raged, jabbing a finger. “You did. You had every opportunity to decline the marriage, and you didn’t. You’re the reason she’s here. So quit bitching, and start acting like an adult for once in your — ”
In a quarter of a second, Satoru was on his feet, seizing the collar of Nanami’s shirt with a clad-iron fist, glass and tableware crashing to the floor. His bared teeth warped into a sinister smile. A crazed look mirrored his eyes, encroaching on pure delight. He welcomed the blood pounding in his ears, the cursed energy coursing through his veins. Gone was the jester from moments ago. The world's strongest sorcerer stood in his place, Six Eyes on wicked display.
“Careful, Nanami,” he warned, voice like shards of serrated glass, “Or else we’ll see just how ‘misplaced’ my antics really are.” He felt a roll of satisfaction as a bead of sweat trickled down Nanami’s brow, focused fear in his eyes. The business man reached for his cleaver knife in self defense, but Satoru apprehended his wrist, preventing him from taking a slice at his torso. For what felt like hours, the two sorcerers sized each other up, neither one backing down, waiting for the other to make the first move, until a third hand intervened.
“Let him go, Satoru.” Satoru looked behind to see Shoko, her expression slightly on edge. “They’re watching.”
He blinked and quickly spun around to find several pairs of eyes trained on him, chopsticks not reaching their agape mouths. The entire pub, so stunned by the altercation that one waiter who’d been refilling a customer’s drink had yet to stop pouring and was spilling alcohol every which way but the cup. Mired in silence, none of them uttered a peep, or moved a muscle. All wondering what the heck was going on, and why some tall albino dude was borderline strangling his friend with a look of murderous intent.
Feeling rarely self-conscious, Satoru shielded his eyes under his bangs and forcefully shoved Nanami back in his seat, releasing him from the chokehold. The salaryman broke into coughing, massaging his throat to reopen his strained airways. The white haired sorcerer wasted no time grabbing for his jacket on the chair.
“H-Hey, you idiot. Where do you think you’re going?” accused Utahime, recovering from her own shock.
“Out,” Satoru snarled through locked teeth. He procured a wad of cash from his pocket, more than enough to cover the tab (and mess) and dropped it on the table, glaring menacingly at Nanami, who somehow managed to glare right back. He then gave Shoko an apologetic look. “Catch you guys later.”
And off he went, stepping outside the izakaya, into the busy nightlife of Tokyo.
The strongest sorcerer on Earth.
Notes:
*Rolls up sleeves.
Okay. Don’t be mad, but this is why it took me so long to update. I’ve been researching.UPDATED NOTES: 6.8.22
1. These are real witchraft communities. In these countries/continents, particularly India, false accusations of witchcraft have led many innocent women to be persecuted and sometimes killed. You can read more about the African and Navajo communities here and here. There are many, many more international communities that I didn’t mention in this story, just so you know.
2. i. The Tokugawa family ruled over Japan for nearly 250ish years as the functioning Shogunate, or Bakufu, until power was transferred to the Imperial Family in 1868 (Edo period: 1603-1868). Under the Tokugawa shogunate, Japanese people could not leave, foreigners could not enter, and Christianity was punishable by death. All of this is explained in Romulus Hillsborough’s Samurai Revolution: The Dawn of Modern Japan Seen Through the Eyes of the Shogun’s Last Samurai. You can purchase the book here.
ii. In 1543, the first Europeans arrived in Japan; a Portuguese ship carrying three people. The first Jesuit missionaries came to Japan later in 1548. In 1600, Pope Clement VIII issued an official papal decree that Japan be evangelized. You can read more about this here.
3. Shūsaku Endō’s analogy for why Christianity couldn’t flourish in Japan. One of my favorite authors. Much of his work has inspired this fanfiction.
4. It’s important to remember that during WWII, Japan was at war with not only the United States, but practically all its Asian neighbors and the Soviet Union. While we often consider Japan to be a peace loving nation, and it most certainly is, her tactics in past wars were brutal. Every country has its sins. Japan is no exception.
5. i. Sekiguchi Cathedral, also called St. Mary’s Cathedral, functions as the current seat for the Archdiocese of Tokyo. In 2014, when our story takes place, Bishop Peter Takeo Okada served as the archbishop. You can read more about its history and unique architecture here.
ii. The Second Vatican Council, Vatican II, wouldn't finish until 1965.
6. A real intersection in Tokyo, Japan. The neighborhood of San’ya is also real.
7. The International Chess Federation. You can read more about it here.
8. The Catholic Church cannot claim who is in Hell, baptized or unbaptized. That’s why Fr. O’Malley scolds Hannah for deceiving Mr. Ijichi (poor chap).
9. In the Middle Ages, monks and missionaries became quite proficient at nicking stuff. I’ve used a similar concept for our dear “Padre Leroux.”
10. I’ve taken these historical facts about the Gojo family from this article. My one gripe with this article is that it lists no original sources. However, it does seem to coincide with what I’ve read about Michizane Sugawara in Francine Herail’s Emperor and Aristocracy in Heian Japan, which you can purchase here.
11. An enlightened person in Buddhism who’s refrained from entering Nirvana in order to help other sentient beings achieve enlightenment.
12. Proper Japanese etiquette. Also synonymous with sahō
13. One of the oldest alleyways in Tokyo. You can find lots of izakaya there, which r very small. Here’s an article about the area and why it's called “Piss Alley.”*Phew. I think that’s everything.
Chapter 6: The Siren
Summary:
Satoru’s a perv. Enough said.
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom and inserted superscripts throughout the chapter when needed.Also, if you haven’t read Gojo‘s Past Arc, there will be spoilers.
As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Come find me on Tumblr!!!!!!
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Long afloat on shipless oceans
I did all my best to smile
'Til your singing eyes and fingers
Drew me loving to your isle
-Song to the Siren by Tim Buckley
Chapter 6: The Siren
The high collared throat of his jacket couldn’t mask the canned air of Shinjuku Station.1 Japanese Metro facilities were pristine compared to those overseas, but most passengers were blind to the residual matrix littering the city’s underground railways.
Scrutinizing the luminescent stains on the walls, Satoru swiped his IC card on the scanner and headed towards the boarding dock, waiting with some other strangers for the midnight train to take him home. Not that he was itching to return. He needed time to himself, to mull over recent events.
“You’re the reason she’s here…”
For the upteenth try, the white-haired sorcerer jammed his left hand into his pocket, twirling the irritable ring with his thumb, hoping with enough persistence it would pop off, but it was useless. The little collet dug into his skin with every vehement twist, every tug. The Six Eyes essentially made him a jujutsu locksmith, an exorcizing Houdini, but no matter how much he pulled, twisted, scraped, or bit, the ring stayed on. He wanted so badly to incinerate the gold like he did the curse the previous night. The girl needed the protective charm, not him. If it weren’t for the Reverse Technique his finger would be rawed red by now. He heard a merry jingle chime through the intercom.
“Rapid train will be arriving at platform 10 shortly,” announced a placid voice. “For your safety, please wait behind the yellow line. We thank you for your cooperation.”
Lights shone in the distance, reflecting off his shades. He forfeited the ring when the train emerged from the tunnel and hissed to a rolling stop. Sliding doors opened and Satoru boarded the coach, peering over his shoulder to make sure no one suspicious was following. Nope. Just the typical old ladies and salarymen this time, their thermographic silhouettes colored in blobs of red and orange. Perfectly normal.
“Doors are now closing,” the conductor spoke. Satoru was only half listening. “This Keio Line is bound for Meidaimae Station…Priority seating is reserved for elderly, handicapped passengers, expecting mothers…” Eventually the metro moved with a jolt. His stance kept him from falling over, though he refused to take a seat because like most trains he typically rode, neon residue caked almost every square surface of the coach, from the handlebars to the chairs. It reeked of cursed energy, decayed and cold. Satoru lifted his boot off the floor to inspect the wad of paranormal entrails ruining the Italian leather. Makoto was sure to kill him when he got home. It would take more than a bucket of bleach to wipe this shit off. Frustrated, he brought the boot down, squishing the residue under his weight until he heard the coach groan from the force. Anger churned inside him, festering, growing hotter. Damn them. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
How was it that he, the strongest sorcerer alive, descendant of the vengeful spirit, Sugawara no Michizane, inheritor of the Six Eyes and the Limitless, the first Gojo to possess both cursed techniques in over 400 years, had somehow been bested by a couple of old fogies and a foreign aristocrat he’d never heard of until very recently?
Satoru stared out the window, listening to the tha-chuck, tha-chuck of the monorail gliding over the tracks. Tokyo blurred into smoke. His mind wandered back to the moment his life forever changed. That cold, gloomy trip he made to England four months ago.
A portly man with a balding head, wearing what must’ve been expensive coattails, sat across a lacquered table, Cuban in his right hand emitting chalky grey fumes, while jeweled fingers rapped the table rhythmically. The fat bastard was enjoying himself too much for Satoru’s liking and the tobacco was starting to give him a headache, combined with the harsh glare curoscating off the Roccoco chandeliers. Everything about this interaction offended him; The heady smoke, the bright lights, the three-piece Brioni2 he’d been forced to wear, which quickly became too hot, and then this Oswald Cobblepot wannabe sitting before him, all smug, dressed like a cliché supervillain just asking to get punched. It took immense restraint not to grab hold of the cigar and shove it down the earl’s thick gullette. He hated this man. He hated this place.
As if sensing his contempt, the earl puffed another heaping cloud. “Gentlemen,” he crooned. “To what do I owe the honor?” His voice caused the muscles along Satoru’s jaw to tighten. Honor? What did this motherfucker know about honor?
One of the elders spoke amidst their small caravan, rising from his seat. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Thames,” he replied emphatically. “You know why we’re here.” He drew himself stiffly. “We’ve come for the seer.”
Thames flashed ivory stained teeth. “Ah, yes,” he relished gleefully. “Why, of course you have. How silly of me to think otherwise.” He flicked the cigar ashes on a tray, leaning back into his chair that accommodated his rotund girth. “But I am a man of principle, you see? They say there hasn’t been a living seer in, what, one hundred, two hundred years? Given that reason alone, I couldn’t possibly hand her over to you free of charge, now, could I? No. That would be bad business on my part. Very bad business.” He twisted the coarse hairs in his beard, before taking an indulgent drag from his Cuban. His eyes sharpened. “Name your price, jujutsu sorcerers. If I find your negotiating skills up to snuff, she’s yours for the taking.”
And negotiate they did, each side throwing out numbers in rapid succession, turning them down, then proposing new ones. But Satoru broke from the proceedings when the amount reached eight figures, opting to take in the room instead. Anything to keep his mind off the money and what they were using it for.
He made quick inventory.
Two…
Six…
Fifteen….
Twenty display cases oriented themselves around velvet settees and ottomans, stocked with just about every treasure one could fathom; opal lozenges, slabs of lapis lazuli the width of dinner plates, columns of verdant emeralds and tsavorites, their raw conchoidal fractures glinting under the lights, magenta spinels faceted to metal rods. Satoru could tell by the inclusions embedded in the gemstones that they weren’t fakes. Their incessant brilliancy meshed loudly with the Savonnerie3 botanicals carpeting the floor, not to mention the infrared radiation he was attempting to suppress. His eyes felt like they were shrinking. He’d forgotten his sunglasses back in London. Infinity blocked the tobacco from reaching his nose, but it couldn't screen the myriad of light and invisible color from assailing his vision. Hell. Makoto was right. He should’ve brought the Bufferin4 tablets with him when he had the chance. Spreading his tongue between his molars, he tried in vain to relieve the growing headache from clamoring up the nerves in his skull. His head pounded furiously like waves hitting a rocky promontory, innumerous, unceasing. Don’t think too much, he told himself. Keep looking.
In one curio table lay a medieval manuscript, its Latin faded and withered upon dog-eared parchment. Another case held an impressive mini replica of a seventeenth century galleon, bedecked with ten sails, The Naiad painted on both sides of its bow; Faberge eggs, gold coins, jadeite bottles, enameled pill boxes, silk tapestries threaded with mollusk and sapphire beads, portraits of dead people hanging on red damask, junk, junk, junk. It’s all junk to him. Of course, his Six Eyes noticed other things normal eyes could not.
The billions of microscopic dust particles hovering in the air like fallout. An overlapping stitch puckering from a brocaded cushion on the other end of the room. Switching to infrared for a short spell, he saw volts of bright electricity thrumming outside cables in the walls, and scurrying under the floorboards were three little mice, their rodent cheeks stuffed with kindling. There was probably a nest somewhere the occupants weren’t aware of. He smirked at the thought. Served them right.
However, a bronze instrument, a lyre, was mounted on a wall near an old grandfather clock. Might've been the oncoming headache, or the thick tobacco smoke, but he swore the polymer wires strung between the harp were not so. They held an unusual sheen to them, keratinous, humanlike. He could make out the individual filaments in the strings, black and shiny, too thin in diameter to be horsehair, but that wasn’t the creepiest part about the room.
A mural of naked mermaids luring sailors to their deaths stretched across the ceiling above him, their long hair and pearly smiles beguiling. Some men looked away in abject terror, while others leaned in for a fatal kiss, the ship going down in the middle of a raging sea. Satoru snorted, thinking the panorama a tad histrionic. They were nothing like Japanese mermaids with mouths like monkeys and golden fish scales.5 Weren’t sirens supposed to have feathers? Whatever the case, the painting was frighteningly lifelike, he’d give them that. Perhaps if he stared long enough, one of the feminine creatures would leap out of the watery fresco and pull him under. He almost wished it would because the sound of flesh-on-flesh cemented in a firm handshake told him the proceedings were over. A bargain had been struck. All they needed then was his signature to solidify the deal.
That evening in Berkshire, Gojo Satoru purchased his bride for a whopping thirty million pounds sterling, close to four and a half billion in Japanese yen, essentially pocket change. Well done, Satoru, he mocked as he signed his name upon the dotted line. You are here by guilty of human trafficking. However, it wouldn’t be until his wedding day that the sorcerer finally laid eyes on the woman he would call his wife.
“Train is now stopping.”
The train slowed to a crawl, jerking him forward a little as it came to a halt. The pulsing in his head abated. Tobacco smoke feathered out. Lord Thames’ crooked smile vanished into the night and the doors slid themselves open. This was his stop.
Satoru exited the train and stepped onto the outdoor platform, hearing the locomotive speed off shortly after. The April chill had yet to recede and it smelled like macadam and fresh rain. By his estimation, the school campus was approximately three miles away. Through the dense pine brush, he could make out the striped road leading up the highlands, a couple kilometers north from the Meiji no Mori Takao National Park entrance.6 His phone read 12:15 A.M. and a message from Makoto. “Dinner’s in the fridge,” her unobtrusive way of asking him where he is. He told her not to cook him anything since he’d gone out, but the housekeeper knew him too well. And after storming out of the izakaya, Satoru realized he hadn’t eaten much except a few bites of mackerel and a club soda. He was more than a little hungry. Better get a move on then.
He began the ascent, his residual stained boots scuffing the pavement as he trudged up the street, unconcerned with getting run over. Cars rarely made the drive here. He could walk in the middle of the road as much as he damned well pleased. Higher and higher he went, immersing himself into the tectonic rock and ancient pines, the painted asphalt looping this way and that.
Crickets hummed. Frogs croaked. The cool breeze wisped through his hair. Trees gently swayed and a break in the clouds revealed a waxing crescent moon, brightening the conifers in a pale lunar glow. Perched on a branch, a couple yards to his left, he spotted a scops-owl with blood and feathers emanating from its beak, a dead hawfinch caged between two talons. On the ground, a female tanuki rummaged through forest leaves for juicy beetles and wild berries, sniffing the air for predators. He watched an elegant sika deer cross a trickling stream and hedge its way deeper into the valley. There were no streetlights. It’s only because of the Six Eyes he was able to capture this nocturnal world, this thriving ecosystem. He stopped to admire it, the stars glinting above the mountaintops, untainted by Tokyo’s light pollution. What it must be like to be way up there, far away from this chaos and disorder.
Satoru felt as though he were mourning the aftermath of a death. The death of his old life for this new hellscape he’d woken up in. Years of ingrained Buddhist philosophy remind him that life is a series of impermanence, a constant flow of change. “All things are passing illusion” wrote a wise monk long ago. “What is there that remains unchanging?” Nothing, of course. Fighting this truth will only lead you further down the path of suffering and reactivity. In other words, he needed to quit his bitching like Nanami said, and accept life’s unexpectancies for what they were; use “skillful means” to avoid getting struck by that “second arrow.”7 And yet knowing what he ought not, Satoru found himself despairing anyway, like he’d nose dived off the edge of a cliff and was waiting for the ground to flatten him. He’d already experienced this once before, the day his best friend walked out on him.
“Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru? Or are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest?”
Right now? He wished he were neither.
Lost in himself, the sorcerer wasn’t aware he was walking again until he approached the school entrance, moonlight reflecting off the mokoshi roofs like snow caps. The Gojo estate was located farther north off campus. Satoru made it past the temple gates, shuffled past the student dormitories, when suddenly a melodic sound reached his ears. A sweet sound akin to a woodwind instrument. He paused to listen. Weird. Who the heck was playing music this late at night? Now vaguely curious, he changed directions and headed towards the sound like a hound chasing a scent, desperate to reach its source, and the closer he got the more he understood the sound wasn’t recorded music, but a voice. Someone was singing from the women’s bathhouse.
There were no female students studying in Tokyo at that time. The voice was too young to be an elder or a staff member, which meant...
Satoru bent over a little known hole in the wall and saw her.
"...A-mach air bhàrr nan stuagh ri gaillinn
Fuachd is feannadh fad o thìr
Bha mo ghaol dhut daonnan fallain
Ged is maighdeann mhara mi…”
She was sitting on the edge of the pool, her smooth legs submerged in the steaming water. A towel was wrapped around her waist, but it wouldn’t hide much. Satoru's been involuntarily looking through clothing since he was four years old. That towel wasn’t gonna cover jack-shit. The naked plane of her back was exposed to him, wet and glistening, and when she raised her arms to slide a toothed comb through her long garnet hair, he’d catch the sides of her breasts, and sometimes a lovely pink nipple would peep behind the mist as she continued detangling her wet tresses. The white linoleum channeled her song into ringing echoes, numbing his brain, curling around his insides. He felt his scrotum burgeoning against his thighs, swelling like a blimp. He couldn’t help himself really. She sounded so fucking good, so soft, so clear, like water welled from a spring; a crystalline soprano. Maybe if he just unzipped his fly and allowed himself to…wait.
What the hell was he doing? Was he under a cursed technique of some kind? Because, damn, it certainly felt like one.
“...Chan eil mo chadal-sa ach luaineach
Nuair bhios buaireas air an t-sìd'
Bha mi'n raoir an Coire Bhreacain
Bidh mi'n nochd an Eilean Ì…”
Seriously, what language was that? It was unlike anything he’d ever heard. English alone was gibberish, but this language was on a whole different level of strange.
Satoru had long believed there was nothing new for him to experience in this world. When Fushiguro Tōji plunged his Inverted Spear of Heaven into his throat and enabled him to reach the level of understanding necessary to perform the Reverse Cursed Technique, and fuse Red and Blue to make Hollow Purple, what greater high was there? What earthly pleasure? What worthwhile goal? And if all things were passing illusion, wherein lied the point? Even the activities he used to enjoy no longer satiated him the way they once had; sex, video games, movies, sex, caffeine, pissing off Utahime, sweets, more sex, etc. Nothing wowed him anymore, nothing thrilled him. He’d forgotten what it was like to live for the present, existing, more or less, in a perpetual state of lukewarmness. To put it mildly, he was twenty-four and bored.
Then Hannah Thames entered his life - or rather she barged in, flipped his world upside down, and threw it off its axis, together with his sense of control.
She really wasn’t what he expected.
On their wedding day, with her chin wedged between his fingers, he couldn’t deny she was beautiful, though not in the conventional sense of the word. The partners he often coaxed into bed tended to be…well endowed. Hannah was dainty by comparison; tiny, fragile looking, someone he wouldn't have chosen for himself if given the option. However, her proportions weren’t undesirable either; long hair, cinched waist, moderately sized breasts, which he found annoying because he was hoping to find something not to like about her. But those eyes? Holy crap. He’d inscribe those verdant brown eyes to memory, along with her rich auburn hair, her tiny freckles scattered across her cheekbones that could only be seen up close, and her innocence. So much unadulterated innocence staring back at him he could almost choke. It didn’t take an expert to know she was a virgin, which twisted his stomach into knots. Made him nauseous. Angry. Furious even.
Why!? he wanted to scream, grab hold of her shoulders and give them a fierce shake when she slid that ring onto his finger. Why would you do this to yourself? You stupid girl. Can’t you see? He could still feel his thumb on her lips, soft as rose petals. I’ll break you.
Innocence? Satoru didn’t know what to do with innocence. The virtue held little value to him. Their marriage was simply a means to an end, a show of good faith for the higher-ups; He’d (begrudgingly) marry the foreign woman as promised, and in return, they’d offer him a teaching position at Jujutsu High. It didn’t matter whether she possessed The Sight, or that they wanted him to retrieve the Sukuna fingers. He wasn’t planning on taking their relationship a step further. Simple as that.
“...Seall is faic an grunnd na fairge
Uamhan airgid 's òir gun dìth
Lainnearachd chan fhaca sùil e
Ann an cùirt no lùchairt rìgh...”
So why did he feel like an asshole the moment he ditched her after the wedding? Why couldn’t he erase those moss brown eyes from his mind? When he held her in his arms last night, why had it scared him to imagine her with a bullet through her head? Like Amanai Riko all those years ago. And why the fuck did her voice make him wanna bust a nut right then and there like an adolescent teenager? Shit, what would Suguru do, if he were —
“That psychopath isn’t your friend, Satoru. He’s a traitor. A murderer.”
Gojo let out a quiet huff.
Right. Suguru’s gone and he ain’t showing signs of coming back. Each passing day served as a reminder that he was on his own.
The sorcerer looked back through the peephole at the bathing woman, still singing at the water's edge, combing her long skeins of hair, oblivious she was being watched.
He then stared fixedly into his palm at the wedding ring on his finger. He flexed his digits, balled them into a fist and closed his eyes, listening to her sweet music drown every part of him and the onsen.
“...Hù-bha is na hoireann ù-bha
'S ann le foill a mheall thu mi…”
He remained motionless, breathing calmly in and out of his nose to settle the uneasiness in his soul and the throbbing between his legs.
“...'S ann le foill a mheall thu mi…”
Satoru’s hand fell to his side, his will power slipping away.
He waited there, seconds, minutes, hours. He wasn’t sure. Hannah’s serenading eventually ended and he stopped to hear her petite frame exit the pool. He could hear water droplets plopping to the floor as she moved, remembering the curvature of her ass underneath that towel draped around her waist, how soft she looked, how supple. Then his mind reeled back to her breasts, fantasizing how those lovely pink nipples would feel inside his mouth, tightening and melting on his tongue. Tossing her wet hair to one side, the ventilation system caught wind of her scent just as she entered the hallway and brought it to his nose like a gift. She smelled like lilies after a morning rain. His brain went fuzzy, helping little to soften his erection as he finally acquiesced and brought a hand down to unzip his pants, eyeing the damp spot on his boxers as he filled out some more, groaning in relief. Ah, much better. He then panted a short laugh, unable to recall the last time he’d been this hard. By a voice, no less.
He should’ve been ashamed of himself for it.
But he wasn’t.
Instead, he became vastly intrigued. After all, he’s never been one to stay on the downlow for very long and any woman who’s able to arouse him this good is definitely worth “getting to know.” Maybe this’ll be fun. He’s never pursued a person like her before. I mean, if this is Hell, there’s no reason why it can’t be an enjoyable Hell, right? And she’s pretty easy on the eyes.
Alright fine. He’d cooperate just this once. And if he didn’t like it, he’d switch back to Plan A and keep his distance. For now, though, he’d humour the idea and see where it took him.
This whole marriage thing.
Notes:
ME: Yup. That’s our Satoru for you. One minute he’s quoting 14th century Buddhist monks, the next he’s thinking with his dick.
UTAHIME: “Yeah, Satoru. What the hell is wrong with you? Have you no decency?”
SATORU: “What? She’s my wife. And it's not like she saw anything...yet”😏
UTAHIME: “Moron, that’s not the point.”(turns to Hannah) “And you. What were you doing up so late?”
HANNAH: Well, um, I couldn’t sleep. So, I thought a warm bath would help.😶
UTAHIME: (facepalms) “Honestly, I can’t believe this is how you two got together.”😫
SATORU:😁
HANNAH:😨
ME: Please, leave a comment below and share your thoughts. 🤗
SOURCED NOTES:
1. I took a deep-dive into Tokyo’s subway system. There are two separate railways; Tokyo Metro and Toei Subway with Tokyo Metro being the primary train of choice for most Tokyoites. I recommend watching this video detailing what it’s like to ride these trains. I thought it was kinda cool.
2. Brioni suits are some of the most expensive in the world. For the sake of argument let’s place Satoru’s custom 3-piece at $15,000.
3. Owning Savonnerie carpets was considered the height of luxury and prestige during the seventeenth century. They're still made today, but many are auctioned off, or sold at exclusive antique shops. If you wanna spend $62,000+ on a fancy French carpet, be my guest.
4. Bufferin, a common ibuprofen brand in Japan. It’s equivalent to Advil or Tylenol.
5. I wouldn’t necessarily take it as a compliment if someone called me a ningyo. Japanese mermaids are unsightly creatures. If you catch one, you’re supposed to eat it and magically gain eternal life. There’s a famous folk story, Yaobikuni, about a little girl who’s father accidently gave her ningyo meat to eat.🙊🙈
6. Meiji no Mori Takao Quasi-National Park is a national park located just outside Tokyo. I’m willing to bet my entire bottle of sherry that this is where Gege Akutami imagined placing Jujutsu High. There’s even a Shingon Buddhist temple on Mt. Takao.
7.i. Satoru quotes Yoshida Kenkō from his Essays in Idleness, which is considered a classic in Japanese literature. This is the version I have, but there are cheaper versions online. Awesome read.
ii.“Skillful means” is a concept emphasized in Mahayana Buddhism in which a practitioner can follow his/her own path to reaching enlightenment, as opposed to strictly following the traditional sutras and teachings of the Buddha (Gautama), provided these methods are actually effective, or “skillful”. ("Skillful" or "unskillful" are common verbiage when discussing/practicing Buddhism).
iii. The Buddhist parable of the Second Arrow is a story about how to manage suffering. The “first arrow” symbolizes a tragic event (suffering). The “second arrow” symbolizes how we cope with that tragic event (reactivity to suffering). The more unskillful you are, the more painful that second arrow.
8. I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but for those that don’t know, Thames is pronounced “Temz”.If you're looking for an easy read on Buddhism, I’d recommend Noah Rasheta’s No-Nonsense Buddhism for Beginners. You can also download it for free online. Since it’s very short, I reckon you could finish it in half a day. I used it for my introductory to Buddhism in college.
Chapter 7: A Moment of Grace, A Thread of Enlightenment
Summary:
Our newlyweds reach a compromise.
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Come find me on Tumblr!!!!!!
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 7: A Moment of Grace, A Thread of Enlightenment
There ought to be a law limiting the amount of sugar one could consume in a cup of coffee.
When Fr. O’Malley assured Hannah that Satoru would come find her when he was ready to talk, she hadn’t imagined he’d show up at her doorstep the following morning, looking stunningly handsome in a black bomber jacket and stone washed jeans, his white Chuck Taylor’s tapping the floor impatiently.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” he said, Six Eyes glittering behind dark glasses. “Get dressed.”
Hannah was ready for him in six.
Next thing she knew, she was standing outside a random street corner in Tokyo, herded into a coffee shop far too commercialized to be authentic, and made to watch the world’s strongest sorcerer alter the chemical composition of his drink. Hannah couldn’t say how sweet a “A Venti Doppio Espresso, with 20 shots of espresso, 10 pumps of white mocha and 7 pumps of cinnamon dolce, topped with a heavy dollop of whip cream and chocolate drizzle,” was, but she doubted it lacked sugar. The espresso alone was enough to put a toddler under cardiac arrest. Whatever Satoru was drinking, it wasn’t coffee.
Dunking his fifth packet of sweetener into the mix, Satoru glanced at the woman who was fidgeting uncomfortably in her chair, refusing to make eye contact with him. She wore a lilac blouse tucked neatly inside her patched jeans, the worn out denim thinning white around the kneecaps and bottom hems fraying. Her long hair was plaited in braids crowning her head, revealing the ivory streamline of her neck, enticing his eyes to roam farther south, past the arch of her collarbone. He caught whiff of lilies hiding amidst the roasted coffee beans. He felt a tingling in his crotch and quickly crossed his legs, cursing himself for it. No. He couldn’t afford to get carried away. Not here. There’d be time for fun and games later. Right now he had questions in need of answering. If he could just draw them out of her first.
“I don’t know how they do things where you’re from,” he said, stirring in the sweetner with a straw. “But I’m pretty sure it’s rude to turn down a fresh cup of coffee when someone else is paying. Starbucks ain’t cheap nowadays.”
Hannah looked at him and then looked down at the green siren printed on the paper cup in her hands. Satoru was “nice” enough to order her some coffee while simultaneously flirting with the barista like he wasn’t a married man and “obliging” Hannah to take a seat near a window, whereupon he shoved the hot drink in her hands. The twin-tailed siren’s grin appeared conniving. A sickening feeling roiled in the pit of her stomach. She knew then that this choice in venue wasn’t accidental.
Satoru snapped a finger in her face.
“Oi, am I gonna have to force words outta you again like last time?” he said. “Cause you’re becoming a real buzzkill, Princess.”
Their eyes latched onto each other. Nervously, the Hannah bit her lip and said something too soft for his ears to catch. The Starbucks was in the middle of its morning rush.
“Louder.” Her behavior irked him. “Speak up.”
A deep breath. “Why did you bring me here?” she asked, peering up at him through wary hazel eyes.
Finally. At least she wasn’t stuttering.
“Whatya mean?” Satoru said, feigning ignorance. “Can’t a guy treat a girl to some coffee?”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“Eh?”
The color in her cheeks flushed a delicate pink as her gaze dropped to her lap submissively. He felt his crotch betray him again. Fuck. Quickly, so as not to arouse suspicion and avoid disaster, Satoru slipped his hands underneath the table and squeezed the inside of his wrist, twisting the skin hard enough to leave a bruise. The tingling petered out.
“I’m sensitive to caffeine,” he heard her confess. “It gives me anxiety.”
“Oh.” Satoru tugged his jacket sleeve down to hide what he’d done, acting like her words hadn’t offended him. “Well, in that case, maybe I could use the company.” He raised his espresso to his lips and took a sip.
“M-Meaning?”
Uh-oh. There’s that stutter again.
“Meaning,” Satoru stressed, placing his cup back on the table. “I think it’s time we have a good honest chat. You and me. Man to woman.”
A student to their right, typing furiously on his laptop, released a dreadful sneeze; a bad omen.
“Sorry,” Hannah’s brows narrowed. “I’m confused.”
“How so?”
She gave him a cynical look. “Weren’t you the one who said you wanted nothing to do with me? That you wanted me to stay away? That you didn’t give two — ’”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” whined Satoru, rolling his eyes with a wave of his hand. “Just forget I said any of that crap. I’ve since changed my mind. I mean, I’m a human being with free will, right? Isn’t that something you Christians also believe in? Free will? — Speaking of which, you better not cram any of that Jesus hocus-pocus down my throat like Yaga's friend always does. I’m not looking for a savior, thank you very much.”
She winced at “hocus-pocus.” Though by no means ashamed of her Christianity, Hannah preferred to live out her faith through the quiet example of Thérèse of Lisieux, rather than the fiery zeal of St. Paul. Religion was a deeply personal thing. It felt like breaking an entry when cramming proselytisms down people’s throats. Either way, there’d be no evangelizing on her part. That was already agreed upon in her marriage dispensation from the archbishop.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” she said dryly.
Satoru looked pleased. “Good.” He propped an elbow on the table. “So…what’s it like?”
She blinked. “What’s what like?”
“You know,” he goaded. “The Sight? Being able to see curse attacks before they happen? What’s that like?” At this, Hannah said nothing and stared forlornly at the table. Satoru whistled lowly. “That bad, huh?”
The seer nursed the coffee in her hands, sad reflection gazing back at her. “I watch people die when I go to sleep,” she murmured. “Of course it’s bad.”
“How long have you had it, you think?”
She watched the reflection shrug. “Since I was six years old. Maybe five? I can’t remember very well. At first, I thought they were just nightmares; mere figments of my imagination.” She forced a strained smile. “I wish that were the truth.”
“Do you know how it works?”
Hannah shook her head. “Aside from its strange relationship to cursed energy, not really. What I do know is that it's terrible and I wish I never had it.” She didn’t like where the conversation was headed. “Can we talk about something else…please?”
Satoru felt the awkwardness creep in. This is why he hated small talk. “Listen,” he sighed, combing a hand through his hair out of habit. “I know this must be rough, being far from home and not having Daddy Warbucks to look after you anymore, but — ”
“Lord Thames is not my father,” Hannah said at once, a vehemence knifed in her tone.
Satoru’s eyes widened, mildly surprised by her little outburst and raised his hands in appeasement, the sarcasm having flown over her head.
“Alright. No need to get angry. I was only joking.” He lowered his hands. “Who the hell is he then?” Unbeknownst to her, Satoru already conducted research on the fat bastard after his trip to England. A company called Thames & Sons, S.E. was the first thing that popped up on his radar. From the onset, it appeared to be a holdings company, primarily in the business of producing and selling luxury goods, including yachts and other seafaring machinery. The company logo was the same heraldic shield he saw inside the gilded halls of Wasserton; two sirens on either side, one brandishing a lyre, the other a trident. However, Hannah added a new piece of knowledge to the puzzle.
“He’s my uncle,” she said, her grip tightening around her coffee cup. “Though, I was nothing more than an inconvenience to him, a blight in need of swift removal.” Her voice rang hollow. “Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.”
At this, the lines on Satoru’s face outwardly softened. There was an emotion submerged in his blue eyes Hannah couldn’t quite fish out. Like a wave it rippled across the surface and then stilled.
“What happened to her?” he said. “Your mom?”
Hannah remained affixed on him. Best to pull the dagger out, she thought. While she’s got him here. The short version will do. For her sake more than anyone’s.
“She killed herself.” Hannah said it cleanly, her voice flat. “Found her lying face-down in her room one morning, lungs corroded, heart ruptured. They said it was cyanide poisoning. God only knows how she managed to get a substance like that. Probably through one of the servants.” She looked away as if ashamed. “My uncle disowned her shortly after I was born. That’s what likely drove her to commit suicide. She was barely twenty-two.”
Tragic? Yes. Entirely unforeseeable? No.
At this point in history, it was commonly assumed that Thames women were cursed, be it mental illness, abuse, bad luck, or in wake of Hannah’s mother, a deadly combination of all three. Shoddy nursery rhymes were even sung about it to scare young girls: “Beware the House of Thames, who hasten maidens to their ends...” If indeed beautiful women lived tragic lives, you’d think the Thames wrote the bloody book. They amassed enough scandals to rival that of the Tudors, making them prone to conspiracies and vulnerable to gossip; Particularly regarding the Countesses of Graivmor, who allegedly existed, but for some peculiar reason were never seen in public, leaving many to speculate there were no countesses and all Thames children were secretly bastards or adopted. Of course if any of these rumors were true, they would fail to explain how the Thames’ magic was so excellently preserved. And were it not for this magic, and immense wealth (which was also suspect), the Thames wouldn’t receive so much as an invitation to tea. But Hannah, an illegitimate, wasn’t to be received anywhere besides the usual calls to morning Mass.
Satoru sat vigil, listening intently to her story. “Why’d your uncle disown her?”
A fragile snort escaped her lips. “Why else? My mother was a peeress under one of the last existing sorcery families in Europe. It’s dishonorable for a lady of her rank to bear a child out of wedlock, especially with a non-sorcerer. It also meant she couldn’t terminate the pregnancy in case the child wielded magic, which unfortunately didn’t happen with me.”
Satoru shifted in his seat and without too much forethought said, “Sounds like you regret being born.”
Hannah turned to look at him. She’d never voiced the quiet part out loud. The question that’d been haunting her all her life. “I don’t think it matters whether I’d been born or not,” she said stiffly. “But seeing how my mother is dead, I’ll let you be the judge.”
The two relapsed into silence, broken only by the sound of construction outside, the chime at the front door alerting staff to new customers. Keyboards. Page turning. Quiet chit-chat.
“Apologies,” Satoru said, wondering whether she could tell how much he meant it. “That must’ve really sucked.”
Hannah shrugged her shoulders. “I was a baby. It’s not like I knew her.”
“What of your old man? What became of him?”
Her taut smile lacked humor. “Abandoned my mother when she became pregnant with me and hightailed it back to New York, so I’m told. On top of an unplanned pregnancy and destitution, my mother also suffered a broken heart.” Her eyes appeared distant. “Sad isn’t it? When the people who are supposed to love us... don’t.”
Satoru’s expression was unreadable. “Do you know where the deadbeat is now?”
“My father?” she asked. Satoru nodded. “No, and with any luck, it’ll stay that way.” Her eyes flicked up at him. “What about you?”
He cocked a brow. “What about me?”
She could already hear Fr. O’Malley’s voice protesting in her ears, “Don’t do it, cailín. I’m warning you.” She nudged the priest aside. “Well, I never.”
“Your parents?” Hannah said, feeling a bit braver. “I figure there’s a reason we haven’t been introduced?”
She waited for a stretching, agonizing moment, thought for sure she had him, but when Satoru opened his mouth to speak, he unceremoniously clamped it shut and let out an airy chuckle. “Yeah, no. I don’t think so. Nice try.”
…
…
…
“Sorry. Perhaps, you misunderstood. I’m asking whether I'll get the chance to meet your — ”
“I understood you perfectly fine, Princess. You’re the one with the hearing problem. Ask me again and see what happens.”
“But…” Hannah was honestly quite baffled by this veiled threat. “But I revealed my entire past to you just now. I’ve never done that with anyone outside of a confessional.”
“Okay.” Satoru looked as though he could care less. “And?”
She set her jaw, anger rising to her defense. “The least you could do is be polite and reciprocate the sentiment.”
Satoru pressed his lips in a hard line. He leaned forward across the table, Six Eyes wildly close, and said. “I know this may come as a bit of a shock to you, but politeness isn’t always my forte. You’re free to ask questions, as many as you like, but that doesn’t mean I'm obligated to give you a straightforward answer. In other words,” he switched to English, “you’re S.O.L.”
S.O.L.
Shit out of luck.
Hannah could no longer feel the coffee in her hands, nor its warmth. Her whole body went numb, as though someone had taken a rusty pair of scissors and snipped off the last shred of hope she’d been clinging on to. “So, help me understand,” she said, voice even-keel. “You brought me here to this place. Said you wanted to have a ‘good honest chat.’ I answer your questions honestly and truthfully, yet you refuse to do the same?”
The Six Eyes wielder gasped and struck a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “Hey, now. I’m not being untruthful. I’m simply choosing not to answer. There’s a difference.”
She breathed through her nose. Her eyes burned, but she dared not blink. “Well, then…that’s awfully disingenuous. Thinking you could lead me on like that.”
“Leading you on? Give me a break.” Satoru rolled his eyes. “All I did was ask a few simple questions, Princess. I wasn’t lawding over you, forcing you to say those things. And I don't have to tell you certain stuff if I don’t want to, so there.” He sneered into his coffee before taking another swig. “Disingenuous.”
Wind knocked from her sails and spirits dampened, the seer slumped in her chair, accosted by his harsh reticence. Two steps forward, five steps back. They’d returned to square one. This man was impossible.
“Patience, Hannah,” Fr. O’Malley urged. “Patience.”
She inhaled deeply, bridling her anger and consternation. “At the very least, will you answer my next question?” she asked. “Truthfully this time?”
His smirk was too handsome and smug for his own good. “Depends on the question, but go ahead.”
Swallowing hard, Hannah said, “Why did you consent to the marriage?” She couldn’t meet his gaze as she spoke. “You’re obviously not interested in a wife, so why take one if it’s not what you wanted? You don’t have to lie. I can tell you’re unhappy.”
Satoru clicked his tongue at her bald accusation. Not as unhappy as I should be, he wanted to say, but thought better of it. His Six Eyes scrutinized the little seer for a moment, face impassive, calculating. He stacked both elbows on the table and wove his fingers together.
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like if our world was different?” he said, breaking their short-lived silence. Hannah didn’t answer. Satoru inclined his head to look out the window, watching an old woman on a bench scatter sunflower seeds to a flocks of hungry pigeons, commuters walking past her. “I can’t speak for The Association, but our higher-ups are trash.” He rested a palm to his cheek. “They think because they’re older it makes them wiser, but anyone with half a brain could tell you that’s a load of horseshit. Those feeble minded idiots don’t care how many civilians die, or how many young people they brainwash into becoming martyrs. All while spouting some stupid nonsense about ‘world order’ and ‘tradition.’” He balled his fist. “Pisses me off just thinking about it.”
Hannah didn’t know what to make of this information. “W-What is it you’re implying?” she said tentatively.
His eyes never wavered. Had Hannah been standing upright instead of sitting in a chair, she would’ve faltered from his glare. “I want to reset this shitty jujutsu world,” he stated firmly. “To undo the damage those trash heaps have wrought upon society.”
Hannah's heart stopped. She could feel the blood drain from her face. “You want a revolution?”
His eyes were like smoldering blue flames. “I want change,” he emphasized, heatedly turning to glare out the window once more. The old lady on the bench was gone. He swished his coffee cup. “The higher-ups are still wallowing in their own shit for what happened in San’ya. Word is there’ll be a ‘no-confidence’ vote soon."
Hannah gnawed her bottom lip. “Isn’t that a good thing?” Satoru’s eyes flashed at her. She bowed her head. “I-I mean, based on what you’ve told me, it sounds like the issue is resolving itself; The current regime will disband and a new one will take its place. Why interfere?”
He sighed loudly at how little she grasped the situation. “Because, Princess, the ‘no-confidence' vote is just for show. Those idiots aren’t serious about issuing a new regime. They’ll just reshuffle the same deck of cards over and over again, and if you cry foul or raise a stink, they’ll either demote you, or put your head on a chopping block.” He slashed a thumb across his neck to mimic a gruesome beheading.
Hannah slid him a caustic glance. “Don’t you fear execution?”
Satoru released an incredulous snort, “Hell no. You kidding? I’m the one holding this shit-show together. They can’t afford to get rid of me. Not that they could. I’d kill them all before they’d even get the chance.”
Hannah’s throat felt knotted. It was worse than she thought. “Then what’s stopping you?” She tried keeping her voice from quivering when his eyes coined into slits. “It’s not that I condone mass murder or anything, but if what you say is true, why not set fire to everything and declare yourself king?”
The exorcist helped himself to another swig of coffee, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “King, eh?” he murmured, pausing as if to mull it over with himself. “Nah, I have no intention of becoming anyone’s king,” he admitted. “Sure, for a while I contemplated killing everybody off and starting over from scratch. Only problem is it would be counterintuitive. You can't demolish an institution if you’ve got nothing better to replace it with. And it’s not like people approve of massacres anyway." He turned to look at her. “Which is why I plan to use a more diplomatic approach.” He twirled a long finger at her, smiling at some private joke. “You.”
Hannah stared blankly. “Me?”
The sorcerer nodded. "The bargain was simple: I be a good little Boy Scout and get married, thus fulfilling my ‘sacred duty’ to the clan or whatever, and as my reward, they offer me a teaching position at Jujutsu High. Voila. Easy peasy.”
Hannah tilted her head. “A teaching position? You want to be a teacher?”
“Yup,” he said in English, punctuating the “p” with his lips. “I plan to rebuild the system from within. That way I can foster the next generation and gain strong, loyal allies in the process.” He raised his finger to attention. “Plus, ‘Gojo-sensei’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Admit it, you’re impressed by my genius. I knew you would be.”
Despite herself, Hannah heaved an inward sigh of relief. “Then a reformation is your goal? Not a revolution?”
He shrugged. “I was kinda going with ‘nonviolent coup,’ but yeah. Whatever floats your boat.”
“And have you revealed this plan to anyone else?”
“Sorta,” He examined his fingernails like he’d lost interest. “Technically, you’re the first.”
“And you're able to do this because of the Limitless?”
Six Eyes honed on her like a falcon about to swoop in on its prey. Her heart ratcheted. His shift from carefree to serious frightened her. The man who saved her life was nowhere to be found. No, this man was formidable. This man was dangerous.
“You know about that?” he said cooly, the fire in his eyes now a glacial frost. He was a remarkable contradiction; both fire and ice.
Hannah shivered. “I know of it, yes,” she conceded. “But Fr. O’Malley didn’t elaborate.”
“Yeah, I bet he didn’t.” The sorcerer’s mouth started to quirk upwards. “Just as well. It’s better to show in person anyway. Here…” He spread his left palm out as if to give her a high-five, but in the midst of unfurling his hand Hannah gripped the table and flinched, afraid he might do something regrettable. Satoru’s face twisted into a scowl. “Chill. I’m not gonna hurt you. Now, be a nice girl and place your hand on mine, okay?”
Hannah froze. “W-What?”
Satoru bore a wide smirk.
“Oh, you heard me, Princess.” He wiggled his fingers suggestively. “Come on. Don’t be shy. Promise I won't bite.”
She didn’t budge. “You actually want me to…”
He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Why do women have to be so stubborn? Hurry up. My hand's getting tired."
Hannah swallowed the huge lump stuck in her throat and hesitantly, with shaky hands, she lifted her left palm to his as instructed. Closer and closer she crept, nearly making it, could practically feel it, but instead of touching callused skin like she anticipated, her forearm went no further, halted by an invisible wall keeping their hands squarely apart.
What on earth? She commanded her hand forward. Nothing. Not an inch more.
“Surprised?” spoke Satoru, amused by her trial and error. “Don’t be. What you’re witnessing is no trick. This is the resting state of the Limitless; Infinity.”
“Infinity?” she repeated, remembering Fr. O’Malley had used the term once in Principle Yaga’s office.
He nodded, gossamer bangs over his eyes. “With this curse technique, I’m able to manipulate the flow of space and time at will, making the theoretical concept of ‘Infinity’ fully realized. You can try all you want, but so long as this technique remains active, your hand will never reach mine.”
Hannah was deeply troubled by this. “I’m not sure I follow,” she said. “It’s a force field of some kind?”
“Hmm, not quite. You familiar with Achilles and the Tortoise?”
“Zeno’s Paradox, you mean?”
…
Okay.
He wasn’t expecting her to know that.
Kudos to her.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Well, that’s basically what’s going on here.” He pointed to his open hand. “In retrospect, I’m breaking down motion so acutely to the point it’s stopped in toto, or at least it appears that way.”
“I see,” replied Hannah, still piecing it together. “But Fr. O’Malley said the Limitless gave you the ability to repel and attract? He mentioned nothing of stopping.”
“Oh?” Satoru's grin turned Machievellian. “You mean this?”
The invisible gulf between their hands suddenly widened. Hannah could do nothing but watch as her palm was gently “pushed” back to her shoulder, fully outstretched. A red aura haloed around her arm.
“Reversal…”
Then Hannah’s hand was returned to his as if pulled by threads, her fingers barely touching the pads of his fingertips. Her pulse ran rampant in her chest, anxious by their close proximity and the blueness of his eyes concentrated solely on her. The red aura became a deep azure.
“Attraction,” he purred.
She heard her breath gasp. In the course of a single heartbeat, their fingertips at last met each other, then their palms, and then finally his fingers began to slip teasingly between her own, pinching the skin where their wedding rings collided. His hand felt massive, rough calluses and scar tissue grazing against her flesh, eliciting the hairs on her forearm to raise approvingly. He chuckled at the rosy hue dappling her cheeks.
A rush of excitement coursed through him at how easy she was to seduce. He didn't impede the tingling in his crotch this time, but rather kept it at bay, wondering how much longer would it be until she was in his bed, naked, writhing, pleading for him to make her his. He’d give her a solid week, tops.
“See? Told you I don’t bite,” he added flirtatiously, his voice velvet smooth, stroking his thumb atop their clasped knuckles for extra measure.
Meanwhile the blood in Hannah’s veins felt as though it were boiling inside a kettle. His hold was gentle yet firm and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t like it; Lucifer and his dashing good looks. She couldn’t bring herself to let go, so she went for a diversion.
“I h-haven’t thanked you properly for saving my life,” she squeaked, wishing she had a fan to cool herself, or a block of ice to press to her cheeks.
This must’ve been the last thing Satoru expected her to say because the tips of his ears also warmed a faint pink. “Whatever, don’t mention it,” he said, quickly looking away, hubris forgotten. “No big deal.”
He released her hand.
But Hannah was adamant. “I’m serious. If you hadn’t arrived when you did I would’ve been — ”
“You would've been curse meat,” he snorted. “Like I said, it's no big deal.” He didn’t think she’d thank him. Few people did.
“Only it is a big deal.” She reached across the table and grabbed hold of his hand, feeling the muscles tense underneath. “Please, Fr. O’Malley said you’d retrieve the Sukuna fingers for us. I may not be a sorcerer, nor the wife you wanted — In fact, I’d go so far as to say there’s nothing extraordinary about me at all — but for once in my life I could save people. Actually save people instead of watching them suffer and die. I can’t tell you how that makes me feel, I...” She stopped herself short, fearing she’d taken it a bridge too far, her cheeks blazing. “Anyway, I’m glad you changed your mind. Truly.”
Satoru’s mouth thinned, not impressed, not underwhelmed.
“That’s cute, Princess. I’m touched.” He deftly slid his hand from under hers to pour a sixth packet of sugar into his half-empty drink. “However, it takes two to tango. What will you give me in return to help sweeten the deal?”
“You get an ally.” For all her shyness, for all her foibles, the rebuttal was immediate. “A loyal one. I can’t say whether I agree with your coup, but if it means you’ll help me find the Sukuna fingers, then I’ll support you in your mission. That’s something you said you wanted, right? Loyal allies?”
The sorcerer pretended to weigh his options, rubbing his chin. “Hmm. My help in exchange for your unwavering loyalty.” He was messing with her really, having made his decision last night outside that bathhouse, ogling her naked body like an old lech. He clapped his hands together. “Alrighty then, I’ll agree to your terms. On one other condition.”
Hannah beamed. “Of course. Anything.”
He internally grimaced. Her enthusiasm reminded him of a puppy, naive and trusting. She shouldn't be so quick to make promises like that, proof she was inexperienced and easy to take advantage of. That needed to be corrected. Asap.
“You learn how to fight.”
He watched her elation flatten into sheer disappointment. “But I can’t control cursed energy.”
Satoru had to bite down a laugh. “Who said anything about cursed energy? I know brats half your age who can fight plenty without it. I don’t care whether you’re a non-sorcerer, or what level that curse was. You gave up the second it had its greasy paws. I’ll see to it personally that doesn't happen again. You may be weak, but that’s not an excuse to forfeit your life like that. Capeesh?”
The hint wasn’t lost on her. I’ll see to it personally.
“You’ll be my instructor?” she asked.
“Why not?” he replied, shrugging. “How else am I to teach a couple of angsty teenagers, if I can’t teach a smallfry like you how to defend herself? So, congrats. Try not to let it go to your — Huh? What the heck is this?”
Hannah was holding some kind of twig out to him.
“It’s for you.” She presented it with both hands. “It’s part of an olive branch.”
Satoru blinked. Where the hell did she find an olive tree in the middle of frickin’ Tokyo? They primarily grew in Shodoshima where it was drier.
“Right,” he said unsuredly. “Uh, am I supposed to do something with it?” He silently prayed she wasn’t encouraging him to eat this thing. It did not look yummy.
“Extending an olive branch symbolizes peace and new beginnings.” She nervously tucked a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “I was hoping we could start over…if that’s alright with you?”
Following her escape from Jujutsu High, and a stern talking to from Principle Yaga that she was to stay on campus at all times (Mr. Ijichi bore the brunt of Yaga’s ire), Hannah changed into suitable clothing and went into the greenhouse in search of garden shears, where she noticed a young olive tree rooted in a pot. Either someone placed it there that morning, or she hadn’t been paying close attention, but after finding the garden shears, she clipped off a sample and gingerly placed it in her pocket for safekeeping, planning to gift it to Satoru when the opportunity arose, which came sooner rather than later.
Fascinated, Satoru plucked the little sprig from her hold and lifted it towards the Starbucks window, examining its waxy oblong leaves and cellulosic properties. He noted the color was similar to the green in her eyes and he could smell its smoky perfume wafting from the tiny branches. Hannah interpreted this as a good sign and offered him her hand in friendship.
“I’m Hannah,” she said with a timid smile. “Hannah Thames - er - was Hannah Thames, but you already knew that.”
A perfectly cordial introduction.
Honestly speaking, she was prettier when she wasn’t sad.
Satoru stared at her proffered greeting, peered into her eyes, testing to make sure it was safe, then enclosed his palm around her’s without teasing.
“Satoru,” he replied, shaking her hand. She reminded him of a doll. A little hina doll. Too forceful and she’d snap in two. “By the way,” he added, “You might want to start packing your stuff when we get back.”
Her brows rushed downward. “How come?”
Ooo, she's gonna love this.
“There’s been a slight hick-up,” Satoru said. “After Wednesday night’s fiasco, the powers that be no longer think it safe for you to reside in the dormitories. I told them no, but they wouldn’t listen. So it looks like you’re moving in with me at the earliest convenience.” His voice lowered. "Oh yes, we’re gonna get nice and cozy with each other, aren’t we, Princess?”
Hannah gulped.
New beginnings, indeed.
Notes:
Now we can dive into some actual romance.🥰
AUTHOR"S NOTES:
Hannah: “From the Hebrew name חַנָּה (Channah) meaning ‘favour, grace’, derived from the root חָנַן (chanan). In the Old Testament this is the name of the wife of Elkanah. Her rival was Elkanah's other wife Peninnah, who had children while Hannah remained barren. After a blessing from Eli she finally became pregnant with Samuel.” [In Christianity, “Grace” is used to signify the presence and salvific nature of God, particularly as it relates to Jesus Christ.]
Satoru: “From Japanese 悟 (satoru) meaning ‘enlightenment’...Other kanji or kanji combinations can form this name as well. This is also a Japanese verb meaning ‘to know’ or ‘to understand,’ Satoru is also the root of the Zen Buddhist word Satori (悟り) meaning ‘enlightenment.’” [Enlightenment is necessary to be saved from saṃsāra and follow the Dharma.]
Notes courtesy of www.behindthename.com
Chapter 8: After the Rain, Earth Hardens
Summary:
雨降って地固まる: Amefuttedjikatamaru (Yes, it’s one big phrase): “After the rain, earth hardens.” Or alternatively “After rain, comes fair weather.”
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Also, I’ve thrown a ton of new Japanese words at you. You’ve been warned.
Chat with me on Tumblr and let me know your thoughts. I post images and other things that inspired this fic.
Enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 8: After the Rain, Earth Hardens
All was golden silence. The kaiseki meal was eaten, the meditative walk through the garden had concluded, the tea was poured and enjoyed following the ringing of a gong, and after four hours of chaji, the tea ceremony came to a close. The guests examined the utensils and glazed pottery one last time, graciously bowed to their hostess for the tea, slid open the door, and quietly shuffled out of the teahouse and into the garden, but rather than return to the waiting area to collect their things and bid farewell, the two guests were given special instructions to stay behind and wait for a maid to escort them inside the main house. Their hostess wished to speak to them.
The ladies knelt around a square table and were served the option of hot water or saké with some crackers and soon Hatsumomo entered the reception room, kimono unwrinkled, movements flawless, her jetblack hair combed in an elegant chignon. Her temae had been particularly good that evening. Being the eldest sister to the current head of the Kamo clan had its upsides. Like all great women before her, Hatsumomo was well versed in the art of tea making, steeped heavily in Zen and Confucian values; mental control and body discipline, conformity to one’s class and social status, tradition and obedience. In her eyes, life was set with rules. Such rules should be implemented and followed. When followed, prosperity and harmony could flourish in a just, civil society. It was for this reason Hatsumomo always wanted a quick word with her guests after chaji, to see how things were going. To see to it that prosperity and harmony were maintained.1
For a while the conversation flowed freely. They talked about the usual riff-raff, about the weather and the Sakura blossoms beginning to fade, about the exciting new production of Henry Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas premiering at the New National Theater Opera that season, about house staff and husbands, and with husbands came the inevitability of children. Hatsumomo’s opportunity arrived. She whipped out her sensu fan from the fold of her obi.
“How is Toge’s voice coming along, Tomoe? Any progress?”
Inumaki Tomoe stiffened. While she tolerated Hatsumomo’s “get togethers” most days, the woman could be a downright menace, sticking her nose in places she ought not. Besides her fatigue from enduring four hours of rigid chaji and sitting seiza in a layered kimono, the last thing Tomoe wanted to discuss was her son’s condition.
“No,” she replied tersely, swallowing a mouthful of saké. “He’s able to manage a few words here and there, but not much else.” She cast her brown eyes away from her hostess, the rice wine tasting bitter on her tongue.
“Oh. Well, no need to look so defeated, dear,” Hatsumomo said, flapping her fan as if solving the issue. “It’s thanks to him the Izumaki family is respectable again. A mother like yourself should be proud.”
Tomoe managed a fake smile. She was proud of her son, very much so, but not for his curse technique.
Marrying well into a prominent family was more than Tomoe‘s upbringing prepared her for. Like most sorcerer marriages, the match was arranged before her twelve birthday, though unlike most sorcerer marriages, Tomoe and Suga were childhood friends, separated by a slim six months. The Inumaki family were low on funds and the Shimoda family, then self-made millionaires, were looking to climb the social ladder and shed their peasant ancestry. In the end, both parties got what they wanted, and Tomoe, being the eldest daughter and subsequent heir to the Shimoda fortune, would sustain the Inumaki clan for years to come. Her ability to see curses was merely an added bonus. However, the transition from heiress to sorcerer wife came at an unforeseen cost.
By all accounts, Suga and Tomoe’s marriage was a happy one, a relationship built on trust and understanding, and occasional passion, but five miscarriages and eight years of childlessness jeopardized their future. Being a woman, Tomoe’s favorability within the jujutsu realm was dependent upon producing an heir. Toge’s birth arrived not a moment too soon.
She could still recall his whimpering cries when they laid his little pink body on her chest; eyes shut; tiny arms flailing; her labor pains forgotten. She and Suga wanted more children, of course, and sought the aid of medical professionals and attempted two rounds of IVF, but in the end, only Toge was left to occupy the cribs. Yet he was enough, she told herself. Her precious baby boy was enough, and it was the truth. Toge was more than enough for Tomoe with his matching blonde hair and brown eyes. Suga often joked their son was more Shimoda than Inumaki, “There’s not a trace of me in him, Tomo-chan,” he would tease. That all changed the moment the boy started to speak.
As a general rule, cursed techniques tend to manifest somewhere between the ages of four and six, but the Inumaki clan’s cursed technique was unique in that aspect. Children as old as eight months could show signs of cursed speech. Whenever Toge cried or threw a tantrum, his parents noticed objects would mysteriously move and glass would crack or rattle, and when Toge started forming actual words, the glass would shatter completely. They convinced themselves nothing was wrong at first, thinking if they ignored them, the happenings would go away, but the official diagnosis came at the tragic expense of a little ha-chikui, crushed to a feathery, bloody pulp, all because two year old Toge innocently said the word, “birdie.”
There was no getting around it. Their boy had cursed speech, and was sealed with the Serpent Eyes and Fang shortly afterwards.
It didn’t stay secret for long. Word that the Inumaki clan bore a child with the rare ability traveled fast, elevating the Inumaki’s blood status and allowing them admittance inside jujutsu’s innermost circle, which Tomoe quietly resented, especially when Toge’s condition became the topic of interest. Now entering teenagehood, they’d begun experimenting with words he could use without overexerting his voice, or accidentally cratering a hole in the wall, but progress was minimal. It hurt knowing her son would never be able to carry a normal conversation, or call her “Mama” ever again. If it weren’t for her husband and younger sister, Tomoe would’ve capitulated from the stress, though experience made her older and wiser, and the slanderous talk that used to crush her was beginning to lose its vise. She developed a harder skin. She could hold her own against the likes of Kamo Hatsumomo.
Takara, who was watching her sister’s distress from across the table, sought to fix the situation and take charge. “Did any of you hear what happened to Gojo’s wife the other day?” she deflected smoothly. “Just awful.”
“Yes, the poor girl,” Tomoe said, grateful for her sister’s rescue. “She’s lucky she wasn’t killed.”
“I was told she received facial wounds, but Rin’s a terrible gossip. Knowing her, none of it’s true - or at least, I hope it’s not true - For a foreigner, I’d say she’s rather pretty.” Takara turned to their hostess. “Don’t you think, Hatsu-senpai?”
Hatsumomo's nose wrinkled as though someone had thrown a dead fish onto her lap. “Beauty alone doesn’t bring a house honor,” she sneered. “The girl has yet to prove herself.”
The two sisters exchanged tepid glances with one another.
Tomoe lifted a brow. “Honor? Since when did you care about the Gojo family’s honor? I don’t recall you ever mentioning it before.”
“Satoru is the strongest sorcerer alive. What he does reflects the jujutsu world as a whole,” Hatsumomo answered promptly. She stopped fanning herself and drew a winded sigh. “But surely I’m not alone in thinking the Gojo family has lost some credibility. By right, this foreigner now outranks the three of us combined, despite the fact she does not talk like us, think like us,” she broke into a whisper, “and if I may be frank, does not look like us. You saw the way she was at the wedding, stuttering and shaking like a leaf. It’s ridiculous.”
This resulted in a delayed response.
“She has The Sight, Hatsu-chan,” Tomoe said softly.
“By who’s word, Tomoe? The Association’s?” The hostess’ laugh was scornful. “Don’t be fooled, those Christians aren’t as pious as they’d have everyone believe. For all we know it’s a scam. A plot to make off with Gojo’s money.”
Tomoe swallowed, her legs prickled from having knelt for so long. “Be that as it may, Hatsumomo, the families keep having sons. There’s no daughters for any of them to marry.”
“Nonsense, there’s Ogi-san’s twin girls. He couldn’t have married one of them?”
“Maki and Mai are barely twelve.”
“So?” This didn’t bother Hatsumomo in the least. “You hold off until she’s of age, and then have them marry. That’s how it’s been done for centuries. Satoru’s a man. He could’ve waited.”
“Satoru would never marry a Zen’in, even if she were of age,” Tomoe rightly pointed out. “He wouldn’t want Naobito influencing his future children.”2
The Kamo woman rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. We all know how unruly that boy is. How averse he is to tradition. Wouldn't you feel better knowing his children were raised in capable — ”
Tomoe abruptly lifted her hand. “Plum blossoms cannot return to their branches, Hatsu-chan,” she interrupted, growing weary of the argument. “What's done is done. Satoru has married Lord Thames' niece and there’s nothing we can do to change it. The best thing now is to offer them our full support.”
“I agree,” Takara chimed in. “This isn’t 1638. The rest of Japan has embraced foreign marriage. Why can’t the jujutsu world do the same?”
Hatsumomo could feel herself become slightly mollified, tightening the hold on her sensu. “Because to do so would hasten our demise, Takara,” she said with absolute, irrefutable conviction. “These people are like ants. You let one infest the home, and before long, we’ll have families from all over the globe propositioning their daughters for marriage. And then we’ll be overrun with their strange religions and customs to boot. It’ll dilute the bloodlines and ruin our way of life.” She waved frantically to cool herself. “It’s bad enough Ichiro married that Pakistani woman.”
“Kumari-san is Indian,” Takara remarked.
“Indian? What’s the difference?”
Both sisters tried and failed to mask their embarrassment. Hatsumomo was knowledgeable on many fronts, but foreign affairs wasn’t one of them. Conflating Muslim Pakistan with Hindu India was sure to win you no friends. The history between the two countries couldn’t be more volatile and conflict within the Jammu & Kashmir region was still ongoing. But irrespective of Hatsumomo’s ignorance, Kumari and Ichiro were every bit in love and welcomed a baby boy last September.
Tomoe collected herself. “Hatsu-chan, if it’s religion and child-rearing you’re worried about, your concerns are unfounded. Measures were put in place prior to the union. Hannah is allowed to keep her Christian faith, so long as her children be raised in the Kami and Buddhist way. I believe she received special dispensation from her bishop.”
“And besides, I doubt their children will look foreign, right?” Takara added. “I mean, they won’t look fully Japanese, of course, but I’m almost certain they wouldn’t pass as ‘white’ either.” She said this more to persuade than anything else.
But Hatsumomo would not be persuaded, growing frustrated at their inability to see reason. “I just don’t understand why Satoru couldn’t have married a nice Japanese girl, that’s all,” she said, distraught. “Iori Utahime would have sufficed. Sure, she may be common, but at least she’s trained in the jujutsu arts and is closer to him in age.” She folded her fan with a “snap” and shoved a candied sweet from a bowl into her mouth.
Takara grinned, almost choking on her drink. “I think Iori-san would rather marry a rock than wed herself to Satoru,” she snickered. “Rumor has it those two are like water and oil. They can’t stand each other.” 3
“But that’s exactly my point,” Hatsumomo fumed, mouth full of candy. “They don’t have to like each other. I know plenty of married couples who can hardly sit together in the same room, and they turn out just fine.”
“Miserable is more like it,” Takara growled under her breath.
Hatsumomo’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Sorry, is there a problem, Taka-chan? You’ve been mumbling an awful lot lately.”
“Not at all, senpai,” Takara said congenially. “If ever there were a problem, you'd be the first to know.”
Her tone was ambivalent, but Hatsumomo knew a challenge when she heard one.
As predicted, the aftermath following Satoru and Hannah’s engagement divided the jujutsu families into opposing camps. Hatsumomo sided herself amongst the conservatives, insisting too many outsiders threatened the jujutsu world, while Takara prided herself as an “avowed integrationist,” believing new blood was necessary to, “keep the wheel spinning.” Tomoe shared her sister’s views, of course, but these tea sessions were growing tiresome. If eyes were knives, Hatsumomo and Takara would be at each other’s throats. One false jab, one off-handed comment, and there’d be blood splattering the walls.
“Hatsumomo,” Tomoe said calmly, bringing the conversation back into focus and pulling attention away from her sister. “Don’t you think by marrying Hannah-san, Satoru has, in fact, preserved the Gojo family’s magic? The Thames family is a noble house, renowned far and wide across Europe. Their cursed technique is quite valuable too, I might add.”
The Kamo looked affronted. “Oh? And what is it about their 'cursed technique’ that makes it so valuable?” Her guests were silent, not knowing the answer. It took all of Hatsumomo’s willpower not to gloat. “Precisely,” she said, unfurling her fan with a flourish. “Satoru doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into, or whether the wife will turn out to be barren, or, or…” She paused as though the thought hadn't occurred to her. “My word, that’d be quite the scandal, wouldn’t it? All this fuss over a tiny sprout, only for it not to bear fruit.”
“Now, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Tomoe chided, having experienced infertility first-hand. “Remember the main reason she’s here is to help us excorcise Sukuna. That’s the important thing.”
“Fine.” Hatsumomo flashed them both a reprimanding look. “But when it all goes to hell in a handbasket, I don’t want either of you to say I hadn’t told you so.”
The clock struck five, the hour of the rooster. The three women finished their saké and rose from their knees. The battle may be over, but not the war.
“You didn’t tell me you had a sister.”
“You never asked.”
“Will I get to meet her?”
“Probably not. Tsumiki doesn't like coming here all that much.”
That afternoon, away from prying eyes, Hannah and Megumi spent their Friday in the gardens, conversing over English homework, Megumi’s least favorite activity. Being a native born Englishwoman, Hannah was only too happy to proofread the assignment. His class was learning the nuances between “there, they’re, and their.” Homophones. Easy to get wrong if you’re not careful. For added practice, Hannah would jot down different scenarios and have Megumi fill in the blank: “Jun lives over there. Jun’s family bought their house. They’re going on vacation this summer…” If he used the wrong word, Hannah would circle it in red and voice why it was incorrect. By the end of the lesson, Megumi seemed to grasp the assignment. He’d be speaking the Queen’s English in no time.
“Who’re these for again?” the boy asked, bored of playing “fill in the blank.” He lifted a bowl of freshly cut violets off the picnic table.
Hannah glanced up from the worksheet. “Mr. Ijichi.”
“Ijichi?” He said it like an offense. “You mean that guy who wears those crumbled suits and gets yelled at all the time? Why does he need flowers?”
Hannah held her tongue. Wanting to set a good example, she refrained from telling the boy about her “trip” to Sekiguchi Cathedral. Megumi was mature for his age, true, but he was still a child and children should know it’s not okay to break the rules, even when you manage to get away with it. Two days after the fact, Hannah’s conscience was drowning in guilt. By unknowingly aiding in her escape, Mr. Ijichi had almost lost his job. She would leave the violets on his desk later that evening, along with a handwritten note. It wasn’t much, but something was better than nothing.
“He’s been working hard,” she replied softly. “I thought some flowers would cheer him up.”
The boy set the bowl down and huffed. “Whatever.”
Hannah felt her cheeks pull upwards. Though they shared a significant age gap, she quickly found solace in the eleven year old. She was still humiliated after flashing him in her underwear, but Megumi chose to help rather than gawk. How many eleven year olds would rise to that level of maturity if put in the same position? The fact he blushed easily was endearing too. It proved he really was ashamed for having looked. Hannah knew better than to slap a gift horse in the mouth. She owed it to this boy for his good heart, the first person she could safely call a friend.
However, Fushiguro Megumi was a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Kind, yes, but guarded like an ironed chained fence. She’d only just learned his last name by accident; his uneven signature scratched at the top of his homework. Why he was anxious about it, Hannah didn’t know. Fushiguro wasn’t an uncommon name. Also, why was someone so young hanging around a high school? An accelerated learning program perhaps? Did jujutsu schools have such a thing?
Hannah hadn’t forgotten the time he referred to Satoru as “Gojo-sensei,” but she thought he wasn’t technically a teacher yet. Could Megumi really be his student? If so, it would explain the wolf dogs. She remembered the three red dots on their foreheads, marked in the shape of a triangle. She was certain no living breed bore those types of markings, hinting the canines were magical, but she wouldn’t press further. Learning he had an older sister was enough prodding.
Well.
Except for one more thing.
“Megumi, where did you say you lived again?”
The boy inclined his head, lazily resting a palm on his cheek. “In Kichijoji.” He arched a brow. “Why?”
Ah, so he might not be of much help. She twiddled the red pen in her hands. “Have you ever visited the Gojo estate?”
“Yeah, a few times.”
Hannah bolted upright, leaning so close he could feel her breath. “And?”
He blinked, inching himself away, a little scared. “And what?”
She spoke quickly. “Thoughts? Feelings? Opinions?”
He pondered this carefully for a moment, rubbing his neck.
“I guess it’s pretty big.”
“You guess?”
“Yeah.” The boy nodded, blushing. “I got lost once.”
Hannah looked down at her hands. Tomorrow she’d be moving in. With Satoru. In his “pretty big” house.
God help her.
It was the hottest day in April when Hannah arrived at the Gojo estate Saturday morning, sweat beating down her brow, arms aching from having to haul Edith’s old suitcase up the hill. It wasn’t a long journey per say, a good ten minute hike from campus, but the bulky suitcase slowed her momentum and the leather handle rubbed against her palms and dug into her skin with every step, forcing her to set the trunk down a couple times and switch hands when the weight got too heavy. Soon she passed under a ceremonial gate shaped like a warrior’s helmet, lamellated in ceramic tiles, “Gojo” embossed on the lintel, and was greeted by statues of lion-dogs, waiting to prowl in the dead of night in search of evil spirits. The Japanese villa was just as grand as she imagined, proclaiming its social pre-eminence atop the hill.
Hannah trudged up the genkan, out of breath, and slipped off her sandals before entering. The front doors were left wide open. It was quiet. At Wasserton there'd be a footman dressed in his livery waiting by the door, “Miss Hannah, may I take your things,” but nobody was there to welcome her. She lowered Edith’s suitcase on the cobbled floor and flexed her hands, relieving them of the burning heft. Wiping the sweat off her forehead, she couldn’t help notice a large amorphous pine tree slanted to one side, big enough it covered the entire wall, brightly painted with luting songbirds and colorful flowers. One of the most beautiful artworks Hannah had ever seen. Was it really a painting?
Abandoning the suitcase, she stepped up the stairs and approached the mural to get a better look. The tree trunk was left bare to reveal polished wood underneath, but the remaining canvas was brushed in yellow ochre and assorted pigments and something glistened between the pine needles when she angled her head towards the sunlight. Fireflies? Pine combs? Bumblebees? She narrowed her eyes. No. Scrawled where the branches twisted and split apart were little gold kanji: 五条 高長 (Gojo Takanaga) married to 藤原 真理 (Fujiwara Mami), whose son, 五条 長経 (Gojo Nagatsune), married 清岡 亀姫 (Kiyooka Kamehime), whose first son then married 武田 結愛 (Takeda Yua) and on and on the lineage went, until Hannah’s vision began to blur. She skipped to her and Satoru’s branch carved at the bottommost section of the tree.
五条 悟 (Gojo Satoru) — 暗 華 (Thames Hannah)
She frowned.
For obvious reasons, harboring a non-Japanese name came with linguistic challenges. “Hannah” was the English version of the Hebrew name חַנָּה (Channah), meaning “favour, or grace.” The closest Japanese equivalent was “雅子” (Masako), but this translation wasn’t entirely accurate, nor phonetically similar. So to compensate, they chose “華” (Hana), meaning “flower” for her first name and substituted an entirely different sounding character, “暗”(Kurai), in place of “Thames.”4
Hannah glowered at the engravings. She didn’t exactly fancy the idea of being memorialized as a “Flower of Darkness,” but there it was. Etched in gold to amuse her great-grandchildren one day.
How nice.
Suppressing her disappointment, the seer’s eyes flickered to the pair of names roosted above, the branch where Satoru’s parents would be…
“It’s a real Jakuchū.”5
Her heart pounded. Hannah wheeled around to see a middle aged woman walking calmly towards her, dressed in an indigo kimono and white sash, oak brown hair pinned back in a simple bun. “The young master’s great, great grandfather had it commissioned before the artist's death in 1800. It’s been in the family ever since.” The woman's honey glazed eyes shone like chawan cups. She bowed reverently. “Welcome, Gojo Hannah. My name is Makoto. I am the housekeeper here and will be showing you to your rooms today.” She was very formal in her delivery, like addressing an empress.
Hannah blinked at the woman and waited for a tall albino man to come sauntering after her, but none appeared. “Satoru’s not home?”
The housekeeper bowed again. “I’m afraid the young master was called away on a mission early this morning.”
A sinking feeling pulled at the edges of her stomach. The same weight she felt in the car ride after her wedding. There’d been no note. No warning. “Did he say when he’d be back?”
The housekeeper frowned. “No ma’am. Apparently it was quite urgent. I don’t know when he will return, but he gave clear instructions that I keep you comfortable and answer all your questions.” She then extended her arm, bidding her to come inside.
Quickly, before she forgot, Hannah turned to retrieve her suitcase from the genkan and said in very polite Japanese, “Lead the way.”
With a nod, Makoto guided her down a main corridor featuring rows of shoji panels, connecting the many box rooms and passageways of the house, their feet cushioned by rows of woven tatami. Hannah felt as though they were moving backstage in a theater, one panel revealing another hidden scene after the next. It smelled like old books and aged timber and when she lifted her eyes to appraise the intricate woodwork on the ceiling, there wasn’t a metal nail or hinge to be found, cypress and pine planks lodged and stacked onto each other like Janga pieces, sometimes designed in geometric patterns and shapes.
By Western standards, Japanese aesthetics were relatively plain, a “rusticity and simplicity that bordered on loneliness,” but this perception of wabi-sabi was narrow-minded and lacked basic understanding.6 It failed to recognize nature’s transitory quality, the Buddhist notion that permanence was an illusion; wood decays, seasons change, and men grow old. In keeping with this principle, a traditional Japanese home was intended to disintegrate and erode over time, hence the exclusion of concrete and fortified steel. The more natural the elements, the more one could appreciate their ephemeral beauty: “This might not be here tomorrow, so let’s enjoy it while it lasts.”
In Hannah’s opinion, this was better than gilded drawing rooms and marbled staircases. She loved the uneven lines and varnished wood, absent of junk and material possessions, old but still beautiful, the treasure being the house itself and the people who dwelled in it. Humble. Uncomplicated. Aimed to please, rather than impress (which in itself was impressive).
“The house once belonged to a samurai family prior to the Meiji Restoration,” explained Makoto as they walked. “The Gojo family was bestowed the home in 1867, however much of the original woodwork had to be replaced in 1890 due to fire damage.” 7
Makoto parted a set of beautifully lacquered fusuma doors, mythical hosoge stenciled in gold leaf, and together they entered a large reception hall where a rosewood table sat ennobled in the center. A block of glistening ice melted on the tabletop, naturally cooling the spacious room, and glass bowls and vases were decorated around it to help captivate the eye. Bordering the walls were golden foldable screens, hosting a menagerie of Chinese cranes and dazzling peacocks, and the ceiling was coffered (goutenjou) with a combination of lacquered pine and gold to frame little pictures of flowers. Like most formal reception rooms, a tokonoma alcove was used to exhibit priceless artifacts and scrolls. In this particular alcove was a charming ikebana arrangement of gardenias and stemmed bellflowers, where shelved horizontally on a wooden backdrop were three ornamental katana, their hilts carved in green, white, and lavender jade with a Buddhist sutra hanging beside them. But the real pièce de résistance was the wall partition left entirely open, allowing guests a panoramic view of the tea garden outside, brimming with moss-covered rocks and lichen coated trees. Hannah stood still, breathing in the fresh mountain air, amazed.
It was like something out of a fairytale.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” whispered Makoto. Hannah closed her mouth and looked away, embarrassed. The housekeeper laughed. “Not to worry, ma’am. My reaction was much the same when I first came here. Come, your room is this way.”
They passed through another set of fusuma and walked down an “L” shaped veranda with glass panes, an engawa, and entered the private chambers of the house walled off from visitors. There was a smaller, ten-mat drawing room, and a joint onsen and bathroom, and within an English dining room hung a crystal chandelier and silver salvers circumferencing a white tablecloth. Hannah smelled incense and wanted to get a closer look at the bronzed Buddhist altar and kamidana shelf offering daily rice to the gods, but Makoto moved at a brisk pace.
“You’ll be staying in the Paulownia Room, across from the young master,” she said when they reached the end of a long hallway, two doors facing each other. Stopping at the door on the left, Makoto parted the shoji and gestured with a polite bow, “After you.”
Hannah clutched her suitcase and stepped inside.
Just like every other room in the house, the boudoir was the epitome of elegance and refinement. Implied by its name, a blooming forest of purple paulownia trees were illustrated on the mulberry walls. A plush futon and comforter lay in the middle of the tatami. Two large tansu chests were huddled in one corner next to an oval mirror fixtured on a low dressing table. And in another corner was a sumptuous lacquered writing desk, a bundai, inlaid in mother-of-pearl peonies with a tasteful ikebana arrangement of real peonies bowled in crystal on top, emitting a sweet fragrance. Although, the flowers were somewhat muted by the bundles of unopened letters piled near the desk.
“I trust everything is to your liking, ma’am?” voiced Makoto, carefully watching her new mistress inspect the room.
Hannah turned to face the housekeeper, nervously pointing to the letters. “Are all those for me?”
The woman looked to where she was pointing and smiled. “The young master has been quite busy as of late,” she said. “Now that you’re here, he hopes you’ll help him manage the estate and answer any official correspondence. He also thought you might like supporting him in his charity work.”
Hannah’s ears perked up. “Charity work?”
The housekeeper's face softened. “The young master is very generous,” she said affectionately. “He founded a nonprofit that provides financial assistance for children orphaned by curse attacks. It’s all facilitated anonymously, of course. Most recipients think they're receiving aid from the government.” She looked down at the desk. “Though, I believe most of these are from well-wishers congratulating you on your marriage. If you’d like, I can help you read through them later.”
Hannah stared at the stacks of enclosed parchment. The sheer magnitude of Makoto’s revelation that underneath Satoru’s immaturity and nonchalance was someone who cared deeply about those less fortunate. Fr. O’Malley hinted as much, but it felt good knowing another party was heard from.
“Yes, Makoto-san. I’d appreciate that greatly.”
The housekeeper's mood brightened. She was quickly growing fond of her new mistress. “Would you like me to put those away with the other clothes?” she said, reaching for Hannah’s trunk, which she’d yet to set down.
“Other clothes?” She hadn’t remembered bringing other clothes. Everything she ever owned was stashed inside Edith’s old trunk.
Evidently this was the signal Makoto had been waiting for. With a slight pep in her step, the housekeeper made her way over to the other side of the room and slid open a hidden door. Automatic lights flicked on. Again, she stood aside for Hannah to enter first, her eyes conveying something like excitement.
Hannah’s trunk thudded to the floor along with her jaw.
The closet was built like a runway. Birkin and Kelly bags upholstered the top shelves, and lavish garments in every color, for every occasion, hung on two-tiered racks, while rows of designer shoes heeled the polished floor at the bottom. Glittering glass cabinets held Lacloche brooches and Cartier necklaces and Mikimoto pearl earrings. Ribbed fans and other acoutrements were mounted on placards, and when Hannah opened one of the built-in drawers along the wall, she unveiled swaths of paper-wrapped kimono and brocaded obi stitched in expensive omeshi silk. As a finishing touch, Makoto displayed both Hannah’s wedding dress and uchikake at the end of the closet; West and East, side by side.8
Hannah didn’t tarry. She made a bee-line for the bridalwear, so consumed with nerves and anxiety, she scarcely remembered wearing the gown on her wedding day.
It was modest in style with long sleeves and high neckline like a modern Grace Kelly, covered in guipure lace and tambour embroidery.9 Her favorite detailing were the tiny seed pearls looped into the tulle, complimenting the hosoge and lotus appliqué; Sacred flowers for a sacred ceremony. She fingered the dainty buttons sewn down the back, the name “Valentino” branded on the necktag. She could still remember the shrewd Frenchwoman arriving at the convent to take her measurements, looking most displeased to be there.
Her eyes then wandered to her uchikake on the kimono stand, outstretched like a kite. It too was beautiful with its wisteria brocade and couched silver thread. She noted a small commemorative tag newly punched into the sleeve, three octagonal chikiri emblems: “Courtesy of Chiso, Kyoto - Congratulations,” it read in English.
“I do hope you like them,” said Makoto, hoisting Hannah’s fallen trunk off the floor as she entered the closet. “For the kimono, we provided you with enough seasonal colors, as well as iromugi and houmongi to choose from, but I can always make more should you find them unsuitable.”
“You made these?” Hannah said in faint surprise, pointing to the kimono shelves. “By hand?”
The housekeeper stooped into a bow. “I’ve been sewing kimono since I was a young girl and received my dressing certification from the Kyoto Kimono Gakuin Kyoto Honko school.10 I had the young master pick the fabrics himself. However, you’ll find some of them are quite old and have been passed down from generation to generation.”
“Satoru picked the fabrics?” Hannah opened another compartment flush with chirimen silk and shimmering brocade. The ceaseless hours it took the housekeeper to cut, sew, and fold everything in preparation for her arrival.
Makoto went further. “Not just the fabrics, ma’am; The clothes, the shoes, the jewelry. The young master never does anything halfway. Fashion especially.” She knelt on the floor and started unpacking Hannah’s trunk, refolding and sorting non-clothing items as she talked. “We’re still waiting for more dresses to arrive from Paris. They should be here by the end of the week.”
“Hang on.” Hannah's voice rose an octave. She shook her head, dazed. “Did you say more from Paris?”
Makoto nodded a second time. “We used the measurements from your wedding dress and placed orders through sketchbooks the couturiers sent us. Normally you’d be invited for a fitting, but to maintain the secrecy of your union, we couldn’t risk any outsiders seeing you too early.” She looked over her shoulder and pointed to a shelf. “I have the books organized over there to peruse at your leisure. The young master marked his selections in red.”
Hannah spotted the sketchbooks. Printed along the spines were the usual suspects: Chanel, Dior, Armani Privé, Giambatsta Valli; fabled names belonging to that of haute couture. A craft strictly regulated by the Fédération de la Haute Couture et de la Mode. Curating the most prestigious and sought after artisans in the world, fashioning pieces at £30,000 minimum using only the finest materials, whose inner sanctum of clientèle constituted little more than 4,000 members of which Hannah was now secretly a part of. The elite of the elite.
The sorcerers in Western society wore these clothes, but never her. Never Hannah Thames.
None for words, The seer scanned over the assembly of clothing. A wedding gown was one thing. A whole closet was another. Jewelry and Birkins aside, this wardrobe probably fetched millions, impossible to have acquired overnight since a single couture garment took hundreds of hours to make, meaning Satoru would’ve needed to plan everything weeks in advance, months even. It left Hannah wondering why his initial idea was for her to stay away and keep her distance when he’d given her a closet to last a lifetime. “Gosh. Where do I even start?” she murmured, suddenly overwhelmed by the excess of shoes, silks, and pearl strands. How was one to go about owning this much wealth?
”There’s no rush, ma’am,” assured Makoto, gingerly placing her mother’s emerald choker with the other jewels. “Anything you don’t wish to keep will either be put in storage or sent to Sotheby’s for auction.” She closed the glass case and turned to face her lady. “Now, with your belongings accounted for, that leaves us with one last order of business.” The housekeeper rose from the floor. “Your hand, please.”
Once bitten and twice shy, Hannah wavered in relinquishing her hand, but Makoto did not grab, nor move from her spot, awaiting her mistress to reach out first. Cautiously, Hannah stepped forward and stretched out her arm, no Infinity there to block her way.
Upon taking her hand, the housekeeper unveiled a tiny sewing needle from the folds of her kimono sleeve. “Apologies, ma’am. This may sting a bit,” she said and very lightly pricked the tip of Hannah’s index finger with the needle. A small cupola of blood welled to the surface. Swapping the sewing needle for a square of washi paper, Makoto dabbed the finger with the thin leaflet, and without pause, briskly walked back to the bedroom entrance, her face holding the utmost concentration. Hannah followed closely behind, nursing her bleeding finger.
Halting in front of the shoji, the housekeeper took the soiled tissue and pressed it flat to the white screen, waited a few seconds, consulting her watch, then slowly peeled the paper away like a removable tattoo on a patch of skin. A blood stain the size of a coin bled through the mulberry sheath, oxidizing from bright red to ruddy brown.
Curious as to why the housekeeper would do such a bizarre thing, Hannah made to inquire, but all questions dispelled from her lips the moment she saw the blood miraculously vanish from the screen without a trace.
“Excellent,” said Makoto, satisfied with the outcome. “The seal is complete.”
Hannah stared, blinking at the door. “Sorry,” she said, giving way to her confusion, “What seal, exactly?”
The housekeeper retained her serene smile. “It’s normal for sorcerers to cast spells and incantations on their homes for added protection, and since this house has been so excellently preserved, so too has its magic.” She lifted the stained washi paper for Hannah to see. “With your blood, the house now recognizes you as one of its occupants, particularly this room. Nobody, living or dead, should be able to enter these quarters without your permission.” She raised her eyebrows. “Not even the young master.”
Hannah slowly pondered this logic. “So, I entered a Blood Covenant?”
“You entered a contract, ma’am,” Makoto corrected. “That’s not quite the same thing. For starters, Blood Covenants can only be established between two persons. The house needed your blood to ‘sign’ the contract, yes, but that is all. It breaks once the occupant dies, no strings attached.”
“I see,” Hannah said, glancing down at her pricked finger, then back at the housekeeper. “But could you please explain that next time before sticking me with a needle?” She lightened her voice and smiled to show she wasn’t angry, but it did little to prevent Makoto from bending over in a stiff bow.
“Forgive me, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”
Hannah felt her cheeks grow hot, unused to this new deferential treatment. “Right. Well, uh, suppose we better get started then.” She swiftly turned to face the closet. The housekeeper seized the moment to clear her throat.
“Might I interest you in some tea first, ma’am?” she asked prudently, no longer bowing in rigid supplication. “The young master has informed me of your dietary restrictions. Black is perhaps too strong, but you may enjoy sampling some of our herbal teas. The leaves are grown right here on the estate.”
A few deliberating seconds later Hannah tore herself away from the lavish clothes, smiling warmly at the housekeeper. “I’d enjoy nothing more,” she said. The servant gave a prim nod and hastened to the kitchens to prepare her lady a tray. “And Makoto-san?”
Makoto‘s head stuck out the bedroom door. “Yes, ma’am?”
Her mistress's smile had not waned, draping one of the unwrapped kimono in her arms. “Thank you.”
Feeling a rare swell of pride at her handiwork, the housekeeper smiled back, savoring her triumph and made one last bow. “My pleasure, Gojo-sama. If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask.” With that she made for the kitchens and left her mistress to sift through the closet. Hannah looked down at the clutched silk and sighed.
She was in for another long evening.
Notes:
Between you and me, I don’t think Satoru is a billionaire, but it’s my story and I demand we have fun.😁
For my notes, click here.
Next chapter is fluff. Pure, wonderful fluff.
Chapter 9: We Are But Flesh and Bone
Summary:
Wifey to the rescue.
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Chat with me on Tumblr and let me know your thoughts. I post images and other things that inspired this fic.
Enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“The beginning of love is the will to let those we love be perfectly themselves, the resolution not to twist them to fit our own image.”
-Thomas Merton, No Man is an Island.
Chapter 9: We Are But Flesh and Bone
At night, Hannah dreamed she was drowning in a sea of red. Twenty-six little hands pulling her down, down, down, below the surface until her lungs gave out. she woke with a start, heart pounding, throat dry, clutching her chest to feel it was still beating. A dream, thank God it was only a dream, she thought. But the footsteps startled her anew and she froze to catch sight of a dark, slender figure gliding across the walls, silhouetted by the amber glow of the lanterns left burning in the hallway. She watched the figure stumble a few times, curse under its breath, then emit a sickly groan followed by a cough. She heard the neighboring door slide open and close “twack,” the dragging of more footsteps, and then finally silence.
Hannah sat there in the dim, attempting to quell her frantically beating heart. She’d made the connection.
Satoru was home from his mission.
The young wife had trouble going back to sleep, tossing and turning on the floor till sunlight filtered through the papered walls. Come morning, Hannah waited for the sound of his footsteps to mosey over to breakfast, but her ears caught only birdsong and clattering dishes. The smell of grilled fish and sesame oil permeated the air. Makoto said breakfast would be ready around eight. It was already a quarter past. Her stomach growling, Hannah rose from her futon to get dressed, wearing her old blouse and jeans folded at the bottom of a drawer. She hardly made a dent in her closet yesterday; trying things on, sorting them in either a “keep” or “storage” pile. All the clothes, even the simple frocks, were too impractical for ordinary life.
Dressed in her usual attire, Hannah plaited a top layer of hair, leaving the remainder to drape down her shoulders, and wordlessly peeped behind her bedroom door, anticipating at any given moment for her obnoxiously handsome neighbor to emerge from the other side. Again, nothing. Perhaps he was already eating without her. Hoping this were true, Hannah parted her door and followed the tantalizing scent of grilled foods to a parlor where Makoto was busy setting fine China on a table. Her kimono was a rejuvenating key-lime green.
“Ohayo,” she greeted warmly, placing a pair of chopsticks on the low table. “Please, do sit down. I was just about to serve the beef.”
Rubbing the vestiges of sleep from her eyes, Hannah whispered her own “Good Morning” and knelt at the table.
“Orange juice?” Makoto held a pitcher.
“Yes, thank you,” Hannah said with a smile, and separated the lid from a steaming rice bowl, tilting it just a smidge so the excess water didn’t drip off the rim. Makoto poured her a cup of orange juice and disappeared to bring the meat as promised, while Hannah uncovered one dish after the other. Looking at the meal, one would think the housekeeper was trying to outdo herself. Last night’s dinner had been nothing short of delicious; fresh edamame, duck gyoza, and black cod served with miso-yuzu sauce and a slice of raspberry cheesecake for dessert. But for breakfast it was soft-boiled eggs and grilled sweetfish peppered with sansho, along with white rice and cutlets of roast beef. One thing was for certain. Makoto’s cooking put the master chefs at Wasserton to shame. Crazy to think Satoru got to eat like this every day.
Speaking of which, he had yet to show. The other side of the table was vacant.
“Is Satoru not joining us?” Hannah asked.
Makoto’s face suddenly turned grey as she placed the beef tenderloin on the table. “The young master isn’t feeling well this morning.”
“Really?” Hannah blinked, wide awake now. “He’s sick?”
“No, not exactly,” the housekeeper brought a hand to her temple, “It’s migraines, ma’am. Nasty ones. Sometimes they confine him to his bed for a few hours or more.”
“I see,” Hannah replied, turning over her shoulder to peer down the hallway. “Will he be alright?”
“Hmm?” The housekeeper looked up from a teapot. “Oh yes, ma’am. He’ll make a complete recovery. It’s just...” She removed the steeped tea leaves from the pot and wrung her hands together. “Well, as luck would have it, I forgot to buy Bufferin last week,” her cheeks grew red, “there the only thing that helps with the pain, but I hate to leave the young master unattended in case anything were to happen, so…” She was trying to ask for something but was uncomfortable saying it out loud. Hannnah voiced it for her.
“I could watch him for you.”
“What?” She shook her head vehemently, wishing she hadn’t implied anything. “Oh, no, ma’am. I couldn’t possibly expect you to do that.”
“It wouldn’t be for very long.”
“No, no, no, ma’am. You’re the lady of the house. I simply couldn’t.”
This polite banter went on for another two minutes, Hannah offering her services, Makoto kindly refusing them, but the mistress eventually put her foot down and said very plainly, “I’m his wife, aren’t I?” and that was the end of it.
When breakfast was finished and dishes washed, Makoto departed for the pharmacy, while Hannah went into the kitchens in search of a small bowl, a tray, and a wash rag. Finding everything rather quickly, she filled the bowl with cool water and folded the cloth in half on the tray. Amidst her pillorying, she stumbled upon Makoto’s spice cabinet; cinnamon, saffron, thyme, and countless other seasonings meticulously labeled on glass bottles. A mauve colored spice seized her attention immediately next to the oregano. Aha, there you are. She happily took the jar and poured a tablespoon into an empty tea sachet, tightening the drawstring so it would hold. She gave it a light sniff; The perfect amount.
Adding the bag to her loot, she wiped her hands on her jeans and with a silent prayer lifted the silver platter off the countertop and walked down the hall towards Satoru’s bedroom. The distance felt like a mile. Quietly as possible, she placed the tray on the straw matting and rapped her knuckles on his door three times.
“What is it?” came a groggy voice.
Hannah took a deep breath.
“It’s me,” she bit her lip, afraid of saying the wrong thing. “Can I come in?”
There was a pause before she received an answer.
“Enter,” the voice said.
Hannah slid open the shoji and picked up the tray, noticing her ears pop as she walked through. Must have something to do with the incantation Makoto mentioned yesterday, she thought. His room was sealed in the same magic.
The layout was similar to hers, clean and sparse, not too many furnishings, but rather than purple paulownia trees, the bedroom walls were forested in green pines and sloping mountainscapes with quaint Buddhist temples tucked away in the clouds; a heavenly realm. However, the cardboard cutouts of voluptuous bikini models, winking and blowing invisible kisses, distracted from this sacred space. Apparently marriage hadn’t encouraged Satoru to get rid of them. A bit flustered at never having ventured inside a man’s bedroom, Hannah’s eyes sought the wide screen TV hooked to a gaming console, and two large bookshelves stored with volumes of manga she would later learn were Fullmetal Alchemist and One Piece (and strangely enough, C’mon Digimon), plus gobs and gobs of movies and video games. And then finally there was Satoru himself, looking worse for wear on a lone king-sized mattress.
He craned his neck. “Where’s Makoto?”
Hannah balanced the tray, ignoring the fact that he was shirtless underneath those bedsheets. “She left to fetch you some medicine.” Her eyes scanned the room for a spot. “Is it alright if I set this down?
Noticing the tray, Satoru draped a bare arm over his eyes and lazily motioned with his other hand to come closer. Hannah approached and landed the tray on his nightstand. The Six Eyes wielder expected her at that point to say her goodbyes and leave. Instead his ears detected the sound of water being squeezed from a washcloth. His side of the bed dipped. He raised his elbow to see Hannah, holding the wet rag for him.
“May I?”
He wanted to tell her to get out, that he he didn’t need to be babied, but his head throbbed as though shrapnel was lodged somewhere deep inside his cerebellum and eye sockets, hitting a jackpot of nerves. The mission had been successful, a semi-grade 1 curse reported in Daisen, but he’d gone a full 72 hours without sufficient rest and was now paying the price. His eyes ached like sore muscles. Everything was too fucking bright, too colorful. And his stomach. His stomach felt worse than it’d been in years, like someone had sawed it in half. So without further protest, Satoru’s elbow fell to his side, granting Hannah silent permission to press the damp cloth to his forehead, but then he felt fingers comb through his hair and immediately jerked away.
“What're you — ”
“Where does it hurt most?” she said gently.
The newlyweds stared into each other for a tense moment, turquoise blue colliding with moss brown. Once more, she had him trapped in a corner. He lowered his defenses.
“At the back, around my neck.”
Carefully and stealthily, Hannah wedged her dainty fingers between the pillow to cradle his skull and began working circles into the skin, massaging the area where his neck and head connected. He closed his eyes and exhaled an alleviated sigh, her hands parting back his hair. If he were a cat, he’d be purring like a kitten right then.
“It’s the Six Eyes, isn’t it?” he heard her say as she stroked. “That’s what causes them?”
Blood warmed his cheeks. “Yeah.”
“Are they always this bad?”
“No.” He tipped his head so she could get the left side. “Haven’t been for a while.”
Hannah nodded in understanding. His hair was soft to touch. “I get headaches too,” she said. “On days when I don’t get enough sleep.” He let out a short grunt, keeping his eyes closed. She reached for the sachet on the tray. “Here, try to this.”
He opened one eye. “What is it? Another olive twig?”
She smiled. Almost got her to laugh.
Almost.
“Not quite. It’s lavender. If you hold it to your nose, it can help relieve headaches.” He gave the bag a whiff, dubious of the claim. Satoru liked incense, but wasn’t fond of essential oils or aromatherapy, believing the fad a hoax. Although, the throbbing dissipated somewhat as he breathed in the dried lavender buds. She continued massaging his head. “I need to thank you again,” she added, feeling her way towards the edges of his scalp. “For the clothes, the room, everything. Your home is beautiful.”
Satoru couldn’t help but snort. “You mean it’s old,” He brought the lavender to his chest. “There’s no air conditioning or furnace. It gets hot as hell come August, and in winter it’s fucking freezing.”
Hannah’s fingers reached his neck. “I can imagine.”
Her smile made the pulsing abade. She was nice to look at. However, just as she removed the wet compress to resoak it, the throbbing nerves came back with avengement, twisting and clamping around his head like iron jaws, closing tighter and tighter, until he registered a sharp, shooting pain emanating behind his retinas and a flash of white. He hissed loudly, feeling the jaws sink into his teeth, his neck, on his shoulders. The contents in his stomach lurched and Satoru abruptly sat upright, hand over mouth, alarm in his eyes. Fuckin’ hell.
Hannah saw he was scrambling for a basin at the foot of the bed, but it was too far away for him to reach. He wasn’t going to make it. Quickly, she sprung into action and seized the bowl, holding it in front of him as he forfeited whatever little food he ate that morning and possibly last night. She rested him on his side, making it easier for him to vomit and hold the porcelain at the same time.
“Shh, you’re alright,” she soothed, leaning beside him while rubbing his back. “Easy now.”
Satoru groaned and spat into the bowl, conscientious of the fact that he hadn’t showered since his return. She was too close. He probably reeked of sweat and curse fodder. Acid burned the back of his throat, coating his breath. The nausea lingered in his stomach. He felt like complete and utter shit. Weak. Pathetic. Perhaps this was fate demanding retribution.
Sorcerers like to convince themselves that because they're gifted, it means they’re invincible, and certainly Satoru had bought into the lie a couple times; The first wielder born with the Six Eyes in 400 years, able to pulverize his enemies with the flick of a finger, but Satoru wasn’t blind to power. Deep down he knew the truth. He was human, not a god. And never had he felt more human than lying on that bed puking his guts out.
He shut his eyes, waiting for the nausea to pass, and was gently eased into the mattress. The damp cloth reappeared on his forehead and he cranked an eye open to see Hannah rise from the bed, “I’ll be right back,” she promised and walked out of the room with the basin in her arms. Satoru wasn’t sure how much time elapsed, but when she reentered she was carrying the (clean) basin, a glass of fresh water, some stomach tablets, and a new washcloth. Leaving the shoji ajar, she returned to his bedside and offered him the water and tablets. “Would you like to brush your teeth or anything?” He shook his head no, and didn’t fight her when she began wiping his mouth. It then occurred to him that she’s done this before. She had sat at someone else’s side, wiping vomit off their mouths, handing out water and medicine, but where? How? Who?
He felt ill again, though not from the headache. Here he was, sick as a dog, fantasizing about all the ways he wanted to fuck her the other night and not once taking into account her feelings, driven only by his ulterior motives, his desires, his burdens. Satoru told himself she wasn’t a prisoner, that he only married her for the teaching job, but now the birds were coming home to roost and so too was the guilt. Hannah wasn’t merely an innocent. She was also a genuinely good person and he, a selfish person, had trapped her here like a helpless animal with no way out. For a lump sum of four and a half billion yen. He wanted to hide himself, but couldn’t. She was too close.
Hannah wore her hair half-down. Six Eyes could distinguish between the gold, brown, and red strands fanned across her shoulders, lush and shiny, a natural curl accentuating the tips. It helped capture her foreign features; the minuscule freckles dotting her nose. Her Cupid’s bow mouth and fair cheeks, flushing prettily in the light. Man, she was gorgeous. What was the phrase they used in her home country? Ah yes, an “English rose.” That’s it. She was an English rose. Satoru had to remind himself to keep his eyes fixated somewhere else, otherwise he’d have “bigger” things to worry about. Fabric was the easiest matierial to see through and she was literally sitting over him, her chest front and center. Could’ve also been the mind splitting headache, or the fact she just spared Makoto from having to clean vomit off his bedsheets, but he chose that moment to extend his own olive branch. She deserved that much.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked, wincing in pain from the sound of his voice. “I know I’ve been a dumbass these last few days. Probably makes you regret changing your name and stuff, huh?”
Her hand returned to his head. “Shh, don’t speak. Talking will only make it worse.”
“It’s okay,” He ignored her advice. “You can hate me for it. I won’t blame you. After all, it’s my fault for getting you involved in this Ponzi scheme. If I could do things over again, know that I would.”
The English rose tilted her head. “I wouldn’t necessarily call it a Ponzi scheme,” she whispered, corners of her mouth twitching. “In fact, from a purely objective standpoint, I’d say I’ve made quite the return on investment.”
Satoru scowled at the joke. “Except for your freedom, which I’ve single handedly stolen from you.”
Hannah shared with him a broken smile. It was his turn to be naive. “You can’t steal something that was never there, Satoru,” she said. “Accidents like me aren't meant to have freedoms.” She pulled the covers up over him. “Now, get some rest. Makoto will be back soon with the Bufferin.”
“But I – ”
“Shh.” Her fingers ran through his gossamer hair, enticing him to close his eyes. “Go to sleep, Satoru.”
She sat there with him, massaging his head until his eyelids drooped and his steady breathing lulled into soft snores, out like a light. After checking to see he was asleep, Hannah gathered the tray and whatever else she brought and quietly left the world’s strongest sorcerer to dream. He would not wake for the remainder of the day.
Notes:
Now I know what some of you might be thinking; “LoveDrunk, how could Satoru possibly have migraines? Isn’t RCT constantly keeping his brain fresh?” Ah yes, you’d be correct with that assessment; Satoru’s brain is constantly keeping fresh thanks to the RCT (and his stomach, I guess). Howeverrrrrr, Gege mentioned that Satoru wears the blindfold/sunglasses so he doesn’t tire too quickly, so this is how I’ve chosen to interpret what that means. Also, when you think about it, RCT is used to heal physical wounds. A migraine or headache is technically not a physical wound; it’s a neurological disease, or in Satoru’s case, it’s the consequence for having the Six Eyes. (I don’t know ya’ll, it’s fanfic. Just roll with it.)
Anyway, till next time.❤️
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Chapter 10: There Is No Easy Path to Learning
Summary:
学問に近道無し: Gakumon ni chikamichi nashi: “There is no shortcut to learning.”
Makoto is a godsend.
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this.
Chat with me on Tumblr.
Enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 10: There Is No Easy Path to Learning
Having a full day’s rest and doing little to no strenuous activity had done the trick. Satoru was feeling better next morning, sitting across from Hannah during breakfast. Makoto hadn’t even finished setting the table when the jujutsu sorcerer began filling his bowl with fried rice and smoked sausages, noticing the funny look his wife was giving him.
“Whah?” he said, stuffing his face with food like a chipmunk. “M‘ungry.”
A small smile tugged on the sides of Hannah’s mouth, though it wasn’t mocking. “I can see that,” she said, scooping some scrambled eggs into her bowl. “Suppose this means your headache is gone?”
Satoru caught Makoto’s warning glare as she came back with a pot of coffee, her cautionary way of reminding him to behave like a gentleman, and so as not to incur the housekeeper's wrath, Satoru wisely chose to swallow his food before speaking. “Yeah,” he reached for the sugar bowl as Makoto poured the coffee into his mug. “It’s gone”
Hannah’s face relaxed. “Good,” she lightly exhaled, pinching some fried rice between her chopsticks and bringing it to her lips. “I’m glad.”
Satoru took another bite. “And you?” he asked. “Have you got everything…situated?”
She flicked her eyes to meet his for a brief instant, casting them back down on her food. “Almost. I sorted through some of the clothes yesterday, but it’s going to take me a while.”
“Thought so,” he sighed, propping his cheek in his hand, twirling his chopsticks. “I don’t really know what women like, so most of it was just guess work on my part.”
Hannah looked up at him. He couldn't honestly expect her to believe that. Makoto said everything stored within that closet hadn’t been put there without his approval. Given the fabric selection alone, Satoru’s attention to detail was too educated for him “not to know” what women liked. And the notes he stipulated in the sketchbooks gave his secret away: “Remove the sleeves.” “Velvet, not satin.” “Does it come in red?” Hannah thought he’d make a better stylist, maybe even a better designer, than a jujutsu sorcerer.
“I like the clothes,” she finally said, taking a sip of tea. “You have a good eye.”
All she heard from across the table was a soft snort; the closest she’d get to a “thank you.”
For the remainder of breakfast, the two newlyweds ate together in relative silence, listening to the ticking of the cuckoo clock situated on a wooden dresser, and the crinkling tatami as Makoto cruised in and out of the kitchen with either dirty dishes or another pot of coffee for Satoru.
Growing quite uncomfortable by the silence herself, Makoto cleared her throat and turned to Hannah. “Ma’am, with the young master feeling unwell, it seems I forgot to discuss something important with you the other day.”
Hannah finished chewing and brought a napkin to her mouth. “Oh? Like what?”
Makoto looked at Satoru before looking back at her mistress. “As you are aware, the young master has informed me of your caffeine intolerance, but I’m afraid that’s all I know. And being the lady of the house, it technically falls upon you to choose the meals we eat.”
“Me?” Hannah’s eyes flitted shyly to Satoru. “Are you sure?”
The white-haired sorcerer nodded and jabbed a lazy thumb at Makoto. “I’ll eat whatever she puts in front of me, so go ahead.”
“Alright,” Hannah folded her napkin on her lap and redirected her attention to the housekeeper, “What exactly did you have in mind?”
“Anything your heart so desires,” replied Makoto like it was no trouble. “The young master prefers I cook traditional meals, but I was thinking I might begin incorporating more English cuisine. Just curious, but how would you feel about kedgeree?”1
“Kedgeree?” Hannah’s entire face visibly brightened. “Really?”
Makoto stood proudly, eyes shining. “I did say anything, no?”
Satoru raised his hand like a confused algebra student. “What the heck is kadgeree?”
“Ked-geree,” Hannah corrected, trying to keep a straight face from his pronunciation. “It’s a breakfast casserole made with rice, shredded smoked fish, and soft boiled eggs topped with spices.”
“So it’s good, is what you’re saying?”
Hannah didn't hold back her smile this time as hazel brown meshed with turquoise blue. “I’d like to think so, yes.” Although she omitted how she only ate the Indo-English casserole when she was staying at Wasserton, breakfast being the one meal where it was appropriate for an illegitimate to dine with their family (except when they were entertaining.) Lunch and dinner were more formal affairs, and so Hannah ate her afternoon meals in the servants’ quarters together with the housestaff, but kedgeree had always been her favorite. “We should try it sometime.”
Satoru hummed as though mulling it over, and went back to taking another bite of food. Smoked fish and rice did sound rather appetizing. Makoto turned to her mistress again.
“I’ll write a new menu each week for you to review, and be sure to include descriptions, if that helps.”
Hannah nodded and offered her gratitude while the housekeeper took her empty bowl off the table and headed for the kitchen. Satoru gobbled the last of his sausage and hastily swilled his coffee in such a way that made Hannah’s throat burn. He rose from the table and stretched.
“Oh-kay,” he groaned, reaching for the ceiling till he heard various bones separate and pop. “Ugh. Ready to go?”
Hannah winced from the crackling bones. “Go? Go where?”
Satoru rolled his eyes, and searched his pockets for his sunglasses. “Training in the heat of the day is a pain in the ass. Best to do it now while it’s still early.”
“Training?” The food in Hannah’s stomach sank like stones. “You’re serious?”
Satoru said nothing and placed the sunglasses on his nose, giving her a devilish smile. “Serious as a heart attack, Princess.” His head cocked to the door. “Hop to it. We’re waisting daylight.”
The next three weeks would become quite the undertaking for Hannah. Like a baptism through fire, her days were spent balancing the many tasks required of a jujutsu sorcerer’s wife. There was no set routine, or light workload. Each day presented a new lesson in need of quick learning.
During that first day of training, Satoru had her running cardio through the mountainous terrain and the higher altitude had Hannah so out of breath, the poor girl thought she would faint. Her feeble legs were shaking from having to propel herself up the steep inclines, Satoru barking closely at her heels. “Sheesh, you’re a turtle,” he jeered from behind. “I know little old ladies with asthma faster than you.” Hannah pretended not to hear him and kept her eyes on the dirt road, panting heavily until they stopped for a short break before continuing onwards.
Some unlucky days he had her jogging with weights lodged in her hands, or tied snugly around her waist like a counterpoise, “for strength conditioning,” as he often put it. Those were the mornings Hannah wanted to fall to the ground and tap out, but Satoru wouldn't let her. “Ah, ah, ah,” he would tut, wagging an admonitory finger. “I thought this was part of our agreement; No training, no Sukuna fingers.” Then her motivation was restored when he added, “You want to save those people, right?” and she’d somehow find the energy to finish the mile.
After two full laps around the school, Satoru had her doing push-ups, three sets with 15 reps each, but would only count the ones where her nose touched the ground or else force her to start over. He applied the same rule for sit-ups, demanding she lift herself all the way before starting another. Several failed push-ups and sit-ups later Hannah was sure she’d be sick. She struggled similarly with the lunges, the squats, the jumping jacks. His rationale for the grueling cardio was twofold; endurance training and increasing her muscle mass. “Gotta whip ya into shape before I teach you how to land a decent punch.”
Following that tortious first week, it quickly became evident the Six Eyes wielder was missing a few marbles.
Hannah remembered one infamous morning when the white-haired sorcerer somehow managed to sneak inside her bedroom and thought it would be fun to dunk an entire bucket of ice water on her, all because she unknowingly slept past her alarm on accident. Suffice it to say, the little woman was not happy.
“Are you crazy?!” she cried as she leapt from her futon, wrapping her thin arms around herself to regain whatever warmth she could.
Satoru let out a low chuckle. “Maybe,” and squatted down to show her an innocent, closed-eyed smile. “You wouldn't wake up, so I did it for you. Aren’t I nice?”
Hannah glowered menacingly. “Quite.” She shivered from the cold and looked down at the tin bucket he was holding. “May I ask how y-you got in here?”
The sorcerer gave his usual shrug. “Through the door, obviously.” His smile widened. “You let me in.”
Hannah’s eyes stretched. “What? N-No I didn’t.”
“Yeah you did.” He was grinning ear to ear. “I asked if I could come inside and you said ‘yes.’”
This was met with more scrutiny. “I don’t believe you,” Hannah insisted, rubbing her arms. “Makoto said no one d-dead or alive would be able to enter. You must’ve done something to break the seal.”
His smug grin started to wane. Glacial blue eyes lingered on her a frosty moment. Hannah could do nothing except hold her breath as the Six Eyes beckoned closer; nacreous, spell-binding, otherworldly. He was seeing something her eyes could not, but what?
“I’ll be waiting outside,” he replied, rising slowly from the floor. “Eat your breakfast and come out,” and then she watched him vacate the bedroom, empty bucket in tow, like it never even happened.
Hannah blinked once, twice, a third time.
Forget marbles. Gojo Satoru was undoubtedly the strangest person she’d ever met, not only in appearance, but in character.
For one, the man never stopped talking, ever, constantly transitioning from one random topic to the next. One moment they would be discussing modern architecture, and then on a whim they were debating whether Hi-Chews tasted better than Kororo gummies (Hannah couldn’t say), followed by an interesting fact he recently learned about blue-ringed octopuses and how they were no bigger than a golf ball and packed enough venom to kill at least 26 people, “and if they bite you, you’re essentially screwed because there’s no antivenom.” He also denied being a picky eater, but Hannah noticed how he would avoid sansho and wasabi like the plague. She made a mental note that he didn’t enjoy spicy foods as much as she did.
Satoru was definitely not a morning person and was normally the last to arrive for breakfast — Actually, he was last to arrive for just about anything with a designated time — Although he was probably the fastest speed reader on the planet coupled with a photographic memory, which Hannah discovered one morning, waiting for him at the dining table. She was immersed in a Bible passage, enjoying a fresh cup of chamomile tea, when out of nowhere Satoru swiped the RNJB straight from her hands and demanded she reveal what it was. When she told him, his expression soured. “No way, this is it?” he flipped it open, “I thought it would be bigger,” and then he took the holy book, beginning to end, and permitted the pages to cascade through his fingers like a large stack of playing cards. Hannah watched his blue eyes shift rapidly from side to side, the paper awash in a blur as he neared the Book of Revelation. Wait a minute, is he actually reading that? No one could read that fast.
“Wanna make a bet?” he challenged when Hannah unconsciously spoke this out loud. He closed the Bible shut. “Quiz me then. Ask me something only a person who bothered to read this thing would know.”
And quiz him she did. Hannah asked the hardest thought questions her scrappy little brain could muster; “What items were stored in the Ark of the Covenant?” “Who replaced Judas Escariot after the Ascension?” “What was the name of Adam and Eve’s third son?” To her immense frustration, Satoru answered every question she hurled at him like a reputable scholar, quoting the exact Bible verse and chapter, verbatim, just to rub it in her face.
“But…But that’s impossible,” she floundered once she could think of nothing else. “It takes decades to study on that level. Surely you’ve read it before.”
Satoru had to force down a smile as he handed her back the Bible. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather have my eyes gouged than read that boring book again,” and finally sat down to pour himself a mug of sugary coffee.
Hannah attempted to mask her hurt as she kneeled to join him. While Satoru probably meant nothing by it, he had a habit of being brutally honest to the point of sounding cruel. She didn’t feel the same about his beliefs, but then of course, their personalities were basically night and day. She wondered if anyone knew how devoted he was to Buddhist meditation.
One night, as the young wife confided in the ceiling, frustrated at how hopeless it was to fall asleep, her nose recognized the pleasant aroma of charred sandalwood and benzoin; the smell of burning incense. She checked her watch for the hour, 2:43 am, and sneakily cracked open her door to investigate. Having to squint as she crept along the dim hallway, she saw a room glowing a tad brighter than the others and recognized it was the parlor hosting the Buddhist altar where the Gojo ancestors were commemorated next to the kamidana shelf. Tiptoeing ever closer, she peeked around the corner to see Satoru sitting with his head bowed, eyes closed, legs crossed as he softly chanted the mantra, “namu amida butsu,” over and over again in a hypnotic rhythm, a thread of prayer beads looped inside one palm. She observed him like that for a few minutes, the lanterns illuminating his broad physique and white hair like a sunset on untouched snow, a crystal Buddha. Even when he wore a plain black t-shirt and sweatpants, she was arrested by his beauty. A few minutes passed. Then, like a flower petal floating in the wind, she quietly made the journey back to her room, settled into her futon, and fell asleep, the words, “namu amida butsu,” echoing in her head. She would repeat this early morning ritual more than a few times, knowing her husband would likely be awake, chanting. He hadn’t caught her in the act thus far. Fingers crossed.
When Satoru wasn’t around for her to stalk, Hannah’s main priority was familiarizing herself with the estate; going over finances, responding to congratulatory letters, and memorizing long family histories under the sagely council of Makoto. She learned that much of the Gojo’s wealth came primarily from stock market exchanges, buying low, selling high. However, for several generations the Gojo clan was one of the top sumo wrestling profiteers in the nation, training the winningest fighters across the land, but a bitter dispute against a rivaling family changed everything and the Gojo’s were pressured to sell their livelihood before making it big in the timber industry. The career change paid off. Sumo steadily went on the decline, but the Gojo family prospered. Hannah discovered there was not one, but four additional properties tied to the Gojo name; an opulent townhouse (which used to be the main Gojo estate) in Kyoto, a tobacco merchant’s home in Osaka, a minka farmhouse in Gokayama, and a beachside cottage overlooking the Pacific on one of the Kyushu islands. As the current figurehead of the family, Satoru chose to live in the Tokyo residence, the newly appointed crown jewel of the family, which to Hannah’s surprise encompassed not only a tea garden, but fourteen acres of strolling gardens with huge sections of graveled karesansui framed around a ginormous lake.2
Each week, a team of gardeners would mow the grass, trim the hedges, and sweep dead foliage off the stepped-stoned path, connecting the physical realm with the spiritual. The raked gravel could symbolize the vast open sea, while a rock, smooth or jagged, could be a towering mountain, a sleeping tortoise, or a crouching tiger. Hannah knew that to enter the Japanese garden required “mindful abandon.” To humble oneself to the elements.
There was nothing she found more humbling than watching gasps of koi swim underneath a red soribashi bridge adjoining a small island where a traditional teahouse lay hidden, or feeding fresh grapes to the mallard ducks grazing peacefully beside a raft of water lilies, splashing their tail feathers and diving their bottle-green heads into the murky water below. The strolling gardens were a horticulturist’s dream come true. They had everything; dogwoods, cherry blossoms, Japanese maple, black pines. A Chinese orangery cultivared in succulent mandarins and apricots that would be plucked from their boughs come summertime. Trimmed bushels of rhododendrons and azaleas and miniature wisteria trees. Hannah loved the stone lanterns sculpted to look like ladies donning wide-brimmed hats, and would close her eyes and listen to the bamboo chimes sway gently in the breeze, the trickling of the waterfall, and take in the sweet, sweet perfume of wild lemongrass. For years to come this garden would be her sanctuary, her safe space. Her nightmares couldn’t haunt her here. She could be content, safe from the night terrors.
Jujutsu High was once part of this estate, before Satoru’s great grandfather donated the land for a jujutsu school on par with that of Kyoto to be built. By affiliation, this made Hannah an honorary member of the educational board, and towards the end of the month she attended her first meeting on Satoru’s behalf. She didn’t have to talk too much - thank God - except introduce herself and take a seat, but the elders in the room made for an unpleasant welcome, eyeing her with suspicion, whispering in each other’s ears before the proceedings began. Were these the higher-ups Satoru warned her about, she thought. If so, what would they have to ridicule? She hadn’t done anything inappropriate. Makoto even dressed her in kimono, a seafoam houmongi with pearlescent butterflies stitched at the bottom.
Unless required to leave school premises, which was strictly reserved for Sunday Mass, Hannah started wearing kimono on a regular basis. Every morning, after her training sessions with Satoru and a warm bath, Makoto would instruct her young mistress how to wrap the nagajuban and kimono just right so the ground wouldn't dirty the skirt, and how to tie an obi into a “drum knot” and how to walk in zori sandals without twisting an ankle. She would also delegate to her which color combinations were best suited for each season and which combinations were to be avoided. With enough practice, Hannah was soon able to dress herself without help.
“Woah,” said Satoru when she stepped out wearing a blue striped komon, accentuated by a navy sash covered in daisies.
Hannah was startled to see him standing in the hallway and froze. “Does it look alright?” she asked nervously, giving the kimono a once over. “I can change into something else if you want.”
A furtive blush dappled his cheeks. “No,” he hastened his eyes to the floor. “You look goo — er — nice,” the sorcerer cleared his throat, “You look nice.”
Makoto also began straightening Hannah’s hair using a special heating technique called “thermal reconditioning.” Hannah had to sit very still as the housekeeper mixed, worked, and washed the straightening solution from her hair, then flatten it several times with a hot iron to permanently break down the keratin structure, leaving the auburn strands glossy smooth. This time consuming process would need to be repeated again in six months, but Hannah didn’t mind listening to Makoto relay stories of her past while she maneuvered behind the mirror.
“When I first came here as one of the nannies, the young master was no taller than a boxwood shrub,” she chuckled, running the hot iron through Hannah’s hair. “Used to follow me everywhere I went, begging for sweets, making me laugh. I was the only servant he liked so it seemed, though I couldn’t tell you why. He was prone to all sorts of mischief at that age, you know.” She shook her head. “Some things never change.”
Hannah glanced up at both their reflections. “The only servant? Were there more?”
The housekeeper halted her ironing. “For a time, yes,” she replied, holding a lock of warmly pressed hair. “But when the young master became clan leader, he sent most of them away.”
“Except you?”
Makoto also glanced at her mistress through the mirror and smiled. “Yes, ma’am,” she said modestly. “Except me.” The housekeeper carefully switched the hot iron for a fine-toothed comb. “Now, let’s finish straightening this long hair of yours. I think I’ll want to tweak your eyebrows too while I’m at it. They’re looking a bit uneven.”
Upon putting the finishing touches to her hair and perfecting her eyebrows, Makoto also placed Hannah on a strict skincare regimen that she was to uphold morning, noon, and night, on top of learning how to curl her eyelashes, apply foundation with a brush, and color her lips. By the end, Hannah had to admit that she felt more presentable, but the housekeeper’s beautifying efforts weren't solely for aesthetics. It was important that Hannah master all her faculties in preparation for chanoyu.
As it were, the tea ceremony was no ordinary social event, but the epitome of Japanese culture, where people from all walks of life sat together to participate in a ritual meal and drink tea as equals. For Hannah, hosting a Japanese tea ceremony would become her greatest test; a trial by which the whole of jujutsu society would serve to judge. A successful ceremony would bring honor to her name. Anything less would bring ruin. She had much to study, but Hannah couldn’t have been given a better teacher.
Like a love-struck poet, Makoto spoke of Japanese tea as though it were a deity, revering the camellia leaves like one would French wine or an expensive Scottish whiskey. How could one person be the housekeeper, the butler, the chef, the maid, the valet, a kimono teacher, a beautician - essentially a Swiss army knife of service and dedication - and now also a tea master? Hannah sat in awed silence as the woman went into grand detail about the history of tea and how it was first brought over to Japan from China, later inspiring the “Land of Wa” to create its own tea ceremony, with its own structure and rules, till Sen no Rikyu emerged in the 16th century and began introducing the idea of wabi-sabi, laying the groundwork for the tea ceremony as it’s practiced today.
Makoto would teach her the subtle nuances between Japanese teas and how to tell them apart by leaf, fragrance, color, and taste. Since most were caffeinated, Hannah took tiny sips of each and tried memorizing the mouthfeel, flavor, and sweet umami on her tongue. Makoto had her drink various sencha teas, two seperate culinary and ceremonial grade matcha teas, high quality gyokuro grown in Uji that had been hand picked from the fields, and common bancha teas found in local grocery stores sold around the country. Even though the tea ceremony only used matcha, tasting and differentiating other teas was integral because Hannah would have to select these teas herself when housing guests.
There were also the tea utensils and how to correctly use them. For example, when cleaning a tea scoop, the host was to take a silk cloth, called the fukusa, and fold it into a long triangle, making sure to tug on the ends for a slight “pop,” before turning it vertically on its side and using the circumference of their hand to wrap and fold the cloth into thirds, which was then used to wipe the tea scoop exactly three times. Because her hands shook from nerves, this step became very difficult for Hannah to get right. “Mistakes are a part of life, ma’am,” Makoto would say each time Hannah folded incorrectly and the cloth came undone. “Ganbatte kudasai.”
But sometimes “doing her best” was a hard ask when in the midst of their tea lessons, Satoru would unexpectedly pop in to show off his vastly superior tea-making skills, executing the steps without error. However, during non-tea-ceremonial-related occasions he would randomly appear when his wife was alone, hoping to satisfy his burning curiosity.
“So what’s the difference between a Western sorcerer and a jujutsu sorcerer?”
Hannah peered up from reading Sei Shonagon's A Pillow Book to see Satoru’s tall frame looming over her, shaded by the old fig tree she was reclining underneath. Makoto had released her from her tea lessons for the day.
Her head tilted. “What do you mean?”
He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I mean, why are they classified different? Aren’t they the same?”
Hannah folded the corner of the page she was on so she could easily find it again and closed the book, giving him her full, undivided attention. “No, I don’t think so. Jujutsu encompasses a darker type of magic, right?” Satoru affirmed this with a nod as Hannah continued. “And I don’t believe jujutsu sorcerers have ordained exorcists at their disposal either.”
Satoru’s face scrunched in confusion. “Ordained? What, like monks or something?”
He watched the woman lightly bop herself on the temple. “Ah, that’s right,” she laughed dryly. “Shinto and Buddhist priests perform exorcisms too. Though I’m guessing you don’t give them fancy titles like ‘Monsignor’ or ‘The Honorable Reverend.’” She lifted her head, looking up at the rustling fig leaves. “I wonder if Fr. O‘Malley is a monsignor and doesn’t want anyone to know. Makes sense, given how unpopular the monicker is nowadays.”
Satoru lifted an eyebrow. He didn’t know what the heck she was talking about. “You’ll have to ask him — and for the record, not all monastics perform exorcisms,” he sat himself beside her, playfully poking her in the arm, “and you still haven’t answered my initial question, so spill.”
Hannah's face grew warm at the gesture. That was another oddity about Satoru. The man saw no issue getting up close and personal with people, be it stranger or otherwise. They were now bucked shoulder to shoulder. She could smell the incense and coffee on his clothes. “Well, the way I see it,” she began, fiddling with the pages in her book, “there exists two kinds of Western sorcerer; An ordained exorcist, whose primary job is to cast out demonic spirits from a possessed person, and a ‘true sorcerer,’” she made air quotes, “who uses magic to eradicate those demonic spirits. They also eradicate curses and — ”
Satoru waved for her to stop. “Wait, wait, wait, I'm lost now. You’re telling me demonic spirits and curses are different too?”
Drat. Hannah realized her mistake yet again. She had used the Japanese word “yokai” (strange apparition) as her translation for “demonic spirits,” when she should’ve used the more appropriate word “akuma” (devil). It was hard for her to remember all these nuanced definitions. In Japanese folklore there existed a bevy of supernatural creatures, each with their own unique characteristics and narratives. There were oni, sometimes pronounced “ki,” who were frightening looking ogres with protruding fangs and long horns, often wielding heavy clubs and could be both evil or benevolent depending on the encounter. In early February during Setsubun, one might witness the “cleansing” of these ogres with the throwing of beans and the phrase “Oni wa soto, fuku wa uchi” (Oni get out, luck come in). There were also akuma, which were more akin to the Western ideal of demons; a being that existed within a fiery, evil hellscape. And then there were the most fascinating creatures of all known as yokai.
Anomalous, shape-shifting, and spooky, there was no single way to define yokai. They were believed to be mysterious spirits or monsters that roamed the outskirts of Japan, waiting for an unsuspecting human to accidentally stumble across their path. Stories were told of scaly, turtle-like imps (kappa) that lured young children to their ponds before drowning them, or shape-shifting fox spirits (kitsune) who bewitched and possessed people, commonly taking the guise of a beautiful woman, or spiky leafed trees (ninmenju) that sprouted human heads instead of blossoms and bled when cut.
With such striking similarities, it was an ongoing debate as to whether curses were separate from yokai, or ostensibly one in the same. Regardless, such arguments held little sway in the West, who harbored its own beliefs about the supernatural, especially on the topic of angels and demons, who were shapeshifters like yokai, but were strongly divided amongst the forces of good and evil, something yokai and curses were not. Anywho, the whole thoroughfare was very complex and made for a terribly long conversation, which Satoru gathered from the look on his wife’s face and rightly brushed the question aside.
“Okay, scratch that. So a jujutsu sorcerer is equivalent to a ‘true’ sorcerer, and an ordained exorcist is its own thing? Is that it?”
The seer pressed her lips together. “I suppose. Though, there are ordained exorcists who can also wield magic, so the two are often conflated, if that makes sense.”
Satoru grunted, finding her explanation unhelpful. Since Japan outpaced the rest of the world’s sorcerer population by a whopping scale of 9.99/10, many were convinced the existence of sorcerers and curses were strictly Japanese phenomena. In other words, everyone knew about jujutsu sorcerers, more or less, but that couldn’t be said about other populations. Satoru was inquisitive by nature. He didn’t like not being in “the know” and finally here was someone who could answer questions that would’ve earned him a cold hard slap on the wrist long ago.
That was the thing about Hannah.
To her credit, she wasn’t the spoiled brat he had imagined. While she was horrendously shy, lacked self-confidence, and tripped on her own two feet like they were made of paper, she was also attentive and sincere and went about her business unobtrusively. She wasn’t fond of loud, overbearing colors and hardly, if ever, asked him for money. She was purposeful when she spoke and was quick to forgive when he pushed boundaries, like the incident with the ice water, and she didn’t become annoyed when he asked a question. Rather, she engaged with him and listened to what he had to say, even when he knew he was saying the dumbest shit. Something he was slowly coming to appreciate. Truth was, he liked how much she cared.
And this sense of compassion wasn’t exclusive to people. He couldn’t forget the one time she found a gangly-legged huntsman spider lurking in a corner and not knowing what it was at first gave a loud, girlish shriek, prompting Satoru to rush in and squash the said spider, whereby Hannah began to cry, aggrieved that he felt it necessary to maime such a “harmless creature.”3
“I didn’t want you to kill it,” she sniffed, wiping her teary eyes. “How would you like it if someone came along and squished you?”
Satoru could only stand there and take it on the chin. Women; damned if you do, damned if you don’t. But irrespective of her unnatural empathy towards creepy-crawlies, he found it a little cute that she was waking in the middle of the night just to spy on him. Silly girl, of course he knew. The Six Eyes saw passed everything, even when fully closed, though a part of him didn’t want her to know this for fear it would scare her off. One way or another, that’s normally what happened; people were always afraid. And if it was any consolation, he’d been spying on her too.
Whenever he heard her singing in the bath, Satoru couldn’t resist taking a quick peak, using the Six Eyes to see through the bathroom walls, keeping the erections to a minimum…Well, he tried to anyway. Sometimes when she hit a particular high note and turned to him full frontal, his mind would draw a massive blank and the contracted muscles bundled around his groin would involuntarily relax, allowing blood to flow inside the spongy cavities and take hold. Stretching. Expanding. Oh so good. Unlike the previous times, however, the sensation left him feeling a tad…icky. Hannah wasn’t some no-name porn star he could heedlessly jerk off to and forget like a used condom, and yet he was treating her no different. If she ever found out, what would she think? What would she say? Probably nothing nice. Despite how things started between them, he wanted her to like him, or at least willingly talk to him. There was so much she didn’t know about everyday life.
Take technology for instance. The woman knew next to nothing about technology. Earlier that month, he’d gifted her a brand new iPhone 6 and not until he saw her lost expression did he understand she had no idea what she’d been given. “I wasn’t permitted to have one,” she said sheepishly, as though attesting to a crime. Satoru spent the duration of that evening hovering over the little woman, teaching her how to open the lock screen, how to dial a phone number, and how to type a text message and search the internet. Still to this day, his wife is unable to text using both thumbs and holds the phone flat in her hand while using her pointer finger to tap on the keyboard, which for a while drove him insane, but he’d eventually make peace with it. Although her knowledge of pop culture was inexcusable.
“C’mon, you’ve had to have seen The Godfather.” he stressed when the subject came up. “You know? The greatest motion picture ever made?”
Hannah shook her head.
“Star Wars?”
Again her head went left to right.
“The Dark Knight? Lord of the Rings? …Elf?”
Every Hollywood blockbuster Satoru listed, Hannah responded with a negative, except for Men in Black weirdly enough, which wasn’t close to being the best Will Smith movie. Nor did it cover Japanese staples like Spirited Away, Hara-kiri, or Bayside Shakedown. It killed him.
“Really, you haven’t seen any of these films?” he said, hands falling to his sides in disappointment. “Nada one?”
Hannah bit her lip and glanced at him warily. “I’ve read the books,” she squeaked. “Does that count?”
From that day forward, Satoru made it a priority that once a week Hannah sat down to watch a movie with him and, as an act of goodwill, would let her pick the genre. “Except romance,” he emphasized, making an “X” with his arms. “We’re not watching any of that garbage.” Though he must’ve been joking when he said this because a good quarter of his collection were rom-coms.
Unfortunately, Hannah couldn’t say these movie nights were particularly enjoyable since every few minutes or so, Satoru would forget where he was and spoil the scene, or worse, spoil the ending, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop. Nor condemn the obscene amount of butter he drizzled on the popcorn because in a physical sense he appeared alive and well, but Hannah knew he was tired. She knew how hard he’d been working; traveling, exorcizing curses, haggling with the higher-ups, waking at the crack of dawn to train her, and doing it all over again. If watching a movie one day out of the week was his way of relaxing, then she wouldn’t complain. After everything that transpired over the last month, things were beginning to change for the better.
Aloof, scatterbrained, and eclectic, Hannah initially thought Satoru a tough nut to crack, but after spending an inordinate amount of time together, perhaps a better analogy was a rough diamond; only until you looked under the light, very closely, could you see the tiny fractures sparkling within. That being said, he had difficulty opening up, jabbering for hours on end without saying anything at all, never personal, never too deep. Although some days when they got to talking and the film credits rolled, the mask would slip right off.
“I fuckin’ hate this job sometimes,” he admitted to her one night, resting his long legs atop the coffee table while massaging his aching eyes.
Hannah’s own eyes deflected from the television screen, the half-empty popcorn bowl sitting comfortably in her lap. They’d just finished watching Disney’s Hercules and were about to watch The Aristocats next. The hollowness in his voice worried her. “What makes you say that?”
Satoru sighed deeply through his nose. He’d lost interest in the movie roughly forty minutes ago. “Curses are conjured from negative emotions wrought by humans,” he said, staring blankly at the scars lining his palm. “Envy, revenge, anger, despair. We could excorcize every curse in this country, find all the Sukuna fingers before they fully manifested, and it still wouldn’t be enough,” he balled his fist, “Maybe Suguru was right. Maybe humanity isn't worth saving.”
“Suguru?” Hannah’s brows contracted. “Who’s that?”
His eyes quickly flicked to her. “Nobody,” he muttered, before looking at the television. “Just some guy I used to work with.”
Hannah bowed her head and slowly leaned forward. “Well…would you like to know what I think?” She placed the popcorn bowl on the table, enticing him to listen. She caught a slight trace of turquoise blue focused on her. “I think what you do is important. Because of you a mother didn’t have to bury her newborn baby, a little boy didn’t have to get his leg amputated from a curse infection, and an old man got to live longer to see his grandchildren grow up. People like you make a difference, Satoru.”
But as she said this, the sorcerer turned away. He’d heard the same speech before. “What’s the point? We can’t save them all,” he murmured.
“No, we can’t,” Hannah whispered sadly, knowing his words were true. “Like you said, there's terrible evil in this world,” she placed a hand on his shoulder, “but there’s also a lot of good. And if there’s a way to protect even a little of that goodness, doesn’t that make the fight worth it? Don’t you think having a little good in this world is better than having none?”
Satoru wheeled his head to look at her, Six Eyes blue as a cloudless sky. Is that what she told herself when the nightmares became too real? When she would cry out in the dead of night and beg someone, anyone, to come save her from the monsters she faced in her dreams?
“I wish I never had it,” he recalled her saying, and now several weeks after the fact, Satoru was beginning to understand what she meant. He couldn’t confirm to what extent, but Hannah’s visions were afflicting her almost every night, seemingly more morose and violent than the last. The walls weren’t soundproof. He could make out her helpless whimpers emanating from across the halls, begging for help.
Gravely concerned for her mistress, Makoto once tried breaking the seal with a counter charm, a powerful disarming spell inked on a white tag, but the incantation swiftly rebounded upon making contact with the door and nearly engulfed the hallway in an inferno of bright purple flames. It was no good. The seal was indestructible. Sorcerer or not, nobody was getting in from the outside. They’d have to wait for Hannah to awaken on her own. It worked once with the ice water. Perhaps it would work again.
Satoru didn’t have to wait long to find out.
Late one night when he was returning home from another mission, trudging tiredly up the dimly lit hallway, his ears detected the sound of Hannah crying in her bedroom. Had he opened his door too quickly and closed it shut, he would’ve missed it.
“Sa…”
Satoru froze stiff, fingers hooked around the latch. Could it be — was she?
“Sa…u”
He glanced cautiously towards the other side, seeing her tiny figure through the walls on the ground, thrashing under the blankets like a butterfly tangled in a web, desperately wanting to be freed. The thought reminded him of that lousy hair clip he returned on her nightstand weeks ago. He walked over and pressed his ear to the door, her voice clear as a bell.
“Satoru.”
Nope. He wasn’t imagining things. That was definitely his name she was calling. But was it enough? Would it let him in like last time?
His hand gripped the door handle and yanked it gently to the right.
The door cracked a tiny sliver.
Ha! Success.
Quickly, he stepped into the room brimming with paulownias and looked down at his foreign bride, her pretty face contorted as though in pain; skin sweaty, teeth gritted, glistening tears streaming down her cheeks. His chest lurched. She looked so frail, so weak, trapped inside that limbo state of neither sleep nor real consciousness, but Satoru knew his orders. He was not to wake her. He was not to disturb or inhibit the visions by any means. He could do nothing except watch the little woman go it alone. The inaction made him feel powerless, a horrible mixture of both pity and subdued agitation.
“No,” she cried out again, voice breaking from the violent sobs that overcame her body. “Ple-e-ease.”
Fuck the rules. It had been like this for weeks. Orders be damned. Those old fogies could go drown themselves at the bottom of the Sumida river. Satoru knelt on the floor.
“Hannah?” he said, cupping her cheek and tapping it lightly. “Oi, you’re dreaming, Hannah,” he grabbed hold of her shoulders and shook, “Hannah. Wake up.” Her head lulled. Auburn hair clung to the sweat and tears on her cheeks as more sobs followed. She squirmed in his hold.
Running out of available options, Satoru was tempted to place two fingers on her forehead and disrupt the vision with cursed energy, but found himself reluctant to do so. He didn’t know the effects of using spells on people during powerful visions. It could easily backfire similarly to the charm Makoto placed on the door. What if he gave her irreparable brain damage or made her permanently blind? Maybe it wasn’t good of him to come here after all.
“No,” Hannah begged, her hand grappling for air as though reading his mind, “Please don’t,” she sobbed harder, “don’t go.”
Without a momentary thought, his palm found hers, tracing the smooth skin with his thumb in an effort to soothe, giving it a tender squeeze. This woman had shown him actual kindness when few else did and asked nothing in return.
“I'm not going anywhere,” he whispered, caressing her dollike hand in the moonlit dark. “I swear.”
Refusing to leave, the sorcerer stayed by her side the whole night, holding her hand until the sun trickled in the next morning, and secretly making his exit before those innocent hazel eyes flitted open.
As always, Hannah would remember none of it.
Notes:
1. Kedgeree is the English equivalent to kichiri, originally an Indian dish. It’s supposedly the ultimate comfort food. There’s a recipe you can try in the “The Official Downton Abbey Cookbook.” Or you can watch this video on how to make it.
2. The actual Gojo family really were in the sumo industry for a long time before a rival dispute.
3. You are not supposed to kill huntsman spiders. To many Japanese they are seen as beneficial because they kill unwanted critters like cockroaches, which are common house vermin. Satoru here did a big no, no.
4. My understanding is that the nembutsu, or really any Buddhist chant, is mostly reserved for funerals, but I have Satoru recite it here anyway. Someone correct me if I’m wrong? For my analysis on Satoru’s Jodo-Buddhism please see my notes for Chapter 21.
5. All the information about Japanese gardens are found in “The Japanese Garden” by Sophie Walker. (This book is considered the Bible of Japanese gardening.)
6. For more information about Japanese teas, I’d recommend reading Zach Mangan’s “Stories of Japanese Tea.” It was such an eye-opener.
7. For more information about yokai and Japanese demons, feel free to check out Michael Dylan Foster's "The Book of Yokai" from your local library or "Japanese Demon Lore: Oni from Ancient Times to the Present" by Noriko T. Reider.
8. To learn about the Japanese tea ceremony itself, please read my notes from Chapter 8.Don’t forget to leave a comment, ask a question, or follow me on Tumblr. I’m always eager to know what you guys think.
Till next time.
Chapter 11: Laborare Est Orare
Summary:
Satoru learns more about Hannah's past (by accident).
This chapter is dedicated in loving memory to my grandfather (aka “Pops”), who I miss more and more every year.
Notes:
HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYBODY!!!🥳🎉🎊
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this.
Enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 11: Laborare Est Orare
It was often said that memories need to be shared, but Satoru was fairly certain that phrase wasn’t meant to be taken literally.
He’d talk to Shoko about this later.
For reasons unknown, whenever he held Hannah’s hand as she dreamt, he saw into what could only be her memories. It’d been going on for the past few nights and he still had difficulty reconciling with the fact nobody could see or hear him. His body walked through everything like a ghost.
So, where’d she take me this time?
The jujutsu sorcerer blinked and spun around.
Ormolu furniture. Colorful Savonnerie carpets. Curio tables showcasing topaz medallions, chunks of uncut aquamarines, and magenta spinels faceted to metal rods. A chimney fire burned brightly in its hearth, lighting the office space. Satoru spotted a man, studying what looked to be a raw sapphire under a magnifying glass. The gentleman was impeccably bespoked in a slate-grey suit and gold cufflinks. His raven black hair was perfectly coiffed and un-receding. His waistline didn’t show signs of a glutton. However, his many jeweled fingers, one of which showed a gold siren wrapped around his pinkie, gave him away. Satoru grimaced.
It was Lord Jacob Thames, albeit a younger, much slimmer, and far more handsomer Thames than Satoru remembered. Practically unrecognizable.
There was a knock at the door.
A lanky butler entered the room. Satoru could see the mounds of sweat collecting above his brow. His gloved hands shook. He was quite nervous and had every right to be.
“Collins,” barked the earl, still looking through the magnifying glass. “What the devil took you so long?”
“M-My sincere apologies, milord,” stammered the butler, stooping low into a bow. “The girl only just arrived.”
The earl’s expression became shrewd, magnifying glass clanging to his desk. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. “Send her in, you fool.”
The butler dashed aside for a tiny auburn haired girl, no older than four, to step into the room. They’d stuffed her in a mustard colored jumper three sizes too big to adequately fit her doll-like frame, giving her the appearance of a ruffian. Her eyes were equally as apprehensive as the butler’s.
“Leave us.”
The head servant scurried out and closed the door, leaving the young girl and earl alone.
“Do you know where you are?”
Hannah’s hazel-green eyes deferred from the rubies glittering in a display case, and glanced up at the earl. “W-Wasserton, sir. Wasserton House.”
”Did the nuns tell you that, or the house staff?”
Abashed, the girl looked down at her tiny shoes and bit her tiny lower lip.
Lord Thames observed this and hummed, nodding. “Then do you know who I am?”
The girl looked up. “You’re Lord Thames, ninth Earl of Graivmor and current owner of this house,” she swallowed the lump in her throat, “They say you’re my uncle.”
Lord Thames unveiled the lighter in his pocket and casually lit a cigar as though he hadn’t heard her. Pretty well spoken for a four year old, he thought. How irritating. The earl exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and sneered.
“I didn’t want to bring you here,” he said, giving the cigar another puff. “But laws are laws, and God knows I have enough shit to worry about than arguing with a bunch of meddlesome priests, who feel it is their job to lecture me on ‘mercy’ and ‘forgiveness’ on behalf of my whore excuse of a sister.” The earl grew more impassioned as he said this, speaking ill of his deceased sibling as though she were an apostate. There was no remorse in the brother’s eyes, Satoru could see. This was a man unwilling to forgive and punish his own niece in the process. “So listen well,” he continued, sticking his nose right up to the girl. Satoru felt the urge to reach out and pull her back. “During your stay, you are to remain in the servants quarters. At no point are you to step foot in the upper rooms, unless I bid it,” his voice deepened, “You are not to be seen. You are not to be heard. These visits are out of obligation and nothing more,” he paused for a final moment, “Do you understand?”
Hannah‘s frightened eyes stared into his, her mouth quivering. It wasn’t really a question.
“Y-Yes, sir. I understand.”
The earl smiled. “Splendid.” He walked behind his desk and pressed a button. The butler re-emerged from the door. “Now, get out — and Collins.”
Collins stood at attention. “Yes, milord?”
The earl flicked his fingers, indicating he wanted a word in private. Both Satoru and butler came forward, bending their ears to listen. “If you or the staff notice anything…off about the child,” Lord Thames grumbled, glancing briefly at the girl waiting by the door. “Do let me know.”
The butler dipped his head. “Of course, sir.”
The servant swiveled around and guided Hannah down the hallway to the servant’s quarters. The fire crackled in its hearth and the earl settled back into his chair, puffing away on his cigar. He studied the signet on his pinkie for a moment longer and muttered something before the first memory faded to black.
“You’ll be the death of me, Elizabeth.”
The office dissolved into smoke.
As if watching a film reel, Satoru suddenly fast-forwarded to when Hannah was lodging at a boarding school in Germany. She looked to be about seven years old, so small you’d think her growth had been stunted. She was easily the smallest of the children and routinely bullied. From what Satoru could tell, she was the only living soul who could see cursed spirits.
During this particular memory, Satoru witnessed Hannah becoming too afraid to step inside after recess because a curse, grade 3 or above, was hovering above the entrance, a rarity in Europe. She wanted to warn the other children to get away, but they didn't see anything other than a petrified girl, staring wide-eyed at thin air. So they laughed.
One older boy laughed louder than the rest and got right in Hannah’s face, taunting the girl in high-pitched German while spitting on her cheeks. Satoru didn’t know what the kid was saying, but he would’ve loved nothing more than to hoist the snot-nosed brat up the highest flagpole by the seams of his underpants and watch him cry like a baby for someone to get him down. Yeah, see if he’d be laughing then, the prick.
Meanwhile, none of the other children rushed to Hannah’s aid, gawking and circling around the little girl like vultures. If he were in her place, Satoru would see to it that these losers couldn’t speak to him like that without gaining a black eye because the only way to deter a bully was to make it clear they couldn’t bully you. Satoru was lost as to why Hannah didn’t fight back, taking their insults the way sorbothane absorbed shock waves; No retaliation. No snide, witty comeback, her fearful eyes too focused on the curse preparing to lunge at any given moment. Why was she showing kindness to people who didn’t deserve it?
A teacher entered the fray, putting an end to the torture session. All the children were assembled inside, but Hannah was sent to her room for some inexplicable reason, which almost had Satoru crying foul. The curse had flown off.
Satoru trailed Hannah to her room which was kept separate from the others, likely due to the terrible screaming brought on by the visions. Originally a janitor's closet, the lonely bedroom still shelved outdated cleaning supplies, coated in dust. The sun was starting to set. The ceiling lamp hanging above them emitted little to no light, but Satoru’s Six Eyes saw the twin-sized mattress stationed in the far corner below a small arching window. Forming a line along the windowsill were several seashells and rocks collected from the beach, and underneath the bed Satoru spied three heavy textbooks; The Lost Book of Herbal Remedies, Exploring Creation with Botany, and Basilius Besler’s second edition of Florilegium. Not exactly light reading material for a seven year old. Wonder how she got them.
While sent to her room as punishment (supposedly), Hannah was in no mood for repentance. She was too busy fussing with a bundle of blankets and rags knotted together to form a long rope. Looping one end of the rope over the bedpost, Satoru watched her pry open the latch and throw the other end out the window along with an empty rucksack, letting it wave outside like a victory banner. She gave the rope a good tug.
It held.
With relative ease, Hannah crouched through the open window, held tight to the knotted rags, and planted her feet on the brick wall to support her legs, and like a spider attached to its spinneret, she carefully lowered her tiny body down the rope, one step after the other, and dropped to the ground when the blankets went no further, opting to land on her side and roll several times to lessen the impact. Suffering no broken bones, the little girl flew to her feet, grabbed the empty rucksack she had haphazardly thrown out the window, and ran for the coastline up ahead. Never more than a couple steps behind, Satoru witnessed his young wife trip a grand total of five times before they neared the beach, hearing her soft giggles ringing in the blustery air at her own clumsiness, glad to be free from that penitentiary excuse of a school.
As they reached the coast, a flock of seagulls were feasting on helpless crustaceans washed ashore by the tide. Little Hannah charged at the seabirds, breaking into a bellyful of laughter as they scattered, her smile positively infectious. There’s a gap between her teeth, Satoru thought.
Approaching the water, the seven year old knelt to remove her worn leather shoes and bloodied socks.
Hold on. Bloodied?
Satoru failed to hide his unease at seeing the cuts, some of which were still bleeding. He didn’t know it then, but the other kids liked to put glass shards in her shoes and sometimes Hannah forgot to check before slipping them on. Why hadn’t he noticed them earlier? Though she didn’t seem the least bit concerned about the lacerations and welcomed the salty waves to fold from blue to white around her toes and wash away the blood. Satoru winced. Salt water and open cuts didn’t exactly mix well. Didn’t that hurt?
Evidently not.
When the waves receded, Hannah’s feet were looking a lot better - Actually, scratch that - They appeared almost fully healed. Weird. Maybe it was all that excess dried blood. Satoru wasn’t sure.
Once cleaned, Hannah stuffed her blood-stained socks inside her shoes, placing them both in her rucksack. Her hazel eyes then darted animatedly from left to right, scouring the shore for anything valuable she might find. Using her bare hands she began digging holes in the wet sand, sifting through the many fish bones, bird feathers, and plastic bottles, until she unearthed what looked to be a round husk the size of a baseball; an old abalone from the looks of it. The shell was rough and ugly, like the jagged rocks buffering the waves, but hidden inside the shell lay the covetous mother-of-pearl found on dish cabinets and lacquered furnishings. Whether Hannah knew this was anyone’s guess, but the fact she dropped the abalone into her rucksack implicated as much; Another addition for her windowsill.
Husband and wife spent the remainder of the evening digging for seashells. Well, Hannah dug and Satoru watched, using his Six Eyes to spot the better looking ones.
“No, here, Hannah,” he would laugh, pointing to the ground. “There’s more over here. See?” But the child walked right through him. This was a memory, after all. He wasn’t actually there. Never had been, though he was enjoying this excursion more than he should’ve, watching the smiling girl loot the beach for buried treasure. As Hannah found new sand to plunder, the world's strongest sorcerer took a moment to appreciate the view, taking off his shoes for the heck of it.
While these weren’t his memories, Satoru could easily imagine the ocean spray hitting his face as wave after thundering wave pounded against the rocky bluffs up coast. The sun sparkled atop the water and clouds creamed the sunset sky in hues of gold and pink. Wow. Which part of the Atlantic was this again? The Baltic? If given the chance, Satoru would stare out at it for hours, contemplating the deeper meaning of life. He felt a presence standing next to him and turned to see who it was.
Time skipped. Hannah was no longer a care-free seven year old with a gap between her teeth, but a beautiful woman yet to be his bride. She was still short, of course, barely reaching his chest. The setting sun picked up the red in her braided hair. He could see the green in her hazel eyes and the cute freckles dotting across her nose, but something wasn't right. Like him, she too was staring out at the sea, except she wasn’t smiling anymore. The rucksack carried around her shoulders was gone. Her expression held no emotion, as if all the happiness she exuded from earlier had been forced right out of her.
He couldn’t distinguish the twisted feeling in his gut when that first tear fell. No, don’t. His hand lifted to wipe it away. I hate seeing you cry. Just as his fingers brushed against her cheeks, however, a panicked voice called out from afar.
“Hannah!”
Satoru froze and pivoted to see a middle-aged nun hobbling up the beach, her brown veil flying every which way in the breeze as she frantically called Hannah's name.
Meanwhile, Hannah hurriedly dried her eyes. “Hier drüben, Schwester Hilda,” she called back, raising her arm to get the nun’s attention.
Hearing her voice, Sister Hilda turned and placed a hand over her heart. “Gott sei dank!” she exclaimed and raced to them as fast as she could, her brown veil billowing in the wind, “Wir haben dich überall gesucht. Wie oft haben wir es dir schon gesagt. Kein weglaufen.”
Satoru saw the way Hannah’s shoulders slumped. “Es tut mir leid,” she answered apologetically.
The nun waved her over, shaking her head. “Schnell, schnell,” she placed an arm around the young woman, ushering her back inside. “Es ist nicht sicher.”
Hannah obeyed like the good girl she was and together they walked back the direction they had come, taking no notice of the jujutsu sorcerer standing nearby.
Satoru didn’t understand a lick of German, but the desperation ringing in the poor nun’s voice unsettled him. Surely, Hannah was just wanting some fresh air. What could be wrong with that? Why the urgency?
He caught one last wisp of auburn, before the two women disappeared beneath the sand dunes. A storm loomed beyond the shore. The sun dipped below the water. The memory faded to black.
Satoru then found himself standing outside an old farmhouse. The air was chilly and a dense fog overtook the acres of forest as night became dawn. It smelled of mulch and aging wood. A rooster crowed in the background. Nope, definitely not the Baltic.
A teenage Hannah emerged from the farmhouse, equipped in a plaid button-down flannel and denim overalls. Her rubber boots squeaked atop the dew covered grass as she lugged an empty tin bucket up to the barn, a bright red bandana covering her hair. For a shortie she was hightailing it pretty good. Satoru had to break into a light trot. Why so fast?
“Salut, Charlie. Clyde,” she greeted quietly upon sliding the barn doors open, almost completely out of breath.
Two of the most humongous looking draft horses Satoru had ever seen, each strong enough to pull a freight car, stuck out their heads from behind their stalls, ears perking at the sound of their names. The young girl stood on her tiptoes and offered her knuckles to one of the gentle giants, looking like a fairy as its massive muzzle nudged her hand and sniffed. The creepy thing about this was when the horse’s eyes followed Satoru as he walked by. It could see him, but Hannah was too busy to notice and returned carrying a large bale of hay. She broke down the hay-bale and loaded the grass into Clyde’s trough, doing the same for Charlie. Lifting the lid off a long plastic bin, Hannah scooped some grain for each horse and observed the geldings munching away as she checked their water supply and shoveled their manure before opening the neighboring stall on the right.
“Désolée, Bertha,” she whispered.
Bertha, a brown dairy cow getting on in years, mooed lowly at the girl, unhappy she hadn’t been milked at her usual hour. Hannah quickly fed the cow similarly to the horses and grabbed the empty bucket she’d brought up the hill and set to placing her rear on an old wooden stool. She slid the empty bucket underneath the cow, strapped on a pair of latex gloves from her back pocket, and commenced to milking. It was quite the exercise, applying just the right pressure on the udder with her thumb and index to squeeze, but Hannah handled it like a pro. Satoru was so absorbed by the fact that his wife knew how to milk a frickin’ cow, he didn’t notice the tiny grey kitten attempting to eat his shoelaces and coming up short.
“Oi, quit it,” he muttered, kicking the little beast away with his shoe, which did absolutely nothing. These were limited edition. “Scram.”
The kitten peered up at the Six Eyes wielder with big round eyes too large for its small fluffy head and released the tiniest “mew.” Hannah stopped milking.
“Well, there you are,” she cooed in English, having discovered the feline wallowing alone in the corner. “Que fais-tu là-bas, hmm?” She took off one of her latex gloves and lowered a hand for the baby to sniff. “Where are the rest?”
The rest? Satoru’s Six Eyes were drawn to the stacks of hay-bales lining the wall to his right. Suspicious, he transitioned to infrared and spied four orange blobs hiding amongst the bales.
Knowing what to do, Hannah stood up from the wooden stool, grabbed an empty bowl from a shelf nearby, and crouched under Bertha, squirting some milk into the bowl till it filled halfway and placing it on the ground.
“Bon appétit,” she sang.
The kittens came scampering, toppling over each other like furry rollie pollies to see who could get to the bowl first, their fur matted with straw and dust.
“Heathens,” Satoru chuffed, watching the siblings fight over their food like lions at the zebra kill. Obviously Hannah didn’t hear this comment, but giggled as though she had. A bell alerted them to the changing of the hour. They had thirty minutes.
Quickly, Hannah covered the milk bucket with a cloth as best she could, locked Bertha’s stall door behind her, and rushed out the barn, leaving the animals to eat their breakfast in peace. The way she maneuvered down the uneven slope, it was a miracle the milk didn’t slosh everywhere. She reconvened inside the motherhouse and inadvertently led Satoru to the kitchen. He watched her hoist the bucket over a marble countertop, cracked in the center from an accident gone awry - either that or the surface was too old - and began raiding the cupboards. Finding a metal strainer, she whipped out a clean glass jug from the bottom drawers and shakily poured the raw milk into the jug to be pasteurized later, leaving the strainer to trap all the excess fat used to make cheese and butter. Satoru didn’t see her pause to take breath. Twisting a lid on the jug and plopping the fat in its own container, she placed both produce in the fridge next to the fresh eggs. The dirty bucket and strainer were left in the sink. Hannah washed her hands and eyeballed the clock. Ten minutes.
Trying not to make too much noise, she tiptoed up the stairs to her bedroom, a monastic cell less than premium, and quietly shut the door behind her with a soft “click.” Now, it was at this point Satoru should’ve known better. He should’ve known women need their privacy, but since he could see through clothing anyway, the message failed to register. Hannah was already shimmying out of her overalls, naked in only her bra and underwear, till the Six Eyes wielder got the hint and turned to face the wall. Whoops. He could already envision Utahime landing a scathing slap across his cheek. “PERVERT.” All he was missing was a dunce cap.
Waiting to recover his wounded sense of pride, Satoru focused on the rustling of fabric as Hannah changed and the sound of tiny beads rattling against each other. He glanced over his shoulder.
His mouth parted.
Her red bandana had been replaced with a white coif and veil, hiding her auburn hair. The plaid flannel and overalls were now a long black robe, poncho'd in a sleeveless tunic. A belt of rosary beads cinched her waist as she strapped on a pair of velcro-laced shoes typically worn by old people. The novitiate standing before him gave Satoru pause.
It could’ve been so different, he thought, struggling to wrap his head around the blatant concept; Hannah? A nun? He wasn’t sure he liked that idea. Not that he felt entitled to criticize the lifestyle itself. How people choose to live their lives was their business, and if it left them fulfilled, then more power to them, but he couldn’t picture Hannah as a nun. Like so much about these memories, it felt…wrong.
She didn’t belong here.
In those clothes.
In that veil.
You’re mine.
No mirror to check her reflection, Hannah flattened the creases in her habit as best she could, sighed a deep breath, and opened the door.
Having been following the Eightfold Path since he could crawl, Satoru had only stepped foot inside a church twice. Once when he was sent to retrieve (kidnap) Amanai from school, and the other on his wedding day. He and Hannah were the last to arrive at the chapel, joining the other twelve or so nuns praying solemnly in the pews. Their veils weren’t white like Hannah’s, Satoru noted, but funeral black. A priest sauntered in shortly afterwards, wearing green vestments while holding the Gospels over his head as the nun’s lead a processional hymn.
The Mass was terribly dull and lasted way too long. He was bored through most of it, not knowing French or Latin, though Hannah’s singing rang out like soft chimes in the small church, which was pleasant enough. He resorted to counting the cracks in the ceiling as the service dragged on and on. When the priest held up the offerings for the consecration and everyone got on their knees, Satoru walked right in front of the altar, leaned real close, and squinted hard. So this was their God, eh? Some flat bread and fermented grape juice. Yup, Christians sure were weird.
The end of Mass was followed by the Abess reading from the pulpit along with a short sermon and more prayer. He was glad when it was over.
Released from their purgatory, Hannah was allotted a quick breakfast - a baguette slice with a dollop of freshly churned butter and a soft boiled egg - which she devoured ravenously. Then on to lessons.
The teenager went back to her room for a satchel and trudged up a flight of stairs to the attic, where a nun welcomed her with a smile, gesturing to the vacant desk centered in front of a large chalkboard. Geometry. That was the lesson for today it seemed. Good, a subject Satoru actually liked. It would be Medieval History at one o’clock, however; Mmm, not so good. He peered over Hannah’s notes as she jotted everything her instructor wrote on the chalkboard. Aha, so she’s a leftie. Interesting.
Hannah was scrubbing floors next. Although the brush she was given looked more like a brick and washed like one too. The bristles were dense from re-hardened soap, effectively becoming a thick block of lard. Kind of gross really. The sound the brush made as it scraped along the floorboards had his skin crawling, but Satoru didn’t want to mosey off somewhere and leave her. What the hell were these floors made out of anyway? Finishing her scrubbing, Hannah tucked any loose strands of auburn back under her veil and glanced up at the clock above the door mantle. The bell rang. Time for, you guessed it, more prayer.
After the office of the None, Satoru was willing to theorize whether bashing his head upside the wall, really, really, hard would help wake him from this snooze fest, but naturally no wall was impenetrable. He walked through every solid object, every person, lurking anonymously wherever Hannah went like an invisible shadow. Seriously, where’s the exit? All this loitering about was making him hungry and some deep-fried manju sounded really good right at the moment.
At three o’clock following lunch, Hannah was tending to the vegetable gardens outside: carrots, potatoes, cabbage, turnips, other bulbs and tubers. She had to change back into her overalls and rubber boots. The sun was sweltering down on them (her) like a tanning bed, but the heat didn’t seem to affect her none. Satoru watched the teenager parse a handful of dirt between her fingers, testing the fertilizer and de-weeding the ground, making sure the cabbages were watered by their roots so the leaves wouldn’t catch a fungal infection. A sweet smile graced her lips. She looks natural, Satoru thought; Gardening.
The evening slowed to a snail’s pace once Hannah changed back into her habit and communed with the other sisters inside the chapel, which Satoru gathered was meant for, what, choir practice? The nuns formed three rows, opened their hymnal books, and began singing in unison before breaking into separate harmonies. Hannah’s sweet soprano came out like distilled water, crisp and clearer than the rest. The Abbess would stop them if the piece was sung even a little out of key and force them to repeat the verse. This went on for roughly an hour, ending the day with a perfect “Salve Regina.”
Hannah returned her hymnal on a shelf with the others, waved goodbye to the nuns, and made the silent pilgrimage back to her cell. Under the aid of candlelight, she spent her last waking hours finishing homework and repairing the holes she’d torn in her overalls with a thread and needle, pricking her fingers a couple times as she stitched. She didn’t change out of her habit and veil. Instead, the teenager blew out her candle, slipped off her shoes, and crash landed onto the bed with a resounding ‘whop,’ knowing it would start all over again come break of morning and there’d be no escaping it. Not once had she complained. Not once had she tarried or refused the work.
Her lids slowly closed.
A bell tolled in the distance.
Everything faded to black again.
A few seconds passed and soon the cold stench of antiseptic stung Satoru’s nose and tongue like salt inhalants, along with a sharp tang reminiscent of something metal. The black void surrounding him materialized into placid white ceilings above placid white walls on placid white floors. The window outside showed a wintry scene with snow falling to the ground, while a skeletal figure slept on a bed beside beeping machinery, an IV dripping into a vein that wasn’t blown. The sleeping man’s skin looked as though it hadn’t been washed in days, growing dry and leathery with patches collecting on his bedsheets like dandruff, and his face was so gaunt from weight loss that Satoru could see every protruding bone jutting around his cheeks and eye sockets. Most alarming was the man’s jaw. It hung in such a grotesque angle that it was likely impossible for him to close it, making him appear as though he were left permanently screaming in a Van Gogh painting. The dude was in rough shape. Satoru estimated he hadn’t much longer to live.
“Good morning, Richard,” Hannah chimed, wheeling in a cart topped with a meal tray and towels. She was still in a white coif and veil, except she wore a white knee-length dress and tights with a Red Cross on her chest. The makings of a hospice nurse.
Richard initially didn’t stir or open his eyes, enticing Hannah to lean over the bed and gently tap his arm. “Richard,” she whispered. “It's morning now. Time to get up.”
The man opened his eyes in a panic, looking utterly confused, not knowing where he was. Hannah rushed to comfort him. “My name’s Hannah, Richard, remember? Han-nah? I’m the one taking care of you.”
For a moment Richard managed to make eye contact, but he was incapable of seeing the woman. The cataracts clouding his vision were too thick, and judging from his odd behavior, his hearing was probably deteriorating as well. Hannah eventually succeeded in settling him down, his mouth still hanging agape.
“Alright, we’re going to lift you up now,” she said as another woman in a veil and dress entered the room, and together the two caretakers worked to carefully flip the man on his side. Richard moaned in pain, his emaciated body too weak and feeble to do anything, no muscle to pull himself up. He was bare underneath the hospital gown. Satoru could see the bedsores blotching his heels from being confined to the mattress for so long and watched Hannah gingerly remove the soiled underpad from him and wipe his bottom and drain the collection bag from his catheter before changing the bedding. The smell alone would’ve left Satoru gagging, but like two well-oiled machines, neither hospice nurse so much as coughed. Fully cleaned, they placed the man back down on the hospital bed. The other nurse took the dirty sheets to be washed and entrusted her colleague to finish the rest.
Keeping him warm, Hannah draped a new blanket over the man. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?” she soothed, tucking in the edges like a mother would her child. She was so patient. “Are you hungry?”
A vacant look in his eyes, the cripple responded with a gurgling noise from the back of his throat. What that meant, Satoru didn’t know. Hannah brought the cart over to his side and parted the lid off the tray and — Aw, man. What the fuck was that supposed to be? Oatmeal? Who in their right mind would eat that?
From there, Satoru found it very difficult to watch Hannah try and spoon feed the dying man. He couldn’t chew or swallow the porridge correctly, wearing most of the mush on his chin, but Hannah cleaned it up with a napkin and threw the plastic spoon away after four small bites. That was it. The man would eat no more and quickly shut his eyes and fell asleep, fatigue winning over.
I’d rather they put a gun to my head, Satoru thought grimly, moved with pity for the man. The youth tend to think they’ll live forever, quick to forget that all things must come to an end. Would this be his, he wondered. A slow, agonizing death, with no one but a sweet orphaned nurse to care for him? Afterall, when you die, you die alone, right?
As her final act of kindness, Hannah wheeled the meal cart to the corner, washed her hands and arms in the sink, and made herself comfy in the closest chair near Richard’s bed. Crossing her legs, she flipped open a little pocket book from her skirt, and stayed by him until the moon’s pale face shown out the window, falling asleep in the chair.
The hospital room faded from view.
Notes:
Hold your loved ones tight this year. Tell them how much you love them.
On a lighter note:
1. “Laborare Est Orare” is a variation of St. Benedict’s motto “Ora et Labora.” This variation literally translates as “To work is to pray.”
2. If you wanna see some hardcore Benedictine nuns herd down some cattle, check out this interesting video.
3. To provide more context as to what the bell signifies in the chapter, Catholics (specifically of the Latin rite) adhere to what is called the “Liturgy of the Hours.” Wikipedia defines it as “the official set of prayers ‘marking the hours of each day and sanctifying the day with prayer.’" This helps set the daily routine inside convents and monasteries.Again, come find me on Tumblr.
NEXT UP:
Hannah becomes acquainted with a certain Kyoto teacher and jujutsu doctor.
Chapter 12: Tomoe's Warning
Summary:
“There are no formalities between friends.” — Japanese proverb
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this.
Chat with me on Tumblr.
Enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 12: Tomoe's Warning
It was late May when Hannah received a letter inviting her for tea at Lady Inumaki’s home.
Like the Gojo estate, The Inumaki residence was built in the samurai style with shoji panels and tiered roofing, but more modern than its neighbors, and much smaller. While the house was within walking distance, Hannah was accompanied by Mr. Ijichi, who left her waiting outside the entrance at 3 o’clock. She used the brass ring to knock on the door.
Anxious, she smoothed the front of her blush pink kimono, hand painted with spring blooms and blades of silver mountain grass. A metallic obi with pastel pink, green, and blue flowers held the silk together. Makoto pinned two silver combs into her hair. The combination of pink and silver made her feel less intimidating. A safe choice. This visit was important.
After being received by a servant who guided her through the house, Hannah was led inside an ochre walled tearoom. Lady Inumaki Tomoe and her sister, Ms. Shimoda Takara, rose from the floor and bowed. They were both clad in elegant kimonos, hued blue and yellow, and their matching platinum blonde hair was styled in sleek, clean knots. A meal had been prepared on a table. The servant from earlier brought out a fresh pot of tea, but they could all relax. This was not a ceremony.
They kneeled down. Hannah read the calligraphy on a hanging scroll inside the tokonoma; “Five Friends Beneath The Setting Sun” it read. A tortoise and a crane, the symbols of longevity and power, were surrounded by groves of bamboo, yellow narcissus, and plum trees (the three friends of spring) beside a gentle flowing stream. Hovering in the sky above was a bright round sun the color of a grapefruit, all auspicious omens.
“Your husband has been good to my family, Gojo-san,” Tomoe began, bowing her head a second time. “For that you are always welcome in my house.”
“Thank you, I’ll be sure to tell him you said that,” Hannah said. “And please, there’s no need to be so formal. Hannah is fine.”
Takara seemed rather taken by this. “So, how are you liking our little country, Hannah?” she asked. “I imagine it must be quite different from what you’re accustomed to.”
Hannah gave a timid laugh. “True, it is different, but in a good way. Satoru’s taking me to visit Tama Botanical Park this weekend. I’m excited to see it.”
“Ah, the Asakawa Experiment Forest, yes, yes, how lovely.” Lady Tomoe lifted a beautiful Noritake teapot, filigreed in gold leaf and magnolias. There was a certain gleam in her maple brown eyes as she poured her guest’s cup. “Speaking of which, are the two of you, you know…getting along?”
Hannah’s smile waned as she brought the steaming cup on her lap. They were now talking about her relationship with her husband. She peered down, her reflection blending with the freshly poured tea.
They were comfortable with each other, sure. Satoru made his usual rounds; asking her how she was; whether she slept well; what’s her favorite color? (golden poppy) This quickly morphed into a game, one which Hannah thoroughly enjoyed, parroting her own inquiries straight back; when was his next mission; did he have enough Bufferin tablets; what flavor licorice did he like best? (watermelon)
They ate their meals together. They went for morning jogs up the mountains till only the crowns of the pines could be seen and their lungs short of breath. Hannah noticed her biceps bore definition after completing push-ups and she could run for longer distances without getting tired. Satoru had begun instructing her how to kickbox; how to bend her knees and square her shoulders and punch a cushion on his right hand. In the afternoon, they watched movies together and sometimes Satoru would teach her how to play Go, moving black and white stones atop a grid board to try and capture the other’s pawn. But when Tomoe was asking whether she and Satoru were “getting along,” Hannah felt she was really implying something else and chose the less complicated reply.
“I’d say we’re in a better place than where we started.”
Tomoe exhaled with mixed relief. “I really worry for these newer couples,” she opined, taking a sip of her tea. “My husband and I grew up together. In the olden days that’s how it used to be. Now when there’s a marriage, the bride and groom are lucky if they get to meet an hour before the wedding.”
“Have any of the other families invited you for a visit, Hannah?” Takara asked, slightly veering off topic. “It’s traditional for the women of each house to welcome new wives into their homes as a sign of respect.”
Hannah’s expression dimmed. She set her teacup on the table. “No, Shimoda-san,” she said. “You two are the first.”
This came more of a shock to Tomoe than it should have, causing her to miss her mouth and spill tea over her front. She let out a tiny yelp as the hot liquid seeped through her kimono and burned her skin.
“But that can’t be,” she said, frantically dabbing her front with a cloth. “You’re Gojo Satoru’s wife, the lady of a great house. You must’ve received gobs of congratulatory letters after the wedding.”
Hannah bowed her head. “I received many such letters, Inumaki-san, but sadly no invites.”
“Please, are you really that surprised, Tomoe?” Takara huffed, rolling her eyes at her sister. “After what they did to Kumari last year?”
Hannah tilted her head. “Kumari?”
The younger sister handed Tomoe another napkin and refilled her tea cup. “Chauhan Kumari was one of the first international students ever admitted to Jujutsu High, and the first from India,” she explained. “The prodigy was sought after for her rare ability, a special sealing technique not seen in ages. She studies cursed objects for that very reason.”
Hannah nodded, but was still perplexed. “Then what was the problem, if her technique was so rare?”
“Well, as it so happens, she fell in love with her former classmate,” Tomoe added, no longer fussing with her kimono. “Tensions arose when they married last year.”
Ah, now Hannah better understood the issue and winced. “I'm guessing neither family took it well.”
“No, they did not.” Tomoe shook her head. “Kumari’s family welcomed Ichiro with open arms. It was his family, the Kamo’s, who weren’t keen on the idea and stripped him of everything he set to inherit. It didn’t matter that the Chuahan’s had money either. His parents couldn’t stomach the fact their son had married a …” she stopped herself short, appearing guilt stricken.
They waited.
“A foreigner?” Hannah finished for her.
Gaijin.
An outsider.
Both Tomoe and Takara averted their eyes. She had spoken the unvarnished truth so plainly.
“Yes,” Tomoe said, disheartened. “A foreigner.”
For most Japanese, the word “gaijin” was met with indifference. A foreigner was simply that; someone not from Japan. No big deal. But to the jujutsu aristocracy, where bloodlines and ancestral pedigree ruled the roost, it was almost always meant as a form of insult; something less than; a lower being.
It was the worst kept secret. Interview them off the record and you’d discover roughly eighty percent of sorcerer families condemned bigotry towards foreigners. “Many of my best friends are foreigners,” they would tout, “I’m offended you’d have me think that.” Cram those same individuals in a room, however, and you’d garner a very different response. Satoru despised this two-facedness more than anything. “Cowards, all of them,” he would seethe, along with some other choice words. Him marrying a girl from England had probably unleashed a silent outcry not felt since his family gained the upper hand after he mastered Hollow Purple. They were outwardly showing their displeasure by pretending to be happy for them; attending the wedding; offering their congratulations with beaming fake smiles, then leaving Hannah out in the cold like they did Kumari the previous year.
For Hannah, this was nothing entirely new. The West had their own biases against outsiders, ones she once believed to be fact; Jujutsu sorcerers were a barbaric lot, drunk on power, and not to be trusted. They were dangerous as they were backwards. Their esoteric religion spat in the face of God and infighting culminated between the families like wildfire. Whether the Western world saw the dueled irony in these accusations, Hannah wasn’t sure. Prejudice was bred from ignorance, not knowledge. When you point a finger at someone, you point three fingers back at yourself. Her time with the Sisters of St. Horatia mellowed her outlook some.
“Ichiro took his wife’s last name after the fall out,” Takara spoke, trying not to sound so glum. “They recently moved to Minato City not long ago with their son.”
“I’ll be sure to invite them over for tea next time you visit,” Tomoe chimed. “Tell your husband he’s welcome too.”
Hannah's face brightened at the mention. “Thank you, Inumaki-san. You’re too kind.”
The three women were then interrupted by a short sneeze.
“Ah-cho.”
They twisted their heads to see.
Through a narrow slit in the door, Hannah saw a pair of curious brown eyes flickering back at her. She caught a swoosh of platinum blond, along with oddly painted lips and a small nose, before the door slid shut.
“Ah, that would be my son,” Tomoe chuckled, knowing exactly who it was. “Toge, quit snooping about and come introduce yourself to our guest.”
But the door failed to open. A ha-chikui could be heard singing “pir-r-r-r” from a neighboring tree like a taunt. Toge did not make an appearance.
Tomoe and Takara shared dispirited looks. Bowing to Hannah would have been easy enough, but with his vocabulary diminishing more and more, Toge’s confidence had sunk to an all time low. Forcing him to talk was like pulling teeth. There were only a number of words he could say without setting off an explosion, though his mother feared that if he stopped talking, he would never speak again and so it was better to keep trying. “Hello” and “My. Name. Is. Toge” were still safe to use, if he said them carefully.
“Oh well,” Tomoe sighed, masking her worry with a well rehearsed smile. “Perhaps another day then.”
She took a sip of tea.
Hannah kept staring at the door, but said nothing. Tomoe’s clipped tone hinted the conversation was over. Yes, perhaps another day.
The ladies soon finished their meal and Hannah was taken for a stroll in the garden.
Like ducklings, Takara and Hannah followed Tomoe outside. They took turns leaning over the washbasin by the door, dipping the wooden ladle into the water and bringing it to their mouths, swishing it back and forth, then spitting it on the ground before washing their hands. This was a cleansing ritual, akin to visiting a Shinto shrine, or crossing oneself with holy water when entering a church. Gardens were sacred spaces.
The rules were easy: Stay on the path and don’t wander off. Focus your mind. Breathe. Reflect. You are a tiny speck floating aimlessly in this ever expanding universe. You are finite.
Hannah wiped her hands and took in the lush greenery.
Japan had over 200 registered public gardens, with three revered above all others: Kenroku-en (Garden of the Six Sublimities), Kairaku-en (Garden to be Enjoyed Together), and Kōraku-en (Garden for Taking Pleasure Later). They were important cultural landmarks. Closed from the public, however, the Inumaki’s backyard was an intimate pond garden, inspired by the Buddhist temple, Renge-ji, dating back to the early Edo Period. A dirt path coiled its way around a modest pond, planted with fork moss, crepe myrtles, and azalea islands. Along this path were sweeping shrouds of black pines, their trunks hunched over as though blown by the wind. A thick fortress of bamboo kept intruders out.1
It had rained heavily that morning, growing hot and humid before the clock struck noon. Walking underneath the umbrella-like pines brought reprieve from the midday heat. As they each took deliberate steps, the three women walked the route in silence. Breathing. Focusing. Reflecting. Hannah delighted in seeing a tree frog poke its head out of the pond, blink, then dive back down to escape potential danger. Birds chirped and warbled high in the trees: A nuthatch, a bamboo patridge, a brown-eared bulbul. The thick pine needles prevented her from viewing them, but she didn’t mind. She could hear every single one, the mountain wind whistling softly in her ears.
Mr. Ijichi was waiting outside the Inumaki house at 5 pm, as scheduled. Rejuvenated from the walk, Hannah bowed to her two hostesses, thanking them for their generous hospitality and made to leave, but Tomoe held her back.
“Hannah, before you go, there’s something I wish to tell you.” She looked apprehensive as she said this. “It’s important.”
“Of course.” Hannah turned to face the lady of the house.
Tomoe gestured for her sister to reconvene inside, which she did without argument, and once the two sorcerer wives were alone, Tomoe motherly clasped Hannah’s hand.
“I know it’s not my business to pry, so I won’t say much, but if there’s one piece of advice I wish somebody had given me when I married Suga, it’s this,” she paused as looked at their clasped hands, “Whatever you and Satoru do, however your feelings are towards each other…don’t wait for children,” she squeezed a little tighter, “The sooner you have children, the less the wolves will have to sink their teeth into.
Hannah looked confused. "The wolves?”
Tomoe’s smile was contrite as it was foreboding.
“Please take what I’ve said to heart.”
Hannah was haunted by Tomoe’s words the rest of the way home, the implications hounding her like a starved predator. It was all she could think about. The wolves? Japan didn’t have wolves. Magical, maybe, but not real ones. They were hunted to extinction during the Meiji Restoration to protect against rabies and canine distemper; one of the many obscure facts she learned in the convents. Tomoe meant it as a metaphor.
“Did you have a nice visit, Hannah?” Mr. Ijichi politely asked as they walked.
“Huh?” Hannah looked up, blinking. “Oh, yes, Ijichi-san, very nice.”
“Good. Lady Inumaki is known for her kindness.” He shows her a white paper bag. “Look, she even gave me anpan buns to take home. They’re still warm. Would you like one?”
Hannah shook her head. She wasn’t hungry.
The deputy director opened the bag and took out a sweet roll, steam fogging up his glasses. “You know, I was watching this documentary the other night,” he said, taking a bite. “About albatrosses.”
“Albatrosses?” Hannah said, feigning interest.
“Yeah, did you know they have the longest wingspan of any bird and can go whole years without landing?”
“No,” she replied. “I had no idea.”
“And also that some species can live past the age of fifty?”
“Fifty? My, that’s a long time.”
In one bite, Mr. Ijichi finished his pastry. “They mate for life too.” he added, licking his fingers. “Fifty years. Guess that makes albatross divorce rates pretty low.”
He laughed lightly at this joke, but Hannah didn't find it funny.
Wolves also mate for life, she thought. She had read so in a book. On average, a wolf’s brain is larger than a domesticated dog. They can perceive sounds up to 40 kilohertz away, twice the distance of a human. Their jaws are powerful enough to saw through bone. They take down bigger prey by hunting in packs and will kill intruders they see as a threat. When hunting, they begin by stalking the prey, separating it from the herd until it’s confused and disoriented, then unleash the finishing blow, carving a hole inside the vulnerable underbelly to devour the prey’s internal organs. Once disemboweled, the carcass is left for scavengers to peck and nibble at till nothing remains. And unlike most social hierarchies within the animal kingdom, it’s the alpha female who makes the decisions; where to go, what to hunt, when to mate.
Is that the threat Tomoe warned her against? The women? Were they the wolves?
“Think of all the chicks they hatch. That’s practically one chick every year.”
Ah, yes, that was the more pressing issue; Children.
Two months in and Hannah was not pregnant. She and Satoru had not consummated their marriage. She was still a virgin, unsure how to proceed.
At the age when most kids were learning how to ride a bicycle, Hannah was learning how to replace the hydraulic filter on a tractor. When students were simulating volcano eruptions with paper mâché and vinegar, Hannah was studying the chemical processes used for brewing beer. Nuns and religious sisters tended to be tradesmiths and licensed professionals. They were farmers, ranch handlers, and brewmasters. Physicists, engineers, doctors, and social workers, each using their combined talents to help serve God and their local communities.
So contrary to popular belief - Galileo notwithstanding - Hannah was well versed in the sciences. She knew how sex worked, what body part went in which orifice, how sperm met egg, etc. In fact, she knew that if you plopped a male and female alone together on a deserted island, both with no sexual education whatsoever, they would eventually, given time, figure out how to reproduce. What Hannah did not know, however, were the social cues leading up to the act itself. How could you tell whether a man was interested? What were you supposed to say? What did you do? Hannah was still learning how to search the internet on her mobile phone. The novels she swiped off library shelves in the convents were of no help either, granting little more than a chase kiss on the cheek, or a soft caress. And the book's perspective was almost always from the woman, not the man.
“…and that’s when I said, ‘Masamichi-sama, you should try snail oil. It’ll clear those up in a jiffy...”
Mr. Ijichi ceased talking about albatrosses and was now divulging his opinions on skincare. Hannah wasn’t listening.
The real question was, did Satoru want to have sex with her? They were two months into their marriage, around the same time it took for a dating couple to decide whether they wanted to continue pursuing each other, and he had not offered to share his bed once. Neither had she, of course. Did that make it her fault somehow? Was she lacking in some area for him? Too foreign? Too short? Too boring?
You’re doing it again, Hannah, she mentally chastised. You’re overthinking things. Marriage isn’t based on attraction, it’s based on consent, yes, consent. He doesn’t have to find you attractive. You just have to do the deed and move on.
And while she thought this, her mind reeled back to the man she’d come to know the last two months; The way his tongue stuck out when he was strategizing how to beat her at Go, or laugh at a corny joke he thought was funny. How he would saunter back into the kitchen and help Makoto clean the dishes after dinner. How every fleeting glance from his turquoise blue eyes; in the hallway; at the table; up in the mountains where only the tops of the pines could be seen, made her beating heart skip and her stomach do summersaults.
The band of gold on her finger tightened as did the ache in her chest, jealous and longing.
I want it to be me.
Hannah and Mr. Ijichi didn’t have much farther to walk. They reached the limestone gates in fifteen minutes. Hannah waved goodbye to the deputy director and scissored up the path towards the house alone, but rather than taking the shorter route, she made a left for the strolling gardens. More fresh air was what she needed.
Hannah looked out at the lake and watched a lone dragonfly land atop the water and kiss the surface for a quick drink, sunlight hitting its lustrous wings to generate the spectrum of a rainbow. It hummed as it flew off. Willow trees swayed in the eastern wind, their long, slender branches dipping into the waterfront like paper streamers. A bed of blue irises were budding close to the shore. She already missed the sakura blossoms. Cherries would replace them come summer.
Sister Edith often said that to walk in nature was to witness a thousand miracles. “We pass by them everyday, mon chérie,” she would sigh, shaking her head. “But we have grown blind. What will it take for the scales to fall from our eyes?” Hannah didn’t have an answer. She was feeling rather blind herself as of late. Blind to her husband’s intentions, blind from doubt. Where were they headed in this marriage?
She had just made it over the second bridge next to the teahouse, past a two-hundred year old maple tree, when suddenly she caught the sound of an animal in distress.
“Mmrooww,” it yowled, followed by the rattling of leaves and an angry hiss. “Mrrooow-row.”
Hannah knew what made that noise. Blimey, that was one unhappy cat.
But where was it?
“Meow.”
Hannah spun herself around, looking east to west, and quickly eyed a fluffy white tail poking out the side of a mulberry bush, making the plant look like a handle-less teapot. She soon discovered what had the kitty so upset.
Looking to rub its whiskers along something rough, the cat got its collar snagged on a prickly branch. It tried pulling away, but the branch wouldn’t relent, as though punishing the kitty for trespassing. Now the poor thing was stuck.
It yowled again.
“Hold on, I’ve got you.” Hannah began sifting through the branches to reach the feline. He was wedged fairly deep. She risked ruining the shrub.
Spooked by the stranger, the cat began thrashing and biting wildly, clawing Hannah’s arm by accident. “Ow — No, if you keep tugging on it like that, you’ll choke.” She managed to hook her finger underneath the collar and slide it off the branch. There.
Realizing he was free, the feline popped out the mulberry bush and shook the dirt and leaves from his long white fur, bell collar jingling. Though unlike normal felines, this kitty didn’t run away and hide, twisting his head around to lick the plant residue off his shoulder.
Hannah got on her knees and held out her hand, making “kissy” noises. The cat stopped licking, raised his bushy tail, and sauntered right up, rubbing his teeth and whiskers along her fingers, purring appreciatively. She laughed.
“You’re welcome.” Hannah began scratching him behind the ears. He had the darlingest blue eyes she’d ever seen on a cat. “Don’t worry about the knick you gave me. I know you didn’t mean it.”
The cat kept on purring, closing his eyes so it appeared he was grinning. Adorable.
As she continued scratching, Hannah gently pulled the inscribed tag on his collar, keeping it still for her to read:
幽霊
She smiled.
“Ghost, is it?” she said. “Well, your owner has a sense of humor, I’ll give them that.”
Ghost’s whiskers twitched at the sound of his given name and yawned.
There was no phone or vaccination number on the collar from what Hannah could tell, though obviously the cat belonged to someone. It’s possible he had a microchip. Only one way to find out.
“You’re coming with me.”
Ghost gave no objection to being held by his rescuer and tucked his paws inwards so he could curl into a ball, purring, trilling, tail swishing. This human was nice and warm and gave good pets. He was scared, but not anymore. Time to take a nap.
The cat dozed contentedly in Hannah’s kimono wrapped arms the rest of the walk home, his fur so flocculent it looked as though she were cradling a big wad of cotton. Whoever owned the big fella groomed him well. He was clearly loved. Hopefully, Makoto wouldn’t be mad at the pet dander accumulating on her kimono.
It wasn’t until Hannah slipped off her shoes and entered the main hallway when she heard they had visitors.
“Idiot, how many times do I have to say it? It’s senpai. Utahime- senpai. Show your seniors some respect and say it properly.”
Satoru chuckled.
“Sorry. No can do, U-tah-i-me,” he said, articulating each syllable in her name. “My house, my rules.”
Utahime wasn’t having it.
“My god, you’re such a piece of shit, Satoru. That innocent act isn’t fooling anyone. We know he’s here already, so hand him over and we’ll be on our way.”
Satoru was so confused by this, he broke into actual laughter. “First off, your interrogation skills need work. Second, why the hell would I steal a cat? That makes no sense.”
A third voice disrupted their arguing.
“Joking aside, we could really use your help, Satoru,” said the third. “Normally I wouldn’t bring him to the lab, but I hate leaving him alone in the apartment while I‘m gone,” a winded sigh, “Guess it’s my fault he escaped.”
Utahime offered her friend support. “No, it’s not your fault, Shoko. I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually. We just have to keep looking.”
Now awake from his nap, Ghost’s ears twitched upon hearing the third person, Shoko, speak and sniffed the air. Uh oh. A sick empty feeling brewed in the pit of Hannah’s stomach. If indeed Ghost was their missing feline, which it’d be safe to assume he was by that point, then wouldn’t they insinuate her as the thief? She had the kitty in her hands for Pete’s sake.
The wall partition separating the reception room from the main hallway was latticed entirely in washi paper. Had it not been for the colorful folded screens, painted in gold and dazzling peacocks, her silhouette would’ve been visible from the other side, but that wasn't the problem. Designed to only go one way, the hall had no means of escape. Should she walk back, the bamboo matting would alert the others of her presence and she’d be ousted. It was thanks to Utahime’s shouting that Hannah managed to make it this far.
“Well, if you see him roaming around, give me a call, alright?”
Foot-falls shuffled in Hannah’s direction.
Wait, no, no, no, no, no, no.
However, Ghost was done messing around. These humans were noisy, and his rescuer was squeezing him too tight. He started to fidget, growing restless and more agitated the tighter she squeezed. “Mrroow,” he growled. Hannah held onto him as best she could, but when his hind claws began digging underneath the kimono silk and pulling on her obi cord, she knew she’d lost. Like a wet bar of soap, the cat slipped out of her hands and dashed for his owner.
Her cover was blown.
“I KNEW IT!!!” shouted Utahime, watching the cat appear out of the corner and rub against Shoko’s legs. She turned sharply around to jeer at her prime suspect. “I knew you were lying, you slimy haired weasel. Thought you could pull a fast one on us, did ya? Did ya?”
Satoru rolled his eyes. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me.”
Happy to be reunited, Shoko picked her cat off the floor and stroked his fur. “Well, if it wasn’t you, how did he get in here?”
“It was me.”
All three sorcerers affixed their eyes upon the hallway, where a flustered Gojo Hannah emerged out the corner, hair and kimono disheveled. “I found him while out in the garden.”
“Hehe, see, told you,” Satoru snickered. He knew his wife was standing there the whole time, trying to wrangle the pesky feline. He’d been tempted to alert the others, but thought it better to let the chips fall where they may. What were the odds she’d actually find Shoko’s missing cat and bring the fleabag home? She was always full of surprises. It left him wondering when they would begin discussing the visions.
In the meantime, Hannah was fiddling with the decorative knot on her obijime, which was close to coming undone.
“Here, let me help with that.”
Now able to match a face to the voice, the third person, Shoko, plopped Ghost back on the floor and walked behind Hannah to fix the knot. While not attired in her usual lab coat and heels, she still looked professional in a turtleneck and jeans. Her long chocolate brown hair was swooped in a lazy twist, showing the beauty mark under her eye. Hannah recognized the woman immediately.
“I know you,” she gaped. “You’re the one who handed me the water bottle.”
“Ah, so you remember,” cheered Shoko. “Good to know I can leave a lasting impression.”
“Hold it, you two met already?” both Satoru and Utahime asked in unison. “Since when?”
“I wouldn’t say we met,” answered Shoko, giving Hannah a wink. “More like crossed paths.”
“Uh, yeah. Crossed paths. Sure.” Hannah wanted to hide herself. A lot more happened between them than “crossing paths.” She had almost been caught hurrying the growth of a rose shrub.
Shoko’s companion, Utahime, pivoted back to Satoru, dressed down in a pair of denim shorts and a graphic tee. Her violet hair stuck out at the end of her baseball cap in a high ponytail. She placed both hands on her hips expectantly.
“Well?”
Six Eyes narrowed. “Well, what?”
“Aren't you going to introduce us?”
“Why do I have to introduce you?” He pointed his thumb. “She’s standing right there.”
Utahime pinched the bridge of her nose and drew in a sharp breath. “Because, doofus, it’s the polite thing to do, and you’re her husband. Why do men lack common sense when it comes to this stuff?”
“Fine.” Satoru walked behind his two comrades. “Shoko, Utahime,” he said, presenting with both hands, “This is Hannah.”
Hannah bowed. “Hello,” she said shyly, flattening her hair. “Please to meet you.”
In three long steps, Satoru backpedaled behind his wife.
He rested both hands on her shoulders.
Hannah couldn’t think of anything. Half the oxygen instantly vanished from the room as her heart did a double take. She smelled coffee and incense. His sweet breath tickled her ears, mouth hovering just inches above her nape. If she turned her head, their lips would surely touch. She shuddered.
“Hannah, these two are my colleagues,” he said, voice so smooth it made her want to melt. “Shoko is the doctor and top researcher on campus. And Utahime is — ”
Utahime seized Hannah by the wrist and dragged her from her husband’s arms, seeking refuge in the corner.
“Hi,mynameisUtahime.IteachattheKyotoschool. Okay, so I have to know,” she whispered.
Lost in a daze, Hannah couldn’t tell whether this person had spoken in tongues or crafted her own language. Speed talkers were difficult to translate.
”Um…about what?” she asked, unsure why they were whispering. Now that they were close, the young wife could see the prominent scar slashed across the woman’s cheek and nose.
“Who else?” Utahime said. “That mop-headed manchild you married. Now tell me, does he leave his dirty laundry piled everywhere? Eat like a slob? Talk you half to death? I bet he’s unbearable to live with. He never shuts up.”
“I can still hear, you know,” Satoru commented from the sidelines.
“So, is he?” Utahime persisted, ignoring him. “I understand if you don’t wanna say it out loud. I can’t stand him either.”
“Actually,” Hannah parted from Utahime and turned around to face her spouse, “Satoru has made life relatively easy for me. He’s been very generous,” she showed him a gentle smile. “More than I deserve, really.”
The pause was deafening.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody moved.
Unprepared for having received such a glowing compliment, Satoru felt the tips of his ears burning. He looked to the floor. That smile wasn’t fake. She had meant every word. It made him wish they were true. Hannah deserved a lot more than what he could give. She deserved the world, no, the universe.
He just recently learned about her love for gardening, both from the memories and the morning jogs they embarked together. Practically every tree, wild-flower, weed, and leaf they ran past, she could name without fail, teaching him the binomial nomenclature of each while relaying their medicinal properties. He had comprised a mental list:
Isha-koroshi (Bugleweed) / Ajuga decumbens: Perennial herb. Grows close to the ground. Spatula shaped leaves with small dark purple flowers. Boiling leaves helps burns and cuts. Drinking decoction of seeds relieves stomach aches and gastrointestinal issues. Sprouts April to June.
Momi (Fir Tree) / Abies firma: Coniferous family. Oil can be extracted by grinding needles, wood, and bark. Used to treat symptoms relating to the common cold. Anti-inflammatory. (Same for pine, juniper, yew, and cypress).
Maruba-Utsugi (Deutzia) / Deutzia scabra: Deciduous shrub. Related to hydrangea family. White starlike blossoms. Bloom in May. Round leaves are edible when young. Eat as last resort.2
The list went on.
He wished he had taken a snapshot of her face yesterday when he revealed they were adding an English garden on the estate; Pure. Gold. He might as well have sprouted angel wings and a halo.
”You mean it?” she said in faint disbelief. “You’re giving me my own…?”
He nodded his head yes.
She wept like a baby after that, thanking him profusely over and over again. Almost June, they were too far in the season to grow anything, so they planned to visit some local nurseries and gather ideas for October (the optimal planting time). Makoto thought it would be a good bonding experience.
“Hmmm.” Utahime cynically leaned over Hannah and arched her brow. “You sure he hasn’t misbehaved?”
Hannah innocently raised her hands. “No, honest. Satoru’s been wonderful.”
Utahime held her chin, ruminating this quandary. “Generous” and “wonderful” weren’t words she would use to describe Satoru, more like “annoying” and “egotistical,” but realizing Hannah wasn’t going to correct this mistake, she leaned away and sighed. “Well, alright. But if he starts any crap, you let me know, okay?”
“Hey, I’m not a delinquent,” Satoru whined, tired of her trash talking.
“But you act like one, so zip it,” Utahime spat and tapped Hannah’s arm. “Anyway, I’m serious. Let. Me. Know,” she handed her a piece of paper. “Here’s my number.”
“Okay,” Hannah said, taking the paper. “Thanks.”
Shoko bent down to retrieve her cat.
“On that cheery note, I think we’ll make like a banana and split. You ready, Utahime?”
Utahime checked her phone. “Oh, shoot. I didn’t realize it’s been that long.”
“Yeah, I think you’ve outstayed your welcome,” Satoru deadpanned. “Get lost.”
Utahime stuck her tongue at the Six Eyes wielder, who wiggled his own tongue right back. She was about to say more, but Shoko interrupted.
“Come along, Utahime. Let’s give the couple back their privacy.” She tugged on her friend’s collar, carrying Ghost under her arm. “See you around, Satoru. And it was nice officially meeting you, Hannah. Thanks for finding my cat.”
“Yeah bye, Hannah,” Utahime added, waving goodbye. “Let’s go out for drinks sometime.”
“Wait, no goodbye hug for me, Hime-chan?” Satoru pouted, pretending to shed a tear. “I’m hurt.”
“I’d rather swallow iodine, you freak,” the Kyoto teacher snapped. “Call me that again and see what hap — ”
“Bye, bye, everyone,” Shoko finished, shoving her friend towards the door.
“Bye.” Hannah returned a friendly wave. “Janae.”
The doctor and teacher made their quick getaway, missing kitty in toe.
Hannah turned to her husband.
“Well, they seemed…nice.”
Satoru dropped the facade. “Not how I would put it.” Glad they were gone, he tucked his hands in his pockets and headed for the living room. “I’m bored, let’s watch a movie. Mission Impossible 2 is next, I think.”
Hannah trotted softly beside him.
“No, we’re on the third installment now, remember? Ethan managed to dodge Ambrose’s bullet and throw Luther the cure just in time so he could jab it into Nyah and prevent an outbreak.”
“Ah, that’s right, that’s right,” he chuckled, wagging a finger. “Keeping me on my toes, I see.”
“Of course,” Hannah giggled. “If I don’t, who will?”
Satoru nudged his wife with his elbow and blew her a raspberry. “If I don’t, who will?” he mocked. “My name’s Hannah and I own the place, rah, rah, rah.”
She let out a giggle and tried shooing him away, which only prompted more ribbing.
Don’t ask her about tomorrow, the uncertainties, the what-ifs. Those she could fret about some other day. Right then, walking down that corridor, the world’s strongest sorcerer smiling at her with twinkling blue eyes, Hannah knew everything would be alright. She didn’t know how she knew this, but she did. Whatever the danger, they would rise up to meet it. Together.
Let the wolves come.
Notes:
SOURCED NOTES
1) i. Zen comes in threes, or odd numbers. You can read more about these gardens on Wikipedia (They’ve gotten better with their source material). I have also sourced my facts from Sophie Walker’s “The Japanese Garden.”
ii. I haven’t mentioned this yet, but the Gojo family’s garden is inspired by Seiwa-en, located at the MBG in St. Louis, MO. It is the largest Japanese garden in North America. If ever you find yourself driving through the American midwest, I humbly ask you visit this little gem.💎
2) For the record, there is technically no (substantial) scientific evidence these remedies work, as stated by webmd.com. Use caution. I found these remedies here. When you type the Latin nomenclature of the plant, it shows you its uses.
3) Now, if you want to read something really, really interesting, take a look at the Takao 599 Museum's website. This is a natural museum located on Mt. Takao. They list all the different kinds of wildlife found on the mountain. Click “Treasures of Mt. Takao.”
4) Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know Ghost is an overused name in fiction, but I couldn't think of anything else. Although it’s pronounced “Yū-rei” in Japanese.
5) Also, nuns are getting into the brewing business, and I am HERE FOR IT!!! Trappist ale/beer is the bomb.🤩Lastly, in case you’re wondering about the whole Hana(Kurusu) and Hannah situation with the Culling Game Arc, worry not. I will not be writing that far into the future with this fic. In my opinion, Hana and Hannah are two completely separate names with separate meanings. Hannah’s name is shown on the Gojo family tree as “Hana” because of translation issues. I have this situation in my head about how they work around it. I think it’s quite funny:
MEGUMI: Hannah?
HANA and HANNAH: Yes?
MEGUMI: Uh, not you. The other one.
HANA and HANNAH: Which other one?
MEGUMI: 😶If you have any more questions about this story, reach out to me on Tumblr, or leave a comment below.
NEXT CHAPTER:
🎶Thy hand, Belinda, darkness shades me...🎶
Chapter 13: Fear No Danger to Ensue
Summary:
Fasten your seatbelts, folks. Things are about to get a lot more interesting.
*Protective husband sensors, activate!!
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this.
Chat with me on Tumblr.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 13: Fear No Danger To Ensue
Hannah dreamed of fire. She dreamed of staring into its amber flame. It emitted no heat, and yet she was sweltering underneath the bundles of clothing on her skin. She watched the glittering flames turn from a heady amber to a sickly colored green. Extending her arms, she summoned the spirits to gather round, and like water freezing into solid ice, the phantoms took shape and proceeded to dance around her and the heatless fire. They danced and hooped and hollered. Fangs, claws, and horns, flailing with the cadence of the music. Hatred. They had hatred in their hearts. Infected yellow eyes flickered. Soon a bone white figure materialized from the swirling dark and advanced, scuttling on all fours, reeking of blood and pungent odor. The figure crept closer and closer, halting at her feet unblinkingly, and rose on its hind legs. She could see rows of needle-like teeth as it broke into a mouth splitting grin, black lines streaking its face. It seized her by windpipe, lifting her high up off the ground and spoke.
“I SEE YOU”
Hannah bolted upright from her bed, drenched in sweat, throat dry and tasting of dust. She had dreamt it again, the same vision as before, three nights in one week. The curse bore disturbing similarities to the one that attacked the Louvre; humanoid, yellow slitted eyes, chalky white skin with black markings. This deeply unsettled her. She had been able to give the Association sufficient warning due to the Mona Lisa smiling eerily in the background, but this new vision disclosed nothing of its whereabouts. There was no distinguishable architecture, no people, no famous 16th century painting smiling on the walls, and if experience taught her anything, Hannah knew she was running out of time. Emerald flames. Demons. Swirling black. What did it mean? What was The Sight trying to show her?
A breeze nipped her perspired skin and Hannah quickly spun around.
She couldn’t recall leaving the partition open. The moon was a bright alabaster pendant in the sky, shining out into the tea garden. A scops owl sat perched on a decaying branch. Its haunting red eyes had her locked in its sights. She clutched her blankets and dared not move, dared not breathe. Where did it come from? How long had it been there? After a short lived eternity, the avian creature let out a high pitched screech, stretched out its long tapered wings, and dove back into the wild under the veil of darkness. Never to be seen again. The wind carried with it the sound of rasping laughter, whistling through the trees.
I see you.
I see you.
I know you’re there.
You can’t hide forever.
Two weeks later
Satoru checked the hour on his phone. He had finished buttoning his shirt and faceted the uncooperative cufflinks. The black dress slacks he wore were stiff from being washed at the drycleaners, Makoto having picked them up yesterday morning. How long had it been since he last wore tails? Three, four years? The greasy clear gel used to part his hair smelled reminiscent of pine tar. It stung his nose.
“No one dresses for the opera anymore,” he grumbled, buttoning an ivory colored vest. “Is a penguin suit really necessary?”
“The invitation did say ‘white-tie,’ sir,” Makoto insisted. It hadn’t been the first time she reminded him of the fact.
Satoru continued moping, struggling to loop the aforementioned white tie around his shirt collar. The housekeeper walked over and tied it in a perfect bow, though to him it felt more like a hangman’s noose.
Much to his dread, the New National Theater was premiering its unique adaptation of Henry Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas with a celebratory gala. The opera itself was set to take place in Heian Japan instead of Virgil’s Ancient Carthage, star studded with a full Japanese cast and musicians from the Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra. Theatergoers and opera critics alike already hailed the adaptation as “a triumph” for the performing arts. The Gojo family had been patrons of the NNTT since its inception, meaning Satoru and his new bride were expected to attend; their first formal outing together as husband and wife since the wedding. Satoru couldn't wait for the stupid thing to be over.
“How much longer is she gonna take?” he sighed, scrolling impatiently through his phone, synchronizing the time for the Jacob and Co watch on his wrist. The only reason he agreed to go was because Nanami had new information regarding Hannah’s attack three months ago. “It’s important you know,” he said. They planned to rendezvous at the theater and talk more about it there.
“I believe she was deciding on jewelry, sir.”
“Right,” he huffed, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Jewelry.”
Since stepping out of Hannah’s room, Makoto was looking extraordinarily pleased with herself, which hadn’t gone unnoticed by the young master. And when the doors slid open, it was obvious as to why.
Hannah emerged, wearing a pale blue gown with delicate velvet flowers and tiny crystals embellished along the fabric. Satoru remembered this dress. It was a sweet little number, cut and sewn to meet her exact proportions. The thin doubled straps crested into a modest v-neck and when turned around revealed the open plane of her back. While not overly salacious, the gown showed more skin than normal. It fit her petite frame so well, Satoru hardly noticed the dainty pear drop diamonds sparkling on her ears, nor the cuffs on her gloved wrists. She was the spitting image of a sorcerer's wife. Breathtaking.
Hannah fluttered her curled eyelashes and appraised him up and down.
“You look very handsome,” she said smiling, her lips the color of rose buds. Makoto had tucked her auburn hair into an elaborate updo, pinning the curls with a jeweled brooch.
“Thanks, you too,” Satoru replied, but quickly corrected this blunder. “I mean, you look put together — no, wait, that sounded bad — I mean you look good, and, uh, uh …” he felt a red flush begin to creep up the collar of his shirt. What was wrong with him?
Hannah giggled, choosing to relieve him with a simple “Thank you” and turned to acknowledge the housekeeper, who was handing her an evening coat and clutch. “Although I should really be thanking Makoto-san. I’d be lost without her.”
“You flatter me, ma’am,” Makoto said, sneaking Satoru an overly smug glance as if to say “you’re welcome.”
Yup, he definitely needed to give the woman a raise. Again.
Disgruntled, Satoru grabbed the tails from Makoto’s waiting arms and shuffled over to the genkan to slip on his dress shoes. Hannah did the same with a glittering pair of heels. Mr. Ijichi stood waiting outside. The deputy director would act as their personal chauffeur for the evening. A swanky Rolls Royce Phantom was parked along the driveway.
“Ijichi-san,” Hannah cheered warmly. It has been days since they last spoke. “How are you?”
“H-Hannah.” A blush became evident on the deputy’s face as she stepped out. “Wow, you look…”
He was silenced by a wad of paper hitting him on the side of the head.
“Oi, Ijichi,” barked Satoru, opening the passenger seat for Hannah to climb in. “Get a move on. This thing ain’t gonna drive itself.”
“Oh, yes. R-Right away, Gojo-san,” the deputy director stammered, awkwardly bending over to pick up the wad of paper and race for the driver's seat.
The trio loaded into the vehicle and strapped on their seatbelts. Mr. Ijichi started the motor and put the car in reverse, while Hannah waved farewell to Makoto as they rolled out the driveway. Within minutes they were speeding down the outer roads towards the interstate.
When they merged onto Hachioji/Shinjuku, Satoru could tell Hannah was getting nervous. She was peering out the passenger seat window, gnawing her bottom lip, and bouncing her left knee as though shivering from the cold. It shook the entire car.
He rested a hand on her leg.
“Easy there, Princess. You’re going to make me hurl.” The way she looked, the nickname felt appropriate. “Relax.”
“Sorry,” she squeaked, looking out the window again, cheeks tinged a soft pink. The car stopped shaking. Whether consciously or unconsciously, Satoru’s hand gave her leg an affectionate rub before sliding off. Hannah was too transfixed by the city lights and gigantic jumbotrons to really notice.
Twenty minutes later, they had entered Shinjuku, a popular commercial hub in Tokyo. Concrete buildings and skyscrapers soon outnumbered the trees and mountainous terrain. They drove past flashing nightclubs and neon signed karaoke bars; popular street vendors; bougie restaurants; two 7 Eleven convenience stores; a gaming arcade Hannah mistook for a casino; another metro station. Every time the car waited for the light to change, they’d watch hoards of pedestrians cross the bustling intersections like large schools of herring. Satoru rolled down his window and let the paved asphalt and mouth watering street food fill his senses. The bright lights. The waves of color. The music. The laughter. People staring at their phones as they walked. This was Tokyo: thirty seven million beating hearts. Thirty seven million souls in one thriving metropolis.
He was actually born and raised in Kyoto. As a boy, Satoru would sneak out the house, board the fastest train to Tokyo, and wander up and down the city blocks for hours on end without adult supervision. Yeah, probably wasn’t his smartest move looking back on it. Coming home usually resulted in a major asswhooping and a stern “Don’t do it again,” but spankings and lecturers failed to deter him. Whenever Satoru heard the word “don’t,” he automatically thought “do.” He hated rules for the sake of rules. He hated being told how to act or what to say. Like that compulsion you suddenly harbored when some old crank started yelling at you to stop walking on grass that wasn’t even theirs. Walking the streets of Tokyo was like stomping all over that green grass. Victory.
Pausing his trip down memory lane, Satoru casually observed his wife from the neighboring passenger seat.
With her elbow bent along the door handle, she looked like a Hollywood film star posing for a cover shoot, a mix between an Audrey Hepburn and a younger Natalie Portman. The passing street lights illuminated the diamonds on her gloved wrists. She didn’t even know how stunning she was, he mused. Blissfully unaware.
Ijichi swung the car on Opera Street, and there, two blocks down, sat the New National Theater. He double parked the vehicle on the curb nearest the entrance.
The couple unbuckled their seat belts and scooched out of the Rolls Royce. Hannah eyed a single wine carpet rolled out like a velvet tongue for arriving guests. She could tell the theater was already packed. Her heart ratcheted, tightening the hold of her evening bag. She heard the clearing of a throat and turned to see Satoru stoop into a goofish bow.
“Madam,” he said, donning his best English accent. It sounded terrible, which in his case meant it was terribly good. His outstretched palm awaited hers. “Shall we?”
He was such a shameless lush. Hannah fell captive to his charm and allowed a smile to touch her lips. “We shall,” she laughed, humoring him with a small curtsy before taking his hand.
Together, they walked up the wine veloured tongue, permitting the entrance to swallow them whole. Into the belly of the beast.
The New National Theater was a relatively new attraction. Once the Japan Arts Council agreed to construct a performing arts center in 1960, it made the revolutionary decision that “non-traditional” arts would be included in the repertoire and that “necessary measures should also be taken with regard to facilities.” So after fierce deliberation and years of design and thoughtful planning, the New National Theater, Tokyo, was formally inaugurated in 1997, becoming Japan’s official safehaven for opera, ballet, and drama.1
A contemporary opera house, the theater was modern as it was technologically advanced, giving guests the ultimate live viewing experience. The building incorporated not one, but three auditoriums, including an information center, an Italian eatery, a daycare room, and a rooftop garden. There was additionally the Tokyo Opera City Tower; a fluted skyscraper that stood adjacent to the main building, which contained an art gallery, a museum, several concert halls, as well as shops, restaurants, a chapel, dental clinics, and leasable office space. During the month of December, guests could peer out the tower’s 54 floors and observe the blinking Christmas lights decorating Shinjuku Central Park below. However, Hannah and Satoru weren’t visiting the tower. The Dido and Aeneas event was being celebrated inside the main building on the second floor.2
Arm in arm, the married couple made their way up the staggered stairs, sleek and futuristic. Exhibited high on steel balconies were costumes of past productions, and framed along the walls were posters of upcoming shows and events. Hannah wasn’t an architect by any means, nor an interior designer, but she thought the entrance felt clinical; too much concrete and metal and geometric patterns. There were Japanese elements to its overall theme, no question, but had Hannah not known it to be a theater, she would’ve guessed they had segwayed into a shopping center, or perhaps even an airport.
A string trio played Mozart’s Salzburg Symphony No. 2 as waiters in black jackets carried trays of hor d'oeuvres and refreshments in and out of the kitchens. When Satoru and his wife stepped inside the main foyer, the animated chatting lost considerable volume, as did the music. Hundreds of people styled in their best evening attire - the crème de la crème of jujutsu and Tokyo society - craned their necks to assess the new arrivals, pushing and shoving in the hopes of catching a fated glimpse.
Never had Hannah seen such a collection of jewelry and furs in one setting since her nights at Wasserton. Her heart hammered in her ears. She felt her anxiety surmounting the way water trundled into a ravine after a long summer rain. So many eyes. They made her feel undressed somehow, like she’d been brought in as a perambulating diversion; some satisfied by her appearance, others less so. As they continued gawping, Hannah couldn’t help but think back to the wolves; how they stalk their prey, find weaknesses, then kill and abandon whatever is left for the crows. She leaned on Satoru as they moved through the throngs of spectators. The music started up again.
“Hey.”
Hannah looked up, meeting her husband’s alluring blue eyes; The night he carried her in his arms, her head resting against his chest, listening to his steady beating heart. Funny how those eyes once filled her with unease and trepidation. Now she craved them anywhere. His bigger hand clasped hers.
“Don’t let these lowlifes scare you, alright?” he murmured, his breath smelling like the peppermint candy he’d been nibbling on in the car. “Remember, you’re with me now. They’re not gonna try jack shit.”
Hannah looked bashfully at her shoes. “I just wish they wouldn’t stare so much.”
“No, let ‘em stare,” he softly countered, stopping long enough to gently tilt her chin upwards. “They’d be idiots not to.”
Hannah knew she was blushing through the makeup. His words were oddly reassuring. The hammering in her ears slowed to a manageable rhythm. She took slow deliberate breaths as they moseyed around the crowd. They found Shoko and Utahime standing next to a dessert table
“Fashionably late, I see,” Utahime boasted loftily.
“What’re you talking about?” Satoru pulled his sleeve and checked the Jacob & Co. piece on his wrist. “We’re right on time.”
“Wrong! The invitation said 5 o’clock, loser. It’s 6:30.”
“Yeah, but the show doesn’t start till 8, weakling, so what’s your point?”
“W-Weakling?!! Who are you calling a ‘weakling?’ I’m not weak.”
“Weakling, weakling,” Satoru sang. “Utahime is a weakling.”
Utahime cheeks puffed scarlet red. “Shut up, Satoru. Nobody likes you, so do us all a favor and go be stupid somewhere else.”
“Wait, for real? Nobody likes me? But I'm such a nice guy.”
“Idiot, you’re about as nice as a cancer diagnosis.”
“Ouch,” Satoru demurred, ego deflating a bit. “That’s harsh.”
“No, that’s just the truth,” Utahime corrected. “And did you dislocate your spine or something? Quit slouching. It doesn't look cool.”
Hannah was amused by their bickering. They argue like siblings, she thought. As the two jabbered on, Shoko swiped a wine glass from a passing server.
“I like your dress, Hannah,” she said, taking a sip. The drink was the exact same burgundy as her gown, cut in a flattering sweetheart neckline, beaded head to toe, leaving her shoulders bare.
“Thank you, Shoko. I like yours too.” Hannah then turned to Utahime, who was also in a dress, except it had sleeves and only the bodice was beaded. The mauve color brought out the purple in her hair. “And Utahime’s as well.”
“See? Your wife knows how to give someone a compliment.” Utahime squinted at Satoru. “Why haven’t you said anything? You know it took me forever to get ready for this. Plus, the shopping and the makeup.”
Slouching even more, Satoru felt he couldn’t win. Women were just too complicated to understand. Besides, there were bigger things to worry about than makeup and acrylic fingernails. His eyes scanned the foyer.
“Anyone seen Nanami?”
Shoko finished the last of her wine. “Yeah,” she pointed her thumb behind them, “He’s over at the bar. Why?”
“No reason,” Satoru said. “Can the two of you watch Hannah for me a sec? It won’t be long.”
“Sure,” Shoko said.
“Yeah, whatever,” Utahime agreed. “But bring me back a martini while you’re up there. Dry. No olives.”
They were able to catch Satoru muttering, “Do I look like a waiter?” before leaving for the bar. Hannah saw how easily he parsed through the mingling crowd, or perhaps a better way of describing it was how star-struck they all looked as he walked by them. He was still a head taller than everybody, a floating dandelion seed in the grass. She got cold all of a sudden, missing his warmth.
“Satoru doesn’t drink, you know,” Utahime conspired in her ear.
Hannah blinked, surprised. “Really?”
“Yup,” the teacher snickered. “He’s a total lightweight. I’ve seen him take one sip of beer and phewm,” she clapped her hands together, “pass out ten seconds later. I swear he can’t hold his liquor at all.”
“She’s exaggerating, of course,” Shoko interjected. “But it’s basically true. Satoru is terrible with alcohol. You’re half his size and could probably take him in a drinking contest.”
Hannah realized then that she’d never actually seen Satoru drink. The age registration in Japan was twenty, but the youngest Hannah had ever tried alcohol was seventeen. Truth be told, she didn’t like beer very much. Too bitter. Although she did enjoy a strong cream sherry at Christmas when the nun’s were pouring. Perhaps that’s what she needed to get her through this. A drink. She could still feel intense stares pressing all around her.
The foyer felt more crowded than before. Attendees were now bumping shoulder to shoulder, spilling their drinks, and voicing apologies. The waiters had begun setting aside the hor d'oeuvres in lieu of refreshments. No amount of expensive perfume could hide the smell of sweat and body odor. The walls were closing in. They swayed. Hannah suddenly developed a bout of nausea. Her eyes searched for a directory. She needed air.
“Can either of you tell me where the bathroom is?”
“It’s over on the right, down the staircase,” Utahime answered. She could sense the younger woman’s worry. “Want us to come with?”
The wife shook her head. “No, I should be fine.”
“You have Utahime’s cell, right?” Shoko asked.
Hannah lightly rattled the contents of her evening bag where she’d packed her phone. “Yes.”
Neither female sorcerer felt it right to commandeer. Hannah was an adult, not a child. So long as they knew where she was, they saw no harm in letting her go off by herself. The theater was heavily guarded with the best sorcerers.
“Alright, call us if you need anything,” said Shoko. “We’ll be watching.”
Hannah excused herself, and turned to face the crowd, feeling a tinge of regret for wanting to go alone. The trip to the bathroom was like walking the road to Golgotha. Eyes pressing upon her, she became nervous again. She concentrated on the floor, trying to block out the whispers as she neared the staircase.
She just about made it until she was thwarted by a waiter carrying a large silver tray of glass flukes. Caught off guard, the waiter lost his balance, and tumbled spectacularly backwards. The flukes crashed to the floor. You could hear every shard and chip crack.
The crowd let out a unified gasp, followed by laughing and groans of discontent. None of them rushed in to help the waiter, who was scrambling to pick up the broken glass, sweat trickling from his forehead, humiliated. He’d be granted no reprieve. These people. They looked down on the weak, the downtrodden, the little guy. Like it was a sport.
But Hannah took pity. Not two months ago, this waiter and her were one in the same. As a girl, she recalled a time when it was her turn to help distribute communion during Mass, and having the hands of a slug, accidentally spilled a gold-plated ciborium of consecrated hosts, which had to be eaten off the floor immediately. The ordeal was soul crushing for Hannah, and like that very incident, she too felt responsible for this man’s folly. It was her fault. Had she been paying attention, he wouldn’t have fallen. She couldn’t erase the past, nor stop the crowd from laughing, but she could try to make things right. If this man was embarrassed, she would be embarrassed with him. Hannah got down on her knees and helped the man pick up the fractured shards.
“T-Thank you,” he said, directing his eyes towards the intimidating crowd. They were all staring.
Hannah said nothing and gave a kind smile, mindful not to hold the jagged, serrated edges in such a way they would slice through her gloves. After gathering what they could, and leaving the smaller shards to be swept with a broom and dustpan, the waiter patted himself and again gave thanks, but not before Hannah slipped him ¥250,000 from her evening bag as an apology. Rendered speechless, the waiter could only nod his head in shocked gratitude and dash for the kitchens.
Hannah was about to get up for the restroom, when she felt a presence overshadow her.
“My, that was rather charitable, helping a person in need like that.” She was given a hand. “Please, allow me the honor.”
Hannah glanced without sensing the impending danger, and took the newcomer’s open hand.
…
Satoru was still looking for Nanami over at the bar. Twenty minutes in and the salaryman hadn’t shown. He checked the bathrooms, the dessert buffet. He even tried locating him through the aid of the Six Eyes, but failed to get a read on his signature. Nope, something definitely wasn’t right. Punctual to a fault, Nanami Kento was rarely late. When he said to meet somewhere, the business man was always the first to arrive on the scene. He wasn’t replying to his texts either, “Unread” spelled at the top of the highlighted green messages. Where the heck was he?
As Satoru searched elsewhere, he had to endure the gaggle of strangers fawning over him, telling him how lovely his wife looked, rubbing elbows, receiving pats on the back. He loathed these interactions like he loathed the higher-ups. They were all a bunch of posers, flouting honeyed words hoping it would land them in his good graces, but he saw through their facade like glass. Their kindness wasn’t genuine. It wasn’t Hannah.
“You look lost, Satoru,” came a flirtatious voice from behind. “It’s unbecoming of you.”
Satoru turned around to identify who it was and smirked. “Mei Mei, I thought you weren’t much for parties.”
“I’m for parties where money is concerned.” The sorcerer fanned herself with a couple of ¥10,000 banknotes. “I already made short work of Mr. Trust Fund over there. His girlfriend wasn’t too happy about it though. She could do better, frankly.
Satoru looked over his shoulder where Mei Mei directed to see a woman berating her moneyless beau. The man waved at Mei Mei with puppy dog eyes, ignoring his girlfriend. Mei Mei waved back as though interested. The fool. Satoru’s seen her use this trick a thousand times; find a victim, play it all innocent, then leave the poor sod with the swag. She made it look easy.
“I saw you come in with your wife,” Mei Mei noted, circling the taller sorcerer as she counted her loot. “Hannah, was it?”
“Yeah,” Satoru said. “Hannah.”
“My, she’s a cute little thing.”
“Yeah, she is.”
“Do you like her?”
“She’s a good person. Why wouldn’t I like her?”
“Silly,” Mei giggled and stopped counting her cash to trace a manicured finger along the lapel of his jacket. “That’s not what I meant.”
He glanced down where the finger touched the fabric, her womanly cleavage spilling out of her black dress, leg slitted. She had traded her silvery blue braids for hot-ironed curls. Ah, he knew what she was after, and for a time, he would’ve obliged. She was the strongest woman. He, the strongest man. It was a harsh, harsh world out there, never knowing which day would be your last.
Their sexual relationship began shortly after Suguru’s betrayal. Mei Mei insisted she was doing him a favor, “Better to do it with someone you know,” she reasoned, teaching him the basics with her temptress hands. Where she learned to do all those vile, wicked things, he hadn’t bothered to ask. The sex was strictly transactional, a mercurial high to help them cope with the incessant bullshit life threw at them. It wasn’t love. It was anything but love. That’s what they wanted. Feelings would only get in the way.
But they weren’t teenagers anymore, flush with hormones and pent up rage. Satoru experimented with other partners as he got older. They were much needed distractions, keeping him from having to reconcile about his homicidal best friend, someone he once viewed as a brother, an equal. For a while it did the trick. Suguru hadn't perveyed his thoughts for nearly four years.
And then Hannah happened.
The curse who attacked her eight weeks ago was believed to be acting under the influence of the Manipulation Technique, Suguru’s signature ability. A small part of Satoru prayed this was merely coincidental and his friend was innocent, but the residuals and growing evidence were too damning. Sweet, innocent Hannah had been deliberately targeted. He knew it was for The Sight, but why? What was the motive? What did Suguru want with Hannah?
Mei Mei dropped her hand. “Well, if your bed starts getting cold,” she hummed, prying him away from his thoughts. “You know where to find me.”
Satoru managed a noncommittal grunt.
Sounds of shattering glass dispersed from the crowd.
Alarmed, everyone swung their heads in unison, but there were too many people to get a clear view. Using the Six Eyes, Satoru zoomed to where the commotion was.
He saw Hannah kneeling on the floor, helping a waiter pick up shards of broken glass. His chest swelled with pride when he watched her slip the money into the waiter’s breast pocket. But his blood ran ice cold when he saw a certain someone barge through the crowd and give her their hand. A certain someone that had no place being invited. Touching her.
Oh no. What was he doing here?
…
Hannah took the stranger’s hand. She glanced at the people, swarms of onlookers circling around them like bees to a hive, increasing in number. They grimaced and shook their heads, a few pointing and casting disparaging looks, though not necessarily at her.
She swatted the dirt from her gloves. “Thanks,” she said, readjusting her dress straps that threatened to spool over. “Hope it wasn’t any trouble.”
“Not at all,” the stranger replied. Also wearing a tux, he slicked back his dirty blonde hair, silver piercings glinting on both ears. His face seemed permanently slanted in an arrogant grin. “Sorry, where are my manners? My name is — ”
“Naoya,” called a brazen voice from the crowd. “I thought they didn’t allow trash in here.”
An eerie hush fell over the crowd. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, everyone moved to bid the strongest sorcerer entrance. Hannah could tell from the menacing look Satoru gave that something was clearly wrong.
“Satoru,” Naoya beamed as though welcoming a long lost friend. “You’re looking dapper this evening. Is that a new suit? Ah, Dolce and Gabbana. Very nice.”
Utahime and Shoko pushed themselves through the gaggle of people. They had seen the problem also, but were blocked due to the crowd. Satoru met their tense gazes. Taking Shoko’s ready nod as a queue, he got between his wife and the stranger.
“Hannah, why don’t you go with the others and let the two of us…catch up,” he said cautiously, not taking his eyes off Naoya.
Confused, Hannah peered those innocent hazel eyes up at Satoru for an explanation. Who is this guy? But Satoru didn’t take the bait and smiled softly. “It’s okay,” he mouthed, gently nudging her towards his two friends. She gave him a forlorn look, wanting to stay, but eventually complied, and walked over to Shoko and Utahime. Safe and sound.
Satoru turned his attention back on his adversary.
Zen’in Naoya was a bonafide sadist and a real fear monger. His treatment towards women, especially young girls, had finally ousted him to the public. Last Satoru heard, the bastard was caught having sex with a minor (his second offense). Since 1907, Japan’s consenting age remained frozen at thirteen, meaning Naoya’s latest victim had to be twelve years or younger, and knowing his sexual proclivities, it was unlikely the act was consensual. Satoru had supported legislation to bump the legal age to seventeen, but the system was corrupt. He suspected the Hei had their grimy fingerprints all over the case. This latest Jane Doe and her family were brave for speaking out. Most never made it that far.
“So, her name’s Hannah,” Naoya mused, watching the three women leave. “I gotta say, Satoru, you’re a lucky man. A very, very — ”
“Fuck off, Naoya,” Satoru said, affronting him once more. “I see you touch her again, you’ll be leaving here in a plastic bag.”
Naoya spreaded his hands in mockery. “Woah, Woah, woah, hold the phone. Are my ears deceiving me? Could it be that the great Gojo Satoru has learned to care for someone other than himself?”
“I care about what’s mine.”
Naoya threw back his head. “What’s yours,” he brayed. “That’s rich.”
Satoru was growing impatient. “Mind telling me why you’re sorry ass isn’t being holed up in a jail cell?” he inquired. “What, did daddy have to bail you out a second time? Tsk, tsk, that’s two felonies in a row now, buddy. Better watch it, or your chances of being clan leader will be flushed down the toilet.”
As Satoru spoke, Naoya kept on smiling, though not as confidently. He had pinched a nerve. Everyone knew Naobito, the current Zen’in clan head, had not officially bequeathed the title to his son, which was rumored to be a point of contention within the family. It was satisfying for Satoru, watching the bastard cave under the scrutiny.
“If you must know,” Naoya huffed, looking vindicated. “My father didn’t ‘bail me out.’ The charges were dropped based on uncorroborated evidence. They let me go.”
Satoru shrugged his shoulders. “Or you bribed the judge.”
“Bribed the judge, listen to you,” Naoya sneered. “The Zen’in family would never hold themselves above the law.”
Satoru’s hands were clenched tightly, nails digging into the center of his palm. That was the biggest lie if there ever was one. If he had it his way, he would beat this pervert to a bloody pulp, but there were too many witnesses. A fight would cause an unwanted scene. It was better to let the bastard off with a warning.
“I see you with her again, you're a dead man. You hear?” he growled, and turned to leave, but the Zen’in wanted the final say.
“I wouldn’t be making such idle threats if I were you, Satoru.”
The Six Eyes wielder halted mid-step to glance over his shoulder.
“Oh, yes,” Naoya snickered. “Don’t think we don’t know what it is you're doing. That teaching gig you’ve been after? Your grandiose plan to tear down the establishment? I’m here to tell you it won’t work. And when it falls into a crumbling ash heap, the Zen’in family will be ready to assume the mantle. And who knows? Maybe they’ll give me that pretty new wife of yours as tribute.”
Satoru flashed his eyes. “Over my dead body.”
“Now that,” Naoya’s lips curled into a serpentine grin, “is something I’d love to see.”
What impudence. Gojo had heard enough. Play stupid games, you win stupid prizes. This sexist prick was talking shit out of his ass. He turned and walked away, Naoya’s hissing laughter trailing behind him. The crowd ceased their eavesdropping and carried on, and the reception hall refilled with noise as the string orchestra resumed playing. Hannah, Shoko, and Utahime were waiting over in the corner. Satoru approached them, recovering his bride, and followed the people into the auditorium. They had opened the doors.
“Who was that?” Hannah whispered, worry edged in her voice. “You looked ready to strangle him.”
Satoru suddenly stopped walking, and with featherlite finesse, grabbed his wife by the waist and twirled her off to the side so the rest of the crowd could pass.
“Listen, Hannah,” he said softly, leaning her against the wall. “If that guy ever does that again, talks to you, touches you, promise you’ll come find me, okay? Don’t engage with him.”
“Engage?”
“I’m serious, Hannah.” He secured his hold around her waist, their foreheads hovering close. “Promise me you’ll do this.”
Hannah stared into his pleading blue eyes, an endless ocean, a thousand and one questions. She wanted to ask more, but knew it wasn’t the right time or place. “Alright, I promise.”
“Good,” he exhaled, relieved to have gotten the message across. He shepherded her back into the bustling crowd. “C’mon, let’s go find our seats.”
The opera auditorium was hewn entirely of golden mahogany, from the ceiling down to the floorboards. The theater’s chief architect Yanagisawa Takahiko wanted the interior to mimic a musical instrument, almost like a Stradivarius, or a grand Yamaha piano. A proscenium arched theater stood behind the 120 person orchestra pit and thousands of folded chairs, while LEDs suffused the gleaming space with light. The Gojo family had their own private box located on the third level. Peering out from the balcony, Hannah watched the theatergoers gather below. They looked so small, she could fit them in the palm of her hand.
“I’ll be back,” Satoru said, touching her shoulder as she took a seat. “Can I trust you to stay put?”
“Yes.” Hannah looked back at him. “But where are you going this time?”
“Nature calls.” Satoru unfastened the button on his blazer and draped it over the chair. “Gotta take a leak.”
“Okay,” she better situated the blazer and turned back towards the stage.
His face got right in front of her, obscuring her view.
“Stay. Put.”
Hannah rolled her eyes and batted him away. “Yes, yes. I heard you,” she said. “I’m glued to the seat.”
He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at her, and left to find the lavatory, hiding a grin as she let out a laugh.
Alone in the box, Hannah continued watching.
As the small chamber orchestra entered the pit and began tuning their instruments, Hannah spied a middle aged woman, one floor down, enter her box. The woman was dressed in an elaborate tomesode, black with multiple gold accents. Not a hair pin out of place. Hannah was too far away to distinguish the monon her sleeves and nape. Did she belong to a prominent family? She was the only individual not wearing Western clothing. It was hard to guess her age. Her otherwise youthful face breathed with it an air of contempt, like she’d been forced to attend and didn’t want to.
The lights flickered three times, signaling the show was about to begin. People stopped conversing with one another and rushed to their seats.
Satoru returned, carrying a dessert tray he had swiped from one of the waiters. He was finishing a shot glass with what looked to be tiramisu.
“Want one?” he asked, whipped cream on his lips.
“No.” Hannah shook her head. “Help yourself.”
The show was about to start.
The lights slowly dimmed. A spotlight haloed around the conductor as she made her debut appearance and bowed. The audience broke into thunderous applause. Then turning to face her fellow musicians, the conductor tapped a baton, gave a small nod of the head, and like a wizard casting a spell through the use of their magic wand, the music began.
The violins and viola lead the instruments in a baroque overture, followed by two cellos and a bass. A harpsichord merrily twiddled in the background alongside the lute, and after playing thirty measures of bass continuo, the velvet curtains lifted to reveal the throne room of a stately palace. Our tragic heroine Dido, played by the grand-diva Kanoh Etsuko, was shown in all her royal splendor. The Heian queen stood costumed in jūnihitoe style dress, with layers upon layers of multicolored silk. Her shiny black hair trailed the length of her skirts, and her face shone like fine porcelain with lips the color of carnations. Beautiful, she was surrounded by her many courtesans, but appeared deeply troubled. Her most loyal servant, Belinda, entered the stage.
“Sha-ea-ea-ke the cloud from off your brow,” she trilled, wanting to cure her queen’s sadness. “ Fortune smiles and so should you.”
After several refrains the harpsichord changed key.
“Ah! Belinda,” Dido slowly grieved in her rich mezzo soprano. “I am pressed with torment not to be confessed.”
All is not well in the city of Carthage, reforged to mimic the historic capital of Heian-kyo (modern day Kyoto). It was revealed that Dido was teetering on the edge of political ruin. She had secretly fallen for Aeneas, the Trojan prince whose crew had shipwrecked on Carthage’s shores, but was reluctant to act on her love, fearing its ramifications. The whole of Carthage was pressuring the two rulers to marry and merge their kingdoms. “When monarchs unite, how happy their state,” they sang. Dido secretly worried that marrying Aeneas would weaken Carthage, and that he would abandon her on his quest to establish Rome.
The orchestra strung a triumphant melody. Joining them on stage was the conquering warlord Aeneas, under the guise of tenor Mochizuki Tetsuya. Decked in full samurai armor (ō-yoroi), he tore off his helmet and once again implored Dido for her hand on bended knee; “if not for mine, then for Empire’s sake.” He swore he loved her, as she loved him, promising never to leave and abandon his mission of ever finding Rome. Dido struggled to resist and eventually, under the besiege of her courtesans, embraced his advances. The audience clapped at the end of their impassioned duet.
Hannah clapped too. Having never been to a theater before, it was all so wonderfully exciting. She had the entire libretto of Dido and Aeneas memorized by heart, thanks to an Italian nun who briefly trained as an aspiring opera singer. Henry Purcell’s works were easy because they were written in English, instead of Italian or German. Though being an opera, loosening their jaws to make the correct vowel sound, it was sometimes difficult for listeners to understand what the singers were actually saying. Lots of random “aah” and “ohh”s. Hannah was mesmerized, her elbows perched on the balcony to get a better view.
Satoru slumped in his seat, head propped, bored out of his wits. He hated opera almost as much as he hated rules. He found the constant drama nauseating and the storylines formulaic. Ugh, and the singing. He couldn’t stand the incessant singing. At least the Mozart ones were funny.
Nanami said he had new information regarding Hannah’s attack. That was the real reason he came, but the salaryman remained elusive. Satoru kept checking his phone for updates. Still nothing.
He afforded himself occasional glances at his wife, leaning against the balcony. She was humming along to the music, mouthing the words verse by verse. The diamond jewelry glittered as she dreamily swayed her head, and the sparkling dress exposed her back to him like a strip tease. His fingers twitched. The dessert tray no longer held interest, nor the actors on stage. Satoru had to fight the urge to reach out and smooth his yearning hands over her bare skin, slip off those dainty beaded straps, and cup the tender, supple flesh underneath. He wanted to feel their weight in his palms, hear her moaning his name, begging for release…Satoru felt himself grow hard at the thought, crotch pushing against his pant zipper as if to say "Let me out!" He couldn’t decide whether this was a blessing or a curse, but she looked absolutely ravishing, a grown man’s wet dream. He needed to take her out like this more often. It felt selfish keeping her indoors all the time.
Thankfully, Hannah was too absorbed by the music to notice him undressing her with his eyes.
Slow and ominous music played for Act II. The stage lights that were once a dreamy colored orange transitioned into a bright arsenic green, casting a sickly glow over the theater. The audience were shrouded in a swirling mass of black. An evil Enchantress stepped forth from the shadows and stood over a bubbling cauldron. News of Dido and Aeneas’ betrothal had reached her knowing. She hated the Queen of Carthage, and now planned to thwart the two lovers by assembling her legion of wicked servants.
“Wayward sisters, you that fright,” she nazily crooned. “Appear, APPEAR, at my call!!”
A coven of witches took center stage . Yokai and oni resolved from the shadows and pranced around the emerald flames in a state of delirium. They danced and hooped and hollered. Fangs, claws, and horns, flailing wildly. “Harm is our delight and mischief all our skill,” they chorused. Costumes. They were extras wearing costumes, singing of their hatred for the Queen. That meant …
Satoru heard his wife gasp, grabbing for his arm. Her eyes held the wide desolate look of someone on the verge of fainting.
“Oh, God,” she breathed.
Satoru’s brow wrinkled. He initially thought she was reacting to the opera, but then the foul stench of raw cursed energy assailed his nose. The Six Eyes shifted more into focus, looking at the audience, the orchestra, the stage, searching, searching, searching — there. He saw it; a bone white figure hiding amongst the curtains, hunched on all fours. Satoru quickly rose to his feet, but the curse had already infiltrated the stage. It swooped in from behind and grabbed the Enchantress by the throat. The soprano’s singing morphed into coughing screams, legs thrashing, lungs grappling for air, before the auditorium echoed with the stomach churning break of her neck. Snap. Her body flopped like a dead fish on the stage. Music screeched to a dying halt. Everyone leapt from their seats in full blown panic. “What’s going on?” “What is that thing?” Gleeful, the curse aimed its hand at the audience, purple aura energizing around its fingertips. Satoru pulled his wife close.
“Get down!”
BOOM. A deafening blast rippled throughout the theater, shaking the floorboards. People screamed. Hannah heard heavy groaning like that of humongous trees being uprooted from the ground. She heard bodies trampling over each other, scrambling to get away; concrete slabs jutting apart; metal pipes bursting. Another blast. Clouds of thick dust and debris obscured her eyes. She couldn’t see. A lone child cried out for its mother somewhere amidst the growing chaos. Then the lights flickered for a halting moment, thrumming and fizzling, until the ceiling finally collapsed, descending on top of them like a coffin lid.
Everything fell into darkness.
Notes:
SOURCED NOTES:
1. Despite what Hannah thinks, I personally love the design of the New National Theater Tokyo. It’s so cool. Apparently it’s a popular spot to grab lunch.
- Information about the NNTT.
- Here is its history page.
- Plus the interior.
- Alas, the NNTT does not have actual box seats.🥲 I’ve checked. If you’re a first time purchaser, you can only buy two tickets at a time for section D, which is the closest equivalent to having box seats.
2. Tokyo Opera Tower floor guide (use translator).
3. Sadly, Dido and Aeneas was not included in the NNTO’s 2014-2015 season. The Japanese adaptation is completely made up. However, Kanoh Etsuko and Mochizuki Tetsuya are real opera singers and have performed for the NNTT.
4. Dido and Aeneas is Henry Purcell’s only true operatic work, and is one of the shortest, lasting roughly an hour. It dramatizes the fourth book of Virgil’s Aeneid. I’ve watched Dido and Aeneas countless times, each with memorable performances, but never read anything about it till I picked up Ellen T. Harris’ book. Very insightful. There are also loads of free Dido and Aeneas performances available on YouTube.
- In the end, the Enchantress tricks Aeneas into leaving Dido, disguising one of her dark elves as the messenger god Mercury, who orders him to set sail for Italy. In her grief and anguish, Dido commits suicide (“When I Am Laid in Earth”).
5. Many Didos have come and gone over the years, but for me, the Carthaginian queen will forever be THE Jessye Norman.
6. You’ll be happy to know there are already Japanese operas, such as Shotoku Taishi. Although it should be noted that noh and kabuki theater long preceded opera by roughly 300 years. I highly recommend you click on these links. I learned a lot.
7. LASTLY, before you come at Mei Mei with your angry torches and pitchforks, know that Satoru is not going to sleep with her behind Hannah’s back. They just have history, that’s all. I used the “friends with benefits” trope after having been inspired by their interactions in the manga and anime.
8. As for Naoya, the dude’s a creep, plain and simple. Ever since Akutami-sensei introduced him in the series, I had “abuser” written all over him.
9. Here is Hannah’s outfit for the opera.My beta reader said she didn’t like it.According to the Hollywood Reporter, this particular dress took over 1,000 hours to construct and was featured on the Chanel Couture SP 2016 runway.Follow me on Tumblr.
Chapter 14: Into the Belly of the Beast
Summary:
Our couple is trapped inside a curse’s Innate Domain and must find a way out. Side note: Satoru should really learn to keep his mouth shut.
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this.
Chat with me on Tumblr.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” — Dorothy, The Wizard of Oz.
Chapter 14: Into the Belly of the Beast
The evil that took place inside the New National Theater on July 8, 2014, would go down as possibly the most egregious act of domestic terrorism in modern Tokyo since the subway sarin attacks of 1995, where followers of the Aum Shinrikyo movement dispersed sarin bombs into five Tokyo Metro stations, killing 13 people and injuring thousands. By contrast, the theater’s death toll would be 50 times that amount, and when the night was through, a reported 663 people would be dead, 80 missing, and more than 1,000 left severely injured. According to the Japan Meteorological Agency, the seismic activity of the devastation could be felt from Shibuya all the way to the outer east wards of Edogawa and Tokyo Bay. Nearly ⅔ of the theater would be reduced to a crumbling ash heap, including the left side of Opera City Tower, and 158 neighboring buildings would have their windows completely shattered, destroying 74 vehicles, and causing an estimated ¥83 billion worth of damage. After conducting a full investigation, the NPA (National Police Agency) would accuse the Aum Shinrikyo movement of once again being responsible for the attack, stating the doomsday cult had detonated a bomb containing up to 3,000 tons of TNT, and were now evading police. Tokyo would be placed on lockdown until the suspects were apprehended. The whole city would undergo a state of mourning.1
Except that wasn't how it happened.
This would be a lie fabricated by the Japanese government to elude the public from knowing the truth. The truth that the attack was not of human making. That despite the whole of jujutsu society gathered in attendance, and the strongest protective spells safeguarding the perimeter, a special-grade curse managed to bypass security and seal the entire theater within its Domain, thus obliterating most of the building and killing the majority of guests and staff inside, resulting in a bloodsport of devastation and carnage.
Hannah didn’t know how much time had elapsed since the ceiling caved. She thought to have heard alarm bells blaring someplace but perhaps that was more in part to the faint ringing in her ears. The acrid smell of smoke and debris still lingered, though not as strong as before. She felt no pain. Had no trouble breathing. Actually, as strange as it seemed, she felt she was lying peacefully underneath a shaded canopy. Could this be Heaven, she thought. Interesting. For having been quashed to death by a collapsed concrete ceiling, Heaven felt surprisingly more…embracing than she imagined. Smelled nice. Warm. Had a heartbeat even.
“You okay?”
Hannah slowly peeled her eyes open to find her nose buried in Satoru’s shirt. He had used his Infinity as a buffer, shielding them from the impending rubble. She looked around, trying to collect her bearings, dazed from the noise and confusion. She had taken no serious hurt. Nothing felt broken or injured, no missing limbs. All indications she was very much alive and had not gone to Heaven. Blinking rapidly, she sat up in her husband’s arms, expecting to see a war zone: burning fire, ambulance lights, search and rescue parties frantically scouring for dead bodies beneath the wreckage. Instead she saw darkness. And like an open reservoir, the immediate past came flooding back to her in disorienting waves: People are dead. She took a sharp inhale, placing a convulsive hand to her mouth.
“Oh, God,” she whispered in a shaky, distracted voice she hardly recognized as her own. “It’s my fault.”
“What?” Satoru said.
“It’s my fault.”
“What’s your fault?”
“Everything!” she shrilled, almost hysterical. “T-The green lights, the demons I didn’t know weren’t actually demons, the curse, everything. The Sight showed me everything, but I was confused, I failed to make the connection, and now all those people are…those people are…”
She covered her face in her hands. Satoru had heard her cry before - at night from the other side of her bedroom - but this was different. This was how she cried when she was wide awake. She barely made a sound. It was eerily quiet, a long, drawn out pause with every quivering inhale as the sobs racked her body. She had taught herself to cry this way, he thought. Silent, so no one would know. It made his own heart break, and with tenderness he didn’t know he was capable of, he pulled her close to him.
“Shhh, it’s alright,” he soothed, resting his chin on her crown. “I’ve got you. Don’t cry.”
“I should have said something,” she blubbered into his shoulder. “They’re dead because of me.”
Satoru forced her to look at him then, cupping the back of her head and tilting it upwards. Their eyes met, face to face.
“I don’t want to hear those words come out of your mouth. Do you understand? Not ever.”
“But it’s true,” she sobbed. “I could’ve prevented this. I could’ve stopped it from happening. That’s the whole reason I’m here. If I can’t predict the future, what good am I?”
“That doesn’t make you responsible for their deaths, Hannah.” Satoru was the most serious he had ever been with her. “The curse did this, not you. It’s not your fault.” He emphasized each word with a mild shake of her shoulders. “You are not to blame.”
Hannah felt her husband's embrace tighten around her, face flush against his chest so she could hear the steady rhythm of his heart, drowning out any excess noise around them. His unique scent of coffee and vetiver was comforting. And like an infant being gently rocked to sleep, she felt her pulse abade and her breathing even out almost immediately. He kept rumbling soporific words in her hair, “You’re alright. Don’t cry,” as he swayed gently back and forth. Hannah closed her eyes and said nothing. The tears stopped flowing. They remained like that for a few minutes before Satoru stopped swaying and fished out his phone. She heard him repeatedly fiddle with the screen, pressing and tapping, yet no matter how many times he pushed the power button, the device wouldn’t turn on. He eventually gave up and placed the phone back in his pocket.
“Welp, should I tell you the good news first, or the bad news?”
Hannah looked up, sniffling. “There’s good news?”
“Okay, good news it is,” he chuckled, rubbing her arms up and down. “The good news is we’re not trapped inside an actual Domain. This Expansion is incomplete.”
“Really? How do you know?”
Satoru adjusted his hold on her. “Domain Expansion is a cursed technique. Activating it requires unprecedented amounts of cursed energy. A normal person would die from the exposure, but you’re not dead, so yay. No real Domain.”
“Alright,” Hannah said, biting her lip. “And the bad news?”
“The bad news is while this Domain may be incomplete, we can’t just find the nearest exit and walk out. In theory we could try using jujutsu to break through. Only problem is it wouldn’t eliminate the source and leave us vulnerable to attack. Plus, if there are any survivors down here, recklessly breaking the Domain might unintentionally kill them.”
Her stomach dropped. “So, what you’re saying is we’ll have to go out there and exorcize…the…” Hannah couldn’t bring herself to finish. She didn’t want to. Here they were, imprisoned like two flies in a bottle, and their only means of ensuring everyone made it out alive was to eradicate the curse before it eradicated them.
“Yup.” Satoru dipped his chin. “Sounds about right.”
Hannah felt her resolve collapse like the ceiling. She whimpered and began shimming away, but Satoru wouldn’t let go.
“Hey, hey, hey.” He pulled her in for another hug. “Everything is gonna be fine, Hannah. Exorcizing the curse will be a piece of cake.”
“For you, maybe,” she said. “In case it slipped your notice, I’m not a sorcerer.”
“Exactly,” Satoru quibbed. “You have the easiest part. All you have to do is sit back and enjoy the show.”
“The show?” She shot him an incredulous look. “Satoru, that thing just killed hundreds of innocent people and is now roaming around the place, looking to eat us.”
All right. She had a point.
“Fine,” he admitted. “But would you rather stay here by yourself while I go handle it on my own?” Hannah made no reply at that and pressed herself closer to him. He cradled her head and snickered. “Mmhm, thought so. Speaking of which, did you bring that knife I gave you?”
With quick, shaky hands Hannah disentangled herself from his embrace and unclasped the notch of her evening bag. She rummaged inside for a minute and took out a short handheld tantō. Irakusa was its name, or “Stinging Nettle,” due in large part to the leafy green silk wrapped around its hilt. Satoru had loaned it to her after training one morning. It was nothing special. The slender blade reached no farther than her forefinger, tip slanted like the point of a katana; a Cursed Tool; Japanese surgical steel; wicked sharp. He had told her to carry it with her in public at all times.
“Atta girl,” Satoru said, eyeing the tool. He then took her evening bag from her and hurriedly stuffed it in his pocket with his phone, glancing sparingly at the diamond cuffs on her wrist. Accessories would hinder her movement and attract unwanted attention. “Better hand me those too while you’re at it too. And the gloves.” Hannah did what she was asked, slipping off the jewelry and satin gloves for him to hoard inside his pockets, but she could keep the earrings. Fitting what he could inside, he reached forward and grabbed her ungloved hand. “Come on. Staying put won’t do us any — Wait, what are you…?”
She hadn’t surrendered the knife. Gojo could do nothing except watch her drag the small tactical blade up the side of her dress, embellishments and crystal beads haphazardly popping off as it sliced through the chiffon like an orange peel, revealing a smooth leg underneath.
“I can’t run in this,” she answered him, rotating her newly freed leg. “Now I can.”
Satoru released his breath. Seeing her turn the blade on herself had caused him to panic for a second, and he wasn’t quite sure how she knew where to cut with such limited lighting, but he had to say. The idea was pretty smart. That is, if you got over the fact she had just carved up a dress worth more than a Ferrari.
He stood guard and waited for her to complete the alterations, careful not to stare too long at her ungartered leg before taking her hand once more.
“Good. Let’s go.”
“Hold on,” Hannah urged, pulling him back. “There’s something else I need to tell you.” She waited for Satoru to glance back over his shoulder to show he was listening. Hannah squeezed his hand. “The curse. I think it’s a finger bearer. One of Sukuna’s.”
She felt his arm tense up. “Sukuna? You sure?”
She nodded. “It looked almost identical to the one from the Louvre. Had the same markings too.”
Husband and wife stared at each other for a long, almost frightened moment. Satoru’s lips pressed together as he hummed contemplatively, mental gears turning, spinning, thinking. This was bound to complicate matters. If what Hannah said was correct, they weren’t dealing with your average, run-of-the-mill curse. They had to be careful, her more so than him.
“Keep a hold of that knife,” he said, and gave her hand a weak tug before taking the first step.
The Domain gave the impression they were traversing through the inner bowels of some giant worm cave. It was cold and damp. The walls looked wet and the ground was tumbled and dredged in connective tissue like mucosa. Their shoes made an unnatural squelching noise with each perilous step. Hannah imagined the two of them slowly being digested, wandering deeper and deeper inside the Domain, until every last cell in their bodies were reduced to thin soluble mush.
Her toes were blistering from the heels she wore. She thought of taking them off and going barefoot, but every so often they’d catch the dull shimmer of something sharp and metallic reflecting dully off the flesh covered ground like a rusted pipe or an old metal prong.
They eventually came across what looked to be, by all accounts, a colossal bone, obstructing their path like a fallen tree. There was enough space for them to climb over to the other side. Having a much taller physique, Satoru hoisted himself atop the fossilized trunk and reached down for Hannah to grab. “Up-ze-daizey,” he sang in English, pulling her up like a sack of feathers. Hannah found herself wondering more and more how he knew English slang so well and joined him atop the huge bone. He then slid off the other side, landing feet-first on the sodden ground with a loud squash and turned around, holding out his hands for her jump. He caught her by the waist as she fell.
“Watch yer step there, lil’ lady,” he twanged in an American accent as though tipping a cowboy hat. He was trying to get her to smile again like he did outside the theater, and it was somewhat working, though the feeling soon dissipated once they turned the next corner.
Hannah blanched at the sight of a wall - if one had the audacity to call it a wall - of blinking round eyeballs. Even in the dark she could make out the red veins branching inside the slimy white sclerae, pupils tracking their every movement. It was hard to guess how many there were. Fifty at least. Maybe twice that. They scuttled quietly towards them, the patter of little crab legs, silent, unspeaking, creeping ever closer. Hannah let out a tiny whimper the nearer they got and eventually Satoru too had had enough. He pulled Hannah behind him and glared menacingly at the queasy colony of eyeballs.
“What’re you looking at?” he sneered.
The Six Eyes stopped the tiny beasts dead in their tracks. In a mad scurrying rush, they retreated to the innermost corner of the “wall” where a long jagged hole crusted the isinglass surface like a gaping mouth, slurping them up one by one, until hundreds of hideous bloodshot eyes were staring at them inside that one hollow crack. She felt Satoru tug on her wrist. “C’mon, Hannah. They're not gonna get you.” She was glad when they moved out of their sight.
Satoru led them through intestinal tunnels that snaked and twisted. They tried using the flashlights on their phones again, but the devices were uncooperative. Hannah’s vision had adjusted better to the dark, though she couldn’t see much except her husband's gossamer white hair and the occasional flicker of his blue eyes. They hadn’t reached a dead end, or tripped over anything. There were no signs of the curse. It had her wondering.
“Um, Satoru?”
“Yeah?”
“How do you know where we’re going?”
“Ha, that’s easy,” he chuckled. “I don’t.”
“No, I mean how can you see in front of you?”
“Oh.”
Hannah collided with him as he abruptly stopped and whipped around, bracing her by the arms so she wouldn’t plummet to the mushy ground.
“Oops, sorry,” he apologized.
Hannah looked at him, his frame towering more than a foot above her. “What’s wrong? Why did we stop?”
“Nothing. I’m just taking a second to answer your question is all.”
He must’ve found Hannah’s look amusing because his soft rumbling laughter echoed throughout the chilling darkness.
“Remember when I told you about my curse technique. About Infinity and the Limitless?”
“Yes, I remember,” she said. “You have the ability to repel and attract things. You showed me.”
“Right, but did I explain how the Six Eyes plays a role in that? What it is they actually do?”
She took a moment to mull it over. No, he hadn’t explained the connection. Fr. O’Malley mentioned the Six Eyes in vague terms, placing emphasis on the Limitless and the bloodshed between the Gojo and Zen’in families, but nothing more. Truthfully, Hannah had no idea what they were other than rare, beautiful colored eyes. What role did they play with the use of Infinity and the Limitless?
Satoru took both her hands and guided them upwards in the dark, gingerly prying the fingers open so they could cup his jawline. She saw him perfectly now, the lustrous pools of turquoise blue swirling down at her. The sky. She was holding the sky in her hands.
“The Six Eyes is an ocular jujutsu technique with many uses,” he began carefully. “Anyone in the Gojo family can inherit the Limitless, but it’s only those born with the Six Eyes who can harness its true power. Long story short, these eyes grant me the cognitive ability to see and process cursed energy in precise detail. I can see how it flows, differentiate between other types and use it to my advantage. That’s why I can repel and attract stuff. Because I’m able to distinguish cursed energies so precisely, it allows me to control and manipulate time and space.”
“Incredible,” Hannah said, brushing her thumbs along his cheek bones. “Your eyes can do all that?”
“Mmm, yeah, well sorta,” he said, tapping his forefingers against the sides of his noggin as he kept her hands on his face. “It’s mostly mental. My eyes work in tandem with my brain which is how I process everything; Kind of like how a super computer can sort copious amounts of data faster and more efficiently than normal computers. I can also identify things from great distances and see through solid objects.”
“Solid objects?”
“Yup; concrete, steel, brick, you name it,” he said, candidly listing them off with ease. “Like Superman’s x-ray vision.”
A dismal laugh escaped Hannah’s lips. Leave it to Satoru to make a comic book reference. She lowered her hands from his face and began playing with his wrinkled shirt collar. The bow tie looped around his neck was gone. Her hands glided absentmindedly to a frayed thread unraveling near a button hole and twisted it around her finger. He could see through anything. Solid objects. X-ray vision. Superman…Anything… Anything. Hannah glanced down at the monstrous slit revealing her leg. The epiphany came to her like a bolt from the blue, as if everything she’d come to understand about the universe had suddenly been little more than an ill-conceived hoax and she’d been royally conned. Hannah couldn’t keep the words from spilling out, fingers relinquishing the shirt thread as though it were a live wire.
“Uh, hello? Earth to Hannah.” Satoru waved a hand in front of her pale stricken face. “You’re weirding me out, Princess — Quick, how many fingers am I holding up?”
“Can the Six Eyes see through clothing, Satoru?”
The question punctured him like a sword bayonet through the chest. Damn, this was it, he thought. This was karma; For every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction; eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth; that brutal second arrow hurling towards him at breakneck speed. A third. A fourth. Improbable to stop. All there was left to do now was accept defeat and collect his losses. Would it be right to tell her how he had memorized every mole on her skin; internally traced the ample curvature of her bosom, the tantalizing dip between her thighs he so badly wanted to explore with his steepled fingers? He had to swallow it down.
“Maybe.”
She pressed further.
“How often is ‘maybe?’”
Shit. Lie, Satoru. Tell her it was an accident. Tell her it happened once and you’ll never do it again. Go on, say it. Tell her.
“A couple times,” he confessed, feeling a dampness underneath his shirt. “When you’re alone.” Shut up, Satoru. Shut up. “In the bath.”
There was an awkward pause. Hannah looked down at her shoes with a vacant, inscrutable expression that terrified him for reasons he didn’t want to combat.
“In the bath,” she said. “I see.”
His chest panged with guilty remorse. Dammit, why did he have to open his big fat fucking mouth? He had planned on telling her, explain that nudity wasn’t anything to be self-conscious about, but now that plan had gone to shit. This was the worst possible moment to be having this discussion. He had to think of something, fast.
“Hannah,” he started, gingerly grabbing her by the shoulders. “Believe me, I wanted to tell you sooner, but —“
“You’ve seen me naked, Satoru.” Her voice dropped a notch. “Without my knowing.”
“I know, I know, and I’m — ”
“There’s a certain word for that.”
“I know, yes, you’re right,” he continued. “You’re totally right, and I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. Most times the act is involuntary.”
Her eyes seemed to shift. A rare sort of fury he hadn’t seen her wear before, like he was confronted with a whole other person and not the sweet, patient Hannah he’d come to know and admire.
“Oh, so it’s involuntary to look at someone when they’re bathing? Men have no control over their actions? Is that what you're saying?”
“What!? No, of course not. I — ”
“Your eyes have a mind of their own then?!”
“Hannah, that’s not — ”
“You don’t have the right, Satoru.” He could register the notes of betrayal and repressed anguish vying for supremacy in her voice. Her lip trembled, the strained, painful look of someone on the verge of crying again. “None of you have the...”
Fresh tears began cascading down her cheeks and Satoru felt like an important piece of him had crawled into a ditch and died. He had hurt her. She was crying because of something he did, on top of the fact they were tracking a curse that could attack at any moment, but Satoru knew she wasn’t crying because of him being a peeping Tom, no, it was so much more than that.
We’re kindred spirits, you and I.
All his life Satoru was forced to grapple with the unfair reality that he wasn't like normal kids. He could remember himself at five, accompanying Makoto (then his nanny) on the train ride home from preschool. He had to stay behind afterwards for sending a kid to the nurse’s office with a bloody nose - that’s what happened to dweebs who picked on him and called him names - and as last minute passengers were boarding the train, a hulking boulder of a man plodded his way up the boarding ramp and seated himself inside the jam packed coach. The baggy clothes hid the extent of his maladies, but Satoru saw every one.
The dude had a big ole wart sprouting between the sill of his nose. He stank of cheap liquor and urine, was at least a hundred pounds overweight, and his lungs were tarred black from years of heavy chain smoking. But the more pressing issue was the yellow, foamy puss festering out the tip of his limp phallus, indicating he had contracted some sort of STI. That was Satoru’s first real encounter with involuntary nudity. It came without warning. One second he was an innocent, happy-go-lucky kid with perfectly normal vision on his way home from school, and then suddenly, bam, everybody was huddled around him on the train, butt-naked and oblivious. He could see into their bodies: heart defibrillators, bone implants, tampons. That metaphor public speakers use whenever they get nervous, the one where they’re told to imagine the audience sitting in their underwear? Yeah, the Six Eyes took that analogy to soaring new heights, except nudity wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg. No, not by a long shot.
For two years after that day, Satoru struggled with life debilitating headaches. His senses were off the charts. He could perceive infrared radiation and ultraviolet light, the full color spectrum thought only visible to arachnids and reptiles. He saw various cursed energies; blobs of red, pinks, and purples splattered every which way, the rarest being a black flash that glowed whenever someone executed the perfect punch, and as he previously mentioned, he could see through solid objects and zoom things in and out of focus: a stag beetle lumbering up the side of a oak tree from three kilometers above, or the microscopic chloroplasts stuffed inside a mulberry leaf like tiny green caviar. However, Satoru did try extra hard not to see through people’s clothing, mostly because it was weird and not always sexy (especially when it was someone he knew), although the structure of fabric was “permeable” in relation to steel and concrete. He often used the analogy of a soap bubble. Trying not to peek through fabric was like trying not to pop a soap bubble. Any loss of focus or slip of concentration, and the bubble would burst. Pop. Bye, bye, clothing.
He gained better control of it as time went on, learning to alternate the varying eyesights like you would a phoropter at a vision exam: infrared, ultraviolet, zoom in, zoom out. Can you see better through lense 1, Mr. Gojo? How bout 2? With added practice the switching became effortless, like breathing oxygen or memorizing the shortcuts on a calculator. It was more tolerable at night, which was why he stupidly left his glasses folded on his dresser, thinking he wouldn’t need them. Idiot. He could already feel the headache clambering up the base of his skull like a brain-sucking leech, and on top of that, he left the Bufferin tablets in the lining pocket of his tails, draped seamlessly along the folded theater seat. Due to his insanely high metabolism, he usually needed twice the recommended dose, but there was a time when no amount of ibuprofen was enough to kill the migraines, and he was taken out of school because of it.
His home education was relatively undemanding, if you set aside the hand lashings he so generously received for having recited the Classic of Filial Piety incorrectly (albeit, on purpose), but by and large he was given the best tutors, trainers, and physicians money could buy, yet for all the privilege and wealth, his spoiled upbringing was a painfully isolated one with almost no freedom. He tended to be rough with the visiting children and prone to bouts of anger, blindly punching his frustrations out on anyone who made fun of his hair, or called him a “freak.” And the people who governed his life seldom helped in that department, touting him around like an expensive artifact, making it difficult for five year old Satoru to interpret whether he was genuinely loved, or propped up as some kind of rare collectors item; a bargaining chip used to tilt the power dynamic in the Gojo family’s favor after a stagnant 400 years. It was always “Six Eyes that” and “Six Eyes this” and “Here, sweetie, have another cookie.”2
Satoru had been told all his life he was special, that the blood of Sugawara no Michizane flowed through his veins and he was destined for greatness. But all it did was make him resentful of the way it had taken over his life. Deep, deep down he wanted people to stop treating him like a hamster on an exercise wheel, and more like a human being. Ask him how he felt for a change. Tell him he was doing a good fucking job and that the higher-ups could go hang themselves cause if he wasn’t the Six Eyes wielder then who was he really?
Hannah knew. Heck, she was one of the few people willing to try. Enough to where he could drop the cocky, jokester routine and be himself. Just him. Just Satoru. He couldn’t necessarily do the same with Shoko, or even his devoted housekeeper who he viewed more as a mother than his actual mother. He was a serious person in Hannah’s eyes, and he felt inclined to believe their friendship wasn’t based solely on the condition they were married. She didn’t treat him like a weapon or an incarnated deity, because she knew. She knew what it was like to have your life dictated by forces beyond your control, and better still, she hadn’t shown signs of being afraid of him since their handshake in the Starbucks. Things had been going so well.
Until the very moment he opened his big fucking mouth.
Nice going, Satoru. Let’s see you try and talk your way out of this one.
He rubbed his face with his hands, like he was washing without water, and blew a vexing sigh. “Look, you can yell at me all you want once we’re back home, but for now we need to stay…Hannah?”
Satoru looked to his side.
Hannah was nowhere to be found.
Notes:
1. The Aum Shinrikyo was a doomsday cult founded by Shoko Asahara in 1987. On 6 July 2018, Asahara and six other Aum Shinrikyo members were executed by hanging, twenty-three years after the sarin metro bombings. The cult “had already been formally designated a terrorist organization by several countries, including Russia, Canada, Kazakhstan, as well as the European Union. It was previously designated by the United States as a terrorist organization until 2022, when the State Department determined the group to be largely defunct as a terrorist organization.”
2. I’ve based much of Satoru’s upbringing from that of Emperor Meiji’s. Japanese princes during the Tokugawa period, especially the heir apparents to the throne, lived incredibly isolated lives. They were cut off from the rest of the public and forced to reside in either the emperor's palace, or their maternal grandfather’s home, and sometimes they were separated from their mothers and never see them again. They had little interaction with people outside their cloistered bubble and were married by the time they turned sixteen. However, literacy was a very important skill for a prince to attain. Starting at the age of three or younger, they would be instructed to recite Confucious writings, such as the Classic of Filial Piety. These texts would have been written using Chinese characters, and functioned as a way for princes to learn kanji. According to Donald Keene in Emperor Meiji and His World, 1852-1912, he writes:The education of a prince consisted largely of reading aloud, with the aid of a tutor, Confucian texts such as the Classic of Filial Piety. At first he would read the words without understanding their meaning, but eventually he would be able not only to read texts in classical Chinese but to compose poetry in that language. Calligraphy was an equally indispensable attainment of a prince, and the selection of the proper calligraphy tutor was a matter of crucial importance.(Keene, Donald. Emperor of Japan: Meiji and His World, 1852–1912 (p. 3). Columbia University Press. Kindle Edition.)
This, of course, is a very old fashioned (but effective☝🏻) way of learning to read and write. I envision the jujutsu world to be stuck in the old ways, so I feel it works well for Satoru’s upbringing.
3. ooga booga.
4. yabba dabba doo.
5. bibbidi bobbidi boo.
(My beta reader added those last three.😅)
Chapter 15: The Only Way Out Is Through (I)
Summary:
Looks like Hannah is on her own.🙃
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this.
Follow me on Tumblr
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 15: The Only Way Out Is Through (I)
It took Hannah a few seconds to realize she was alone, staring widely down a dark, never ending tunnel. Its viscera walls seemed full of anticipation and threat as though she had accidentally unlocked the door to a vast, incomprehensible room of horrors. She couldn’t make heads or tails of it. One moment her husband was there, standing in front of her and then like a fleeting, desert mirage, he wasn’t. He had vanished, leaving her utterly vulnerable. The gravity of the situation struck her like a doomsday meteor pummeling to the earth.
She could see it so clearly: Fr. O’Malloy dressed in black, leading the congregation in the following prayer. “Friends, we are gathered here today to remember the short life of a young, forgettable orphan who failed to save innocent lives and died without so much as au revoir — Oh, and now we’ll never be able to find Sukuna’s fingers, so may God have mercy on her soul and good luck to the rest of you. Amen.” It wouldn’t be a funeral Mass. They’d have to find volunteers to do the readings. There would be no casket because there would be no body, nor could she picture her uncle giving a eulogy. It made her wonder. Would her tombstone be on the Wasserton estate next to her mother, or would they chisel one here in Japan? And what would Satoru think? What would…
“You don’t have the right.”
The guilt condensed in her stomach like sludge at the bottom of a lake. And what bothered her more was the knowledge she had been the instigator for all of it. She shouldn’t have scolded him like that. Yes, he confessed to watching her bath and that was bad, but hadn’t he said the act was involuntary? She should have been more understanding. Give him a chance to recuse himself, if necessary because that’s what she would’ve wanted had it been the other way around, guilty or not. Maybe then they wouldn’t have become separated.
Find him, you bloody idiot. Worry about who’s fault it is later. Yes, find him. There would be time for apologies afterwards. She needed to find her way back to Satoru. He was her best chance at survival. She wasn’t dead yet. And more likely than not, neither was he. So don’t cast blame on anyone, she rattled on in her head. You've shed enough tears for one night. You always do. Surviving. Focus on surviving.
Hannah took deep breaths and forced herself to calm down. The fear was insurmountable but the adrenaline increased her awareness. Tightening her grip on Stinging Nettle, she trudged cautiously down the membrane covered tunnels, murky and desolate, her heels sinking into the ground like meat hooks. They kept getting stuck. More than once she had to stop walking and yank her leg free. Part of her wanted to tear the bloody shoes off, but the sharp, miscellaneous objects sticking out from the ground advised her not to. The hilt of Stinging Nettle had become slick with sweat and thrice she stopped moving to glance over her shoulder, convincing herself that something wasn’t breathing down her neck.
She was adjusting better to the dark thanks to the adrenaline. The air held a sour taste. It was silent as a tomb. Cold too. Her feet were numb from getting stuck into the cold slimy ground. She felt the goosebumps raise over her skin and bit down a shiver. And as she walked, Hannah envisioned Satoru desperately trying to reach her. That he was trudging up and down this flesh invested jungle just as much as she was. She thought of his warm embrace. How tenderly he held her not long before, how comforting the rumble of his voice sounded. She clung to that precious memory like hope.
Something made a noise.
Hannah turned around to look, but saw nothing, and yet she couldn’t shake the disturbing feeling that she was being watched. She listened, hard; and then heard it again, faint and draggy, a little weird. And then came something like a voice.
“I KNOW YOU'RE THERE.”
That was not in her head. She froze as did the hair on her arms, skin prickling with new heightened terror. Her tongue rose to the roof of her mouth. She tried swallowing the click in her throat, but couldn’t. Stinging Nettle held in both hands, the human woman found the nearest indent she could find and pressed herself firmly against the oozing wall as though she were playing some intense, life or death version of hide-and-seek. Her blood throbbed painfully in her ears. Please, don’t let it be what I think it is, she silently prayed. Please don’t let it see me.
But Hannah should’ve known by then: Prayers weren’t wishes.
An amorphous white shape, not recognizably human, skulked from the shadows. It was hunched on all fours, moving like a man-eating ape, canine teeth scintillating in the dark. Hannah could see its hepatitic yellow eyes, of which, there were four. The black marking slashed along its body blended with the darkness so it appeared like a skeletal marionette with no strings. The stench of rotting meat wafting from its breath made her want to gag.
“I KNOW YOU'RE THERE,” it rasped again, looking side to side, sniffing the air. “I HAVE YOUR SCENT. COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE.”
Hannah’s hand flew to her mouth. There was no escaping it. The curse was talking. It was talking to her. She couldn’t move. Her body felt gripped by paralysis and her heart pounded violently against her ribs. She was holding her breath to scream, but she mustn’t. She mustn't. Under no circumstances was she to scream.
The curse snapped its head in her direction. “YOU CAN'T HIDE.”
It looked right at her. She saw it lick the rim of its chops. Hannah froze. The curse had spotted her. This was the end. She was going to be eaten. She watched it slowly lurch to where her body hugged the wall. She closed her eyes tight, Stinging Nettle clenched in one hand with her other cupped over her mouth. She could feel her cold wedding ring smush against her lips, sharply contrasted by the curse’s hot, rancid breath blowing on her skin like steam. It was looming directly above her now.
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
Sandwiched between the curse and the wall, Hannah couldn't muster the courage to look. Her muscles were locked into place. She couldn’t move. The curse hadn’t seen her yet? But how? She was right there.
She was saved by the sound of something heavy, a rock or a weaker curse, clopping loudly further aways.
“AH,” purred the curse. “THERE YOU ARE.” Hannah heard it give out a deranged, gleeful laugh as it bounded down the tunnel like a whisper and was heard no more.
Hannah waited there a second; three seconds; ten. Motionless as an icon.
Slowly, she cracked her eyes to catch only darkness. Her knees quivered like the ground was shaking, but she managed to pull herself to her feet. She then unlatched the buckle on her shoes, fumbling to remove the prong from the tiny hole inserts because her hands were trembling so bad. She slipped the shoes off. Placed them silently on the ground. Took a deep, ragged breath. Turned the opposite direction. And ran.
With more adrenaline than blood coursing through her, she sprinted down the membrane passages as though she were a convict on the loose, heart leaping out of her chest, breathing faster and faster. She was practically flying without the shoes and could feel her lungs start to burn from exertion. In the past, she would’ve fainted from running this long, but her body was in better shape. Her morning jogs with Satoru had bolstered her lung capacity and increased her endurance. But she wasn’t paying attention and tripped over a gushy lump of tissue, cowflopping right into the ground with a sickening splash. She quickly got to her feet, running helter-skelter like a flimsy-winged bat that had lost its echolocation. Go, go, she ushered in her head. Keep running. For all she knew the curse would kill her at any moment. It had her scent. It would shred her to pieces, break her legs and force her to watch. She would die a slow and torturous death like all the others. Like all the other unfortunate souls she watched get murdered in her hellish dreamscapes. She would join them. It was hunting her. Even then she could hear it rasping; I KNOW YOU'RE THERE, GIRL. I SEE YOU. YOU CAN'T HIDE. But she was again halted by a pleading voice calling out from the eery darkness.
“Otouto!!”
Choking on air and gasping, Hannah came to a grinding halt, so out of breath she could not speak. Alas, she was not dreaming, nor had she gone mad. There really was a child crying in front of her, a boy by the looks of it. Maybe six or seven. He was couched worriedly over another smaller boy. Hannah felt her heart sink.
The smaller boy looked dead.
…
Yamazaki Hiro very much wanted this night to be over with. Cracking open his eyes, he thought for a peaceful moment he was in his bed. Mama would be calling him down for breakfast any second, saying how he needed to get dressed and ready for school like he normally did. But then came the frightening realization he was not in his bedroom, breakfast was not ready downstairs, and he was not going to school. Nothing about this felt normal. The air was cold and fetid and the ground underneath him was wet and mushy. He couldn’t see anything. Huh, what happened? he thought. Where was everybody? He sat up and discovered he was still wearing the stiff, itchy dress pants his Mama had bribed him into. She said it had been “loaned,” (whatever that meant). Hiro didn’t like them. She had ordered a matching suit for his little brother and made the two of them stand side-by-side in front of the living room, proud tears welling her eyes as she snapped a pic on her phone. “My little gentlemen,” she cued. “So cute. I’ll be sure to send this to your Bā-chan.” Hiro was less than thrilled by his mother’s proclamation. No six year old boy wanted to be called “cute.” That was for babies, like his little brother.
Kenta was younger than Hiro by two years, but if not for the age gap, the siblings would easily be mistaken as twins; same unruly black hair, same high-dimpled cheeks. Thick as thieves, the two of them. Wherever Hiro went, Kenta followed, toddling close behind like a lost puppy. It was annoying sometimes, but it gave Hiro a tremendous sense of responsibility. He was the big brother. A big brother was tasked with the important job of looking after their little brothers and keep them in line.
The two siblings grew up in a typical upper-middle class household. Mama ran her own private dermatology practice and Papa worked as a corporate lawyer for a clothing retailer. Their occupations made them more affluent than most and so when they began earning more money, the Yamazaki’s put their house of ten years up for sale, boxed all their belongings, and moved to a fancy apartment complex on the central west side of Tokyo.
And that was really when Hiro began seeing the monsters.
It had been going on for two years. He didn’t know why he could see the monsters and the others couldn’t. He wanted to ask his friends for their input, but worried they’d make fun of him. He was six now. Boys his age weren’t supposed to have imaginary friends anymore, and if he told Mama and Papa about the monsters, Hiro was afraid he’d end up like his classmate Kimiko who kept telling everybody she could see “dead things,” and then was put on some sort of medicine subsequently afterwards and was never herself again. Hiro didn’t understand the ins and outs of medicine like grown ups did, but he remembered how it changed Kimiko’s behavior drastically and made her tired all the time. He didn't want that. She and her family moved away last year and hadn’t been seen since. He never got to ask her if she saw the monsters too.
Scared and confused, Hiro was still having great difficulty piecing together what had happened in the theater after the big scary monster showed up. Last he remembered he was holding onto Mama’s hand before the stampede of terror-stricken people swept him under like an ocean current, forcing him to let go. Hiro had known all that afternoon something really, really bad was going to happen. He wanted to alert his parents and tell them to stay home, but he knew Papa’s boss would get angry if they didn’t go. Apparently the gala was very important and the entire company and their families had to be there. Now Papa and Mama were missing and so too was Kenta. He needed to figure out where they’d gone. He needed to find his family.
To his luck, finding his little brother didn’t take long. He kept close to the grime-covered walls, carefully groping his way through the dark corridors until he stumbled upon a small fallen shape lying in the middle of the path; his brother. But as he drew closer he noticed something wasn’t right. Kenta was still breathing, but he wasn’t waking up. Hiro knelt and touched his forehead the way Mama did when they were sick and quickly pulled his hand away. His brother’s skin was burning. Kenta began to mumble and fidget, babbling incoherently, and turning over to his side. Hiro saw something festering on the top half of his leg; a deep, weirdly-formed gash sliced along the front of his thigh. The wound was bleeding a lot and glowed a bright neon purple, like someone had dumped a bunch of hazardous chemicals into it. Hiro knew his brother was in mortal danger, but was at a loss at what to do and thus began to cry, shouting “Otouto, Otouto” over and over as though it would save him. Then the creature with the knife showed up.
He wetted himself a little when he saw it. His knees buckled and his breath became short. His instincts told him to run, but he didn’t want to leave his brother, so he felt no choice but to stand between him and the knife wielding monster. His eyes, petrified white with fear, stared at it reproachfully.
“G-Get away,” he blustered, trying to scare it off, but instead the thing crept forward.
“Shhh, no…don’t,” the creature panted, struggling to find breath. “You mustn’t…shout…Otherwise it’ll…find us.”
He soon realized it wasn’t a monster holding a knife, but a lady. The urgency in her voice threw him off guard. She didn’t sound dangerous. Come to think of it, she sounded almost as scared as he was. He thought she was going to stab him as she came closer, but she didn’t. He tilted his head.
“You’re not a monster?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, breathing better now. “I’m not. My name is Hannah. What’s yours?”
Hiro hesitated to answer. He could tell by her accent that she came from someplace far, far away. Papa reminded him never to talk to strangers. If someone he didn’t know began speaking to him and asked for his name he was to alert either his parents or a teacher. Yet for some reason, he felt he could trust this person. Her name was Hannah. She wasn’t a monster.
“I’m Hiro,” he said.
“Hiro.” She repeated it as though testing the word on her lips and glanced down at Kenta, lying unconscious on the ground. “Is that your brother there?”
“Yeah,” Hiro answered. “His name is Kenta.”
“Kenta.” She said it the same way she did his name. “Is it alright if I take a look at him, Hiro? Please?”
Hiro chose not to argue and hurriedly dashed aside for Hannah to kneel next to Kenta. She was fairly alarmed by the enormous swelling climbing up his leg. The skin around the split-opened wound was raised red and the inside was clotted with raw cursed energy. The boy must’ve gotten injured prior to entering the Domain. That’s how the cursed energy seeped inside and infected the gash. He was also running a dangerously high fever. In hindsight, his future seemed bleak.
“Is he gonna die?” Hiro asked. Being six years old, he hadn’t grasped the full aspect of dying. All he knew was that when people died they didn’t come back. They were gone forever.
Hannah examined the boy’s leg some more. “I’m not sure,” she said, although that was a lie. She knew full well the boy was suffering from a serious curse infection. Children had weaker immune systems. If they were exposed to harmful amounts of cursed energy for long periods of time, their bodies would begin to spawn curse infections. These infections were amplified if the child was already wounded, and were largely fatal.
“That monster’s still out there, isn’t it?” said Hiro. “The white one who killed the singer.”
Hannah bit the insides of her cheeks. Images of the opera singer being hoisted by her neck flashed across her eyes. The crackling noise of the vertebrae breaking, her body thudding to the floor.
“Yes,” she whispered. “It is.”
“Will it kill us too?”
There was a long drawn out pause before Hannah replied. “I don’t know.”
She swung her eyes to look at little Kenta’s contorted face as he clung desperately to life. The infection would chew through the muscle, contaminate the bloodstream, and inevitably poison him. Her heart crumbled at that. Hannah had witnessed enough dying children to make the toughest therapist break down and weep. It happened to Nakamura Ami three months ago, her lifeless body dangling from the jaws of a beast.1 Twenty-six votive candles flickering inside an empty church, the relentless rain pelting down in heavy droves, rattling the roof. Hannah let the memory linger. It brought forth a range of emotions. She grit her teeth and clenched her fists.
No one had been there to save Ami and her classmates on that terrible day. Children. It was always the children who suffered the most, but Hannah vowed Ami and her classmates' deaths would not be repeated. No, not tonight. She was going to do everything in her power to keep Hiro and Kenta alive. They would not meet the same fate as the others. She swore it on her mother’s grave.
With strengthened resolve, Hannah crouched over Kenta’s body and rolled him flat on his back. She grabbed the knife and finished cutting the rip in his pants, fully exposing the wound. With his paling complexion, she could see the cursed energy turning his veins black. It had already entered the bloodstream. She had to act quickly.
“What are you doing?” Hiro asked, watching her work methodically.
Hannah didn’t say anything, and upon finishing Kenta’s pants, took Stinging Nettle and used the torn ends of her dress to clean the congealed blood off the blade like a tablecloth. She then turned to Hiro and slotted the newly cleaned knife in his hands, waiting for his tiny fingers to wrap around the leafy green hilt before letting go. There was no heft.
“I’m going to help your brother,” she whispered determinedly. “But you have to be on the lookout. If you see anything, I want you to take this knife and run. Do you understand?”
Hiro blinked and nodded furiously, wiping his snotty nose into his sleeve, watchful of the knife. The tone in her voice scared him. He felt his heart ramp up. “How’re you going to save him?” he said.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” came Hannah’s reply. “To be honest I don’t even know if it’ll work, but I’m going to try, okay?”
“Okay,” Hiro squeaked.
“Alright then. I need you to stay quiet so I can concentrate. Do you remember what I told you just now?”
Hiro nodded. “If I see anything, I’m to take this knife and run.”
“Yes,” Hannah said. “Take the knife and run. You’re not to think about me or your brother. I just want you to run as fast as you can.”
“Okay.”
“And you’re not to turn back.”
“Okay,” he said again.
“Right.” Hannah made a weary sigh and diverted her attention back to Kenta. The boy’s body was shaking from the hyperthermia setting in, his breaths rasping and uneven. She hadn’t much time left. “I’m starting now.”
She stretched out her palms over the dying boy’s wound and closed her eyes, meditating on happy thoughts; The first time she tried chocolate; digging for seashells along the beach; The many colors of daylilies; a crystal blue sky; her husband’s unwavering smile. Her breathing slowed, and as she recollected these thoughts, a feeling of gradual warmth spread throughout her whole body. Little by little the world quietly faded away. Before long the surrounding darkness became bathed in a pale golden light.
Notes:
1. I know it’s been a while, but you can look back to chapters 4 and 5 to jog your memory. In keeping with all things Gege Akutami, I’m using the same “save the children” idea. 😉
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Part II should be up next week, but I haven’t finalized anything, so keep an eye out for updates.
Stay safe!!❤️
Chapter 16: The Only Way Out Is Through (II)
Summary:
I said this would be up Sunday.
I lied. 🙃
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this chapter.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 16: The Only Way Out Is Through (II)
“Fuck me, of course it had to be a trick room.”
Satoru growled these words as he wandered restlessly down the accursed tunnels. The signs had been everywhere, plain as day. He hated himself for not seeing it sooner. Most Domains were imbued with hidden abilities meant to stifle opponents; sub-degree temperatures, rugged terrain, psychological illusions. Trick rooms functioned as a deadly concoction of all three, a deterrent used to divide and conquer. How it worked was if the Domain sensed more than one opponent — particularly if the opponent had stronger cursed energy (ie, him) — it would try to split the opponents apart, randomly moving them to different locations in the Domain like pieces on a board game, and then selectively eliminating the individuals one by one. Satoru had never been inside a trick room, but studied them plenty in school way back when. The key strategy was to “trick” the trick room, which could be accomplished by maintaining physical contact with another person. That way the trick room couldn’t discern whether the opponent was more than one, meaning Satoru shouldn’t have let go of Hannah’s hand. The trick room now decided it was playing Keep Away and transported his wife somewhere beyond his reach. In addition to being a colossal pervert, he was also a colossal dumbass. He wanted to punch something. If he got her killed for this he wasn’t sure what he’d do.
Satoru walked past another one of those eyeball things Hannah and him encountered earlier. It scuttled on the wall and blinked at him. He hurled a disc of cursed energy at it. The eyeball splattered in an array of guts and goo, its detached limbs twitching to get away. He felt nothing for it.
I’d probably become a hermit, he thought dolefully, switching back to his initial question. Seems appropriate, given all the crap they’ve put me through.
Appropriate, indeed. If a sorcerer’s mission was to prevent calamity brought on by cursed spirits and maintain the peace and security of society, then Satoru would say he had done more than his fair share. It was what he was destined to do, they said. You're the Six Eyes wielder. You have the world at your fingertips.
Hannah’s death would drive a burning stake right through that bullshit narrative. It wouldn’t be the Limitless, Infinity, or even the Six Eyes responsible for her death. It would be him. His arrogance. His failure. He let another person, someone so innocent, so kind, die on his watch. Destiny had chosen the wrong person to wield this power. Her death would be his greatest suffering.
So he’d build a hut on a high mountain overlooking the sea. Shave his head and renounce all earthly pleasures - even sweets if he had to - and live off the land. Forage for berries or some shit. Drink water from a stream. Compose poetry and get in touch with his sensitive side. Maybe write something insightful they’d teach the kiddos centuries down the road. However he chose to bide his time, it’d be spent waiting for the next life. The Gojo line would follow the way of the dinosaurs; Extinction.
And as he reflected upon his family’s demise and the possibility of being reborn in one of the eight burning hells and not the Pure Land1, Satoru began monotonously twirling his wedding ring with his thumb. It was a habit he had picked up after going bare knuckled for so many years. The gold felt moored to his finger. He could pull, twist, scrape, and bite, and still the band wouldn’t — Wait a minute. Yes. Yes, of course. The ring! Hannah was wearing her wedding ring too. Nanami said cursed spirits shouldn’t be able to detect her signature within a hundred meter radius. The trick room was alerted of her presence because she was a living being, but even then, the protective charm imbued on her ring should throw the curse off the trail. And she wasn’t completely defenseless. There was also the knife he gave her.
Knowing this reassured him a little. Hannah was smart. She wouldn’t try anything reckless. She would be alright and would be found. He had to believe that.
Satoru walked briskly down the curse-infested Domain, his legs functioning on their own accord. The headache winding up the bass of his skull had intensified. He couldn’t wait to get out of this place. He turned the corner and caught the shine of something glittering near the wall.
Hannah’s shoes. All night he had been sneaking glances of her struggling to wear them. Must’ve finally taken them off. Good. It meant she had been here. She was alive. He then caught the glowing residuals littering the ground like toxic paw prints. A frown formed on his face.
The curse had been here too.
Satoru did not consider himself to have a short-fuse. He had his moments during the lonely-spent summers of his youth, but on the whole, anger did not come naturally to him. It was too much work, too much hassle. And yet eyeing the residual matrix on the ground, the knowledge that this curse was looking to harm someone he cared about, made Satoru's piss boil. The rage seemed all consuming. The kind of irrational, split-second rage that got drivers killed because they weren’t minding the road, but for Satoru brought everything into focus. He could feel his orientation slip, the lines between sanity and madness blurring together like dopamine straight to the head. His body hummed in anticipation, his heart beated excitedly. He felt the pull on his lips, cursed energy drawing around him like he was the center of gravity. He was going to tear this curse apart, limb from limb, bone from bone.
And he was going to enjoy every last fucking second of it.
…
Hiro watched the golden light radiate from Hannah’s hands, brightening both ends of the tunnel. He could see what she looked like now. The sparkly evening dress she wore was tattered, a long jagged slit exposing her leg. And her auburn hair was disheveled and matted. She was pretty, he thought. In that foreign kind of way. But with her shoeless feet, she looked like a crazed wildling venturing out of the woods after surviving a lifetime on her own. He shivered. If someone like her looked that way, what must he look like?
The boy continued watching the concentration evolve on her face, the furrowed brow and twitching lips. After approaching something short of twenty minutes, the golden light began fading like the flame of a candle. The tunnel grew dark again. In a great exhale, Hannah lowered her arms. Every part of her body felt drained of energy. She had only ever tried it on plants, not people. In essence, it was easier to grow a rose bush than heal a paper cut or a seven inch gash on a child’s leg. The process left her seeing vertigo and she had difficulty staying upright. Her stomach became slightly nauseous, and the ill feeling quickly spread to the rest of her body. But the plan had worked. She had successfully extracted most, if not all, of the cursed energy fettered in Kenta’s wound. The boy began to stir. His eyes fluttered.
“Onī-san,” he said groggily.
“Kenta!” Hiro embraced his baby brother. “You’re alive!”
Kenta sleepily looked around and sat up, rubbing his crusty eyelids. He didn’t know why Nii-san was crying or who turned off all the lights or why it smelled like poo. And for some confusing reason the top of his leg was itchy and his tummy hurt.
“Where’s Mama?” he mumbled.
“I don’t know,” Hiro said. “Hannah’s gonna help us look for her. And Papa.”
“Hannah? Who’s that?”
“This nice lady here.” Hiro grabbed Hannah’s sweaty hand in the dark and tried pulling her for Kenta to see.
The dazed four year old squinted his eyes. He could just make out the shaded outline of the lady his brother had named. He caught the low-lit sparkles of her dress, something shining like two eyes and long hair. “Woah,” he said. “Is she cool like big brother?”
“Yeah, she’s cool. She made your leg all better. See?”
Of course, this was a silly thing to say. The four year old couldn’t see anything past his nose, nor did he understand the previous ramifications of his leg. His eyes began to lull, feeling tired.
“All better,” Kenta yawned, closing his lids dreamily. “Night night, Onī-san.”
Hiro panicked when his brother’s body went slack. “No, Kenta!”
This prompted Hannah to snap from her stupor and return to Kenta’s aid. She touched his forehead. It was still warm. The fever hadn’t broken. She quickly checked his vitals, feeling his wrist to count the heartbeats with her fingers like she’d been trained to do in the hospitals. 87 beats. A steady pulse at rest. Anything over 110 was life threatening.
“He’s stable,” she assured, gently sweeping the little boy's hair to one side. “For now, at least.” Kenta being knocked cold could be due to a whole range of factors. Dehydration being one. An adult could last three days without drinking water. Hannah didn’t know the duration a child could last, and she wasn’t going to sit there and find out.
She grabbed Hiro’s hand.
“We need to move.”
Hiro felt something like a whimper climb up the back of his throat. “But I’m scared.”
Hannah squeezed.
“I know you are,” she said shakily. “I’m scared too. But I have someone here who’s looking for us. He knows a way out of this place. So it’s very important that we reach him before the monster — ”
Upon mentioning the monster, the six year old began to cry, tears trickling down his pudgy face. Hannah leaned close and swiped her thumb across his cheek, reminiscent of something his Mama would do.
“You have to be brave now, Hiro,” she urged. “You have to be brave for Kenta. Can you do that for me? Be brave?”
Hiro was deeply afraid, more so than ever, but he knew Hannah was trying to help, and wiped the drainage from his nose. “You w-won’t let go?” he sniffed.
“No.” She clasped his one tiny hand in hers like a knight taking a solemn oath. “I promise I won’t let go. I’m going to be holding your hand like this the whole time.”
Sniffling, Hiro took back the tantō in his wobbly hands. Hannah kneeled down next to Kenta and slipped his arms over her shoulders, carrying him piggyback and once more grabbed for Hiro’s open hand. With a benumbed tentativeness, the human trio staggered through the fleshy Domain like three blind mice — one sleeping, two awake — weaving and side-stepping over sharp, pointy fragments that jutted out of the ground like rotted teeth in a gum line. They muddled through bones and sludge and a whole host of other half-shadowed things that skittered in the dark. The passage seemed to stretch on for eternity, not knowing where it led. Hannah listened to Kenta’s soft breathing as he slept on her back. She would have to administer immediate CPR if his breathing became too erratic and arrest his heart. So far, all was good. His head snuggled comfortably on her shoulder. She readjusted her grip under his leg so he wouldn’t slide off.
Hiro clutched tightly to Hannah’s free hand, Stinging Nettle held in the other. He stayed very close, repeating her words of “You have to be brave” in his head like the lyrics to a favorite song. It was deafeningly quiet. They could only hear their labored breathing and the uneasy squish their footsteps made as inert lumps of lord-knows-what shifted beneath them.
The discs in Hannah’s spine ached from being awkwardly bent over with the weight of a four year old. Her neck felt stiff. She struggled to keep her head up, she was so tired. A part of her wanted to stop and take a break, but her conscience screamed, No, you bloody idiot! Stay awake!! There was no falling asleep. She had children to protect. Children whose lives depended on her. Stay awake. Stay awake.
Up ahead the ground dipped and gouged. The cave-like stench grew stronger the more they shuffled through the grime, a smell of rot and age and things long-ago dead. The walls drew inwards, shrinking, corralling them like herding animals. The ground, like cold jelly.
Hannah had forgotten her rosary beads in her evening bag, currently rattling inside her husband's back pocket along with her gloves. She wished she had them with her. The beads.
Much of what humans knew about angels and demons and the paranormal remained a mystery, but not all. For instance, you could not differentiate between an angel and a demon just by looking at them. They lacked physical bodies and could alter their appearance at will and had perfect knowledge. The Italian mystic Padre Pio talked of demons taking the guise of the Blessed Virgin in order to trick and deceive, while Scripture spoke of angels appearing as monstrous beasts with four faces, four wings, and hooves. That’s why you were advised to “test the spirits” either by spraying holy water, showing a holy image, or invoking the name of God. Pio also wrote that the number of demons far exceeded that of human beings, that “if they were capable of assuming a form as tiny as a grain of sand, they would block out the sun.” Hannah remembered listening to these accounts as a child before the visions became too great. At night she would lie awake in her bed clutching a crucifix and rosary, praying, invoking the name of God, afraid a demon would emerge from the shadows and possess her. However, fallen angels were restricted in their malice. They could only possess, tempt, harass, and frighten. They were not granted permission to kill or maim you. And holy angels did not go around possessing people.
Curses on the one hand were separate from demons and angels, and very much could kill you. Nor could they be cast out using traditional methods like holy images and prayer. So what were they? Why did they exist? Where did they come from? Ah, these were questions. Early theologians speculated that curses were manifestations of the Wicked One, but these theories were swiftly debunked. Satan could not “create” anything, only destroy. A better explanation came from Thomas Aquinas’ secret writings on the invisible and demonic, saying that curses were likely of human origin; the consequence for mankind’s fallen status and the existence of sin. Opposing faiths more or less concurred with Aquinas’ theory, some of whom were centuries ahead of the Dominican friar. The Great Master Kūkai went so far as to suggest that curses were perhaps, in some strange-demented way “more human than not.” What that meant exactly remained a mystery.2
Still, no one faith or school of thought could conjure a sufficient answer as to why curses wandered the earth, and why Japan in particular spawned such a disproportionate number. What they could agree on were the solutions: Jujutsu. Sorcerery. Cursed energy. Exorcism.
But Hannah was not a sorcerer. She could not manipulate curse energy. She did not know how to fight something more powerful than herself. Heal, maybe. Fight, no. Helpless as a hostage locked in the boot of a burning car falling over a cliff. She was merely human. A human that could do nothing except get on her knees and pray.
Because they were not alone in the tunnel anymore. Something was out there. It sent her heart racing, that sudden, paranoid feeling they were being followed. Hannah’s grip on Hiro tightened, clinging to him as though he’d be lost forever if she let go. She walked faster. Hiro could sense it too. His eyes couldn’t help but jerk to a spot behind them.
Then they heard a noise.
It seemed at first far away, then very close; distant and then rushing ominously toward them all at once. Their eyes caught it. Something large and pale dropped to the ground with a silent whump, slowly creeping forward. A bone white face like a kabuki mask with yellow eyes rabid as disease shone from the shadows. It had been crawling on the walls like a beetle. They saw its mouth cleave into a hyper-stretched grin. The tiniest hint of acid tickled its throat as the thing spoke.
“RUN.”
Hannah did just that. She yanked Hiro by the arm with all her might and high-tailed him in the opposite direction. Her lungs, which had felt short of oxygen, seemed to give way to new breath, heart galloping in her chest. Sharp, cutting objects stoked her feet, pins and needles, slicing right through flesh and bone. She winced, but did not falter. The burning adrenaline flowing through her body nullified most of the pain. Hiro felt weightless. Her 5’1, hundred-twenty pound ass was literally dragging him down the tunnel. He was wailing and screaming, calling out for his mother. And only then did Hannah come to understand that the curse wasn’t trailing behind them, hot on their heels. It had waited. The evil thing had given them a head start because it wanted to chase. It wanted to hunt.
“RUN! RUN!!! RUN!!!!”
A hideous, ululating laugh echoed throughout the void as it shouted this, rising and falling in hysteric yips. Loud. Splintering. She could hear its long thundering gate stampeding down the grimy tunnel like the Minotaur from Daedalus’ labyrinth. Gaining on them, faster and faster. Hannah thought she felt a claw graze her cheek, missing by a hair, almost taking a swipe at Kenta, who was still knocked unconscious on her back, had she not moved her head.
They kept running. Hannah’s heart was pumping so hard she thought it would burst. Her breaths heaved like sobs. She had no idea where they were going. She looked left and right, saw an opening and swerved hard on her heels, thinking it would take them somewhere.
Except it didn’t.
They had reached a dead end.
Hannah spun around. The curse was there, crouched on all fours, stalking menacingly towards them. Hiro let out a boyish scream, cowering behind Hannah. The curse laughed and in two short steps was right on top of them. She watched it raise a gangrenous hand.
“I’LL FEAST ON YOUR BONES!!”
Hannah shut her eyes and braced for the end, doing her best to shield Hiro and Kenta from being struck. The scream she’d been holding stayed in her mouth, until...
“Hey, ugly.”
Everyone, curse and human, stopped. Hannah’s heart leapt. She knew that voice. Her eyes cracked just a sliver to see Satoru illuminated in a scarlet haze. An orb of cursed energy swirled on the tip of his finger.
“Feast on this.”
He flicked the red orb at the curse like a yo-yo, watching it spin, obliterating the whole right half of the spirits’ face upon making contact. It’s skull busted open like a gourd, shards of broken cranium splitting outward and purple mist spraying. The curse howled, taking four shambling steps back.
Hannah did not waver. She hooked an arm around Hiro’s small torso, and with her other hand tightly gripped Kenta’s arms dangling around her neck, and ran like hell. The curse was too stunned by the blast to prevent her from joining the Six Eyes wielder on the other side
“Oi, kid,” Satoru said, stopping them. “Mind if I borrow that for a sec?”
He was gesturing to Stinging Nettle, still wedged in Hiro’s fist. By some miracle, he hadn’t dropped it. Hannah set the boy down. He looked warily at her for permission.
“It’s alright,” she said, nodding her head encouragingly. “This is my…friend I was talking to you about.”
Satoru gave her a confounded look. Friend? But kept quiet. No one noticed.
The boy turned around and gazed up at the Six Eyes wielder, mouth agape, like he was staring up at a great monument, and wordlessly held out the knife. Satoru smirked and casually took it from him. He liked it when kids looked at him that way; Totally awestruck. Gotta be the height.
He then motioned with his finger for Hannah to come over he whipped out her belongings from his pockets.
“Here.”
She took the jewelry and gloves and observed him placing the knife in his pocket, blade facing up so the steel poked out the back. He then snapped off his silver cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves and only then did she recall the conversation they had before becoming separated, how she had verbally lambasted him like a child. How trivial and immature it seemed then. Her eyes flitted back to the writhing curse and anxiously bit her lip.
“So, I’m guessing you have a plan?”
He glanced at her.
“Plan? There ain’t no plan."3
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m serious, Satoru.”
“I know. So am I.”
The mixture of guilt and gladness was too great for her to withstand.
“Then is it too soon to offer an apology?”
“An apology?” he asked. “What for?”
“For how I behaved earlier. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have gotten — ”
Satoru stepped forward and gently cupped her cheek. “We can talk about it later, alright?”
“But…” She was going to argue, but with the look he was giving her she quickly conceded, leaning her cupped cheek into his palm. The action felt natural. “Alright.”
“Cool.” He smiled and flitted his eyes at the little boy, asleep, hanging from Hannah’s shoulder like a baby orangutan. “By the way, those are some cute kids. Good job looking after them.”
She snorted a dry laugh. “Thanks.”
“Try not to disappear again.”
“I won’t,” she said. “Be careful.”
Satoru gave her a gratuitous smirk. “Always.” And turned around to finish the fight.
If this were a movie, the soundtrack would begin playing some epic Hans Zimmer-style music; Neo fighting Agent Smith in the rain, or Luke Skywalker dueling Darth Vader for the last time. Usually there would be a bit of dialogue stippled in where the hero makes the villain aware of why they must die, and the villain laughs and explains why the hero is blindsighted by their sense of justice. If the script is well written, perhaps you’ll be made to sympathize with the villain. Gain a better understanding of their motives and why they chose to become evil in the first place, while still rooting for the hero to win. Maybe the villain sees the error of their ways and is given a chance to redeem themselves. Or perhaps in the heat of battle, the hero decides they’ve got it all wrong and the villain is right. Whatever happens, it always goes the same: Conflict. Climax. Resolution. They all lived happily ever after (for the most part). The end.
But curses didn’t come with Happy Ever Afters. They could not be reasoned with. They could not be redeemed. A curse only had the worst of intentions; one dimensional characters at their finest. For that, there could be no sympathy. Made them easier to kill. There was never any guilt associated when excorcizing a curse.
The curse in question was still reeling from the hit. Satoru rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles.
“What’s the matter, big guy? That all ya got?”
The curse narrowed its uninjured eyes at the sorcerer, snorting challengingly like a bull. Enraged, it began to quickly heal itself. The pulverized side of its face started to bubble and grow, metastasizing into new skeletal flesh, until the injuries were gone. The curse grinned triumphantly at being made whole again and was on Satoru in a flash, taking a swipe at him with its long, hooked claws. Satoru dodged. The curse swiped again. Once more, Satoru evaded the attack. “Come now. Surely you can do better?” he taunted, further prompting the curse to assail the sorcerer in a windmilled frenzy of swipes and jabs.
Satoru sidestepped them like they were aimed to miss, like it was all fun and games, going so far as to openly laugh and hurl insult after insult, dancing endless circles around his aggressor. He didn’t have to show off this much, of course. He’d been itching all night to pull the trigger, to throttle something. He could deliver the finishing blow at any time. But where’s the satisfaction in that? he thought. Patience was a skill like anything else. Let the curse have its moment. Let it stay ignorant of the fact it was nothing more than a puny, nonvenomous snake in the thralls of a mongoose.
Tired of slashing through air, the curse backed away and stretched out its bone-white hand. A swarm of glowing cursed energy gathered around it, but Satoru anticipated this move and smooshed his palms together in a hand sign, thus teleporting in front of the curse. He grabbed its stretched out wrist, bending it back lightly, and said in a low voice.
“My turn.”
He leaned on the balls of his feet and yanked the curse's wrist all the way back, hearing the metacarpals fracture and break like tiny chicken bones. Pop, pop, pop. The spirit roiled. Satoru shifted on his back foot and swung it upwards in a roundhouse kick. The curse was sent flying. Sparks of blackened energy flashed and flickered, though it couldn’t be seen amidst the dark.
The curse slammed into the wall, but the fleshy tissue coating the tunnel absorbed most of the impact. If the surface were harder, it would’ve crushed the creature’s bones into silt powder and ruptured all its vital organs, to the extent it had any, leaving behind a huge crater. Perhaps that was by design; the Domain was meant to prohibit its prey’s movement like sticky insect tape and function as insulation when taking significant damage. The curse managed to pull itself up, and with wolverine agility lunged for Satoru, joining its clawed fingers together to form a spade and began slashing in a scythe-swinging motion. Satoru kept his hands in his pockets and whistled a carefree tune as the curse kept missing, coming up short like a drunk yokel playing a round of whack-a-mole. New dog. Same old stupid tricks.
“You’re not very bright, are you?” he mocked, looking unbothered. His dress shirt was still tucked and his pants were holeless and his shoes weren’t scuffed. This fight was a breeze. “Do something else. I’m getting bored.”
The curse snarled at the jujutsu sorcerer, low and feral, yellow eyes shining with immense hatred. Instead of taking another swipe at the human, it got on its hind legs and lunged, mouth wide open, incisors and canines serrated like daggers, going right for Satoru’s neck, but he stood his ground, hooking his index finger over his middle. He waited until the curse’s mouth was inches away before letting loose, and watched with great satisfaction as the curse’s teeth shattered into a million tiny pieces, falling out and splintering. Gouts of dark purple blood sprayed in every direction. Satoru’s Infinity had created an impenetrable shield, preventing the curse’s teeth from breaking through; no different than chomping into a slab of paved cement.
The cursed spirit cried, full-throated and agonized, stumbling backwards, clutching its newly broken jaw. Satoru seized its neck and forced it to the ground. He took Stinging Nettle from his back pocket and with hunting precision, plunged the blade directly into the middle of the curse’s wrist like a floorboard nail. Its high pitched shriek was nauseating. He then started throwing punch after swinging punch with inbred rapidity. Overhand. Uppercut. Left hook. Right hook. Not giving the curse the opportunity to fight back. Its face jerked forward and down and side to side. Using Infinity as a bludgeon, Satoru’s fist never made contact with the curse. His knuckles commenced beating and smashing. Then he hatched an idea.
“Let's count together, shall we?”
Keeping the curse pinned, Satoru stopped punching and jammed his three fingers straight into one of its four eye sockets, digging all the way through till he found the optic nerve connecting the eye to the brain. He pinched the nerves between his fingers and thumb and pulled. The curse thrashed and struggled, screaming absolute bloody murder, high and inarticulate. With enough persistence the eyeball came popping out, still latched to the optic nerve like an umbilical cord.
“There’s one,” Satoru declared. “How about two?”
The curse writhed and squirmed, trying all it could to break free. Satoru held on and once again burrowed his fingers into a second eye, feeling for the nerve fibers. The tantō lodged to the curse’s wrist would not give, leaving blisters and corroded skin; Stinging Nettle’s hidden ability. Living up to its name, whenever the blade came into contact with a cursed spirit, it would inflame and agitate the flesh like a nest of African killer bees. “NO, NO, NO,” the curse cried. It was becoming desperate. It couldn’t heal itself and fend off the sorcerer simultaneously. That expelled too much energy, so it did the next plausible thing. A wild animal caught in a trap will gnaw off its own leg to escape danger. With all its might, the curse jerked and tugged. Tendons and ligaments tore and dismembered like thin denim. The curse sacrificed its own hand as the steel sliced cleanly through the marrow. Satoru allowed the wraith to slide out from under him.
The curse was slower to get up than before, now missing all its front teeth, skull bashed empty. A smooshed eye dangled from its socket like a pendulum and its right hand was reduced to a stub of purple fodder, giving it a zombie-ish appearance. It attempted to regenerate the mangled hand, but Stinging Nettle’s venom blocked receptors from communicating with each other and the eye wouldn’t heal, nor the hand. That left it with no choice. The curse lifted its remaining hand and aimed it at the Six Eyes wielder. A vortex of dark, swirling purple charged inside its palm and released a pulsating jet of raw cursed energy. Satoru hooked his front fingers again and radiated Infinity for as far as it could go, blocking the tunnel. The beam hit in a miasma of heavy smoke and scorching heat. With no ventilation, the fumes waded and feted.
Silence hung in the air.
The whole world seemed to be holding its breath.
Then in a great heaping wind, the smoke transfigured from an ominous grey, to orange, to finally a violent scarlett hue, surging outwards in every direction. The air cleared. Like the eye of a hurricane, Satoru stood in the center, a black-red ball of energy spun on the tip of his finger, turning the scenery around them a clarion color. The only emotion reflected in his blue eyes was one of pure rage. This had gone on for long enough.
“Jutsushiki Hanten, Aka,” he said boldly, widening into a smirk. Sayonara, asshole.
The red ball of swirling positive energy became a harsh white light and then launched from the sorcerer’s finger like a speeding bullet, crackling, rippling, and in a great burst exited right through the curse’s chest, causing its whole upper body to rupture in a horrid explosion of blood and innards. The curse fell to the ground like a test dummy, gurgling and squelching. Obliterated. No more.
Satoru approached the excorcized spirit. He squatted down and began pilfering through the remains that were sizzling and evaporating into nonbeing, ignoring the smell. And after some more deliberation, he at last withdrew a puce colored finger from the corpse.
The long night was over.
The battle had been won.
Notes:
1. In Buddhist cosmology, apart from the Pure Land, there are said to be six realms you can be reborn into: The realm of (1) gods, (2) demigods, (3) humans, (4) animals, (5) ghosts, and (6) hell beings. Here I have Satoru fretting he’ll be reborn in the realm of hell beings (Naraka), which is divided into several levels. Unlike the Abrahamic religions, however, the soul does not linger in this realm forever. Therefore, the Buddhist notion of “Hell” is closer to that of Purgatory. Donald Lopez writes it this way:
Buddhist texts often describe [Naraka as] a system of eight hot hells, eight cold hells, four neighbouring or secondary hells, and various trifling hells, providing elaborate details of the gruesome sufferings that the denizens undergo as a result of their sinful actions in the past. Lopez, Donald. Buddhist Scriptures (Penguin Classics) (pp. 3-4). Penguin Books Ltd. Kindle Edition.
2. Also, to be clear, there are no “secret" Thomas Aquinas writings on demonology, nor the Buddhist monk Kūkai.
3. Classic movie quote.Follow me on Tumblr.
Chapter 17: Reconciled
Summary:
So I bet you all are wondering. What the heck was that all about? Well, you aren’t the only ones.
Nanami wants answers too.
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"There is no love without forgiveness. There is no forgiveness without love." - Bryant H. McGill.
Chapter 17: Reconciled
The time read 1:09 AM on the dot. A feeling of grim solemness cloaked the deserted streets. The decimated opera theater was cordoned in a shroud of response vehicles, revolving lights twirling red and blue. Reporters first at the scene had canvassed the complex, attempting to interview people and take photographs as ambulances were frantically wheeling survivors to the nearest hospital, seconded only by mortuary vans. Vested dogs were set loose, their snouts glued to the ground, while rescue volunteers and medics searched through rubble like it was a minefield operation, ordering everyone to be quiet when they thought someone was yelling for help beneath the wreckage.
Satoru stayed out of their way. He was silently cheering them on, but had already scanned the area with the use of his Six Eyes. All the people buried underneath were dead and those that made it out alive beforehand would have their memories wiped clean, as was standard protocol. Probably not since the World War had the death toll been so staggering.
He found Nanami talking to two policemen next to a freight truck unloading an excavator. The salaryman’s hair looked a little unkempt and his cleaver knife was dripping with blood, but Satoru didn’t care. He stomped right over, fuming.
“Shit, Nanami, I’ve been looking everywhere. Where the hell have you been?”
“I appreciate your time, officers,” Nanami deferred to the sergeants, keeping his tone professional. “That’ll be all for now.”
The two officers nodded and raced to assist their fellow service men and women. Nanami held his silence and fixed his eyes upon the rows of emergency vehicles lining the tapped-off street. Satoru followed his gaze and saw he was looking at Hannah, sitting out the back end of an ambulance, the Yamazaki siblings nestled on either side of her. Someone had given them blankets to stay warm. The three of them were quietly observing the rescue efforts. Her belongings were piled in her lap and her feet were still barefoot.
“How is she doing?”
Satoru’s anger towards his comrade cooled to a low simmer. “Fine, I guess,” he sighed. “Good but not great. You know how it is.”
“Any injuries?”
“A few scrapes here and there, but overall nothing life threatening.”
“Who’re the kids?”
Satoru glanced back at the two children huddled in blankets next to his wife.
“Stowaways,” he replied. “She found them when we got separated in the Domain.”
Nanami turned to issue him a condescending look. “You got separated?”
Satoru scowled and massaged his soar eyelids. “Hey, it’s a long fucking story, alright? The Domain ended up being a trick room. I’ll tell you about it later when I’m not dog-shit tired and properly caffeinated.” He was gonna drink a whole pot of coffee when he got home. His head ached like the dickens.
Nanami let out a long sigh and loosened the bow tie around his neck. He brought his cleaver knife to inspect the damage. “Sorry I wasn’t able to talk earlier. Got myself in a bit of an…altercation.”
“Sheesh, no kidding.” Satoru scrutinized the bloody knife. “What, some fanboys wanted your autograph or something?”
“Suppose you could say that,” Nanami said with a shrug. The knife made a shing when he repositioned it in his grasp. “Though, I gave them a bit more than my autograph.”
“You killed them?”
“No,” Nanami huffed. “They’ll be treated for their injuries and taken in for questioning. I have a feeling they’re connected to the attack somehow.”
“What, this?!” Satoru pointed to the destroyed theater. “You’re shitting me.”
“Two random goons assault me at an exclusive event, and a special-grade curse suddenly pops out of nowhere? That doesn’t sound odd to you?”
Satoru shrugged. “No. Not really.”
“Think, Satoru. What were we planning to discuss tonight?”
“The investigation regarding Hannah’s attack two months ago.”
Nanami gave a curt nod. “Precisely.”
Satoru waited a beat, trying to think. “Um…okay, so what does that have to do with this again? I missed it.”
Nanami heaved another exhausted sigh and wiped his glasses down his unwrinkled shirt. “As of now, nothing. But the two goons I took down began following me soon as I entered the theater. I thought nothing of them initially, thinking they were just a couple of waiters making their rounds, until I saw them communicating through earpieces. That’s when I knew something was off.”
Gojo cocked his head. “Why didn’t you alert the others? Utahime and Shoko were already there.”
“It’s a party. You bump into the same people all the time. I had to be sure it was really me they were after. So I waded around a bit and after three full laps, I went upstairs to the gardens. As I thought, the two losers followed and that’s when we,” he nodded to the knife in his hand, “exchanged pleasantries.”
Satoru raised his hands. “Hold up. I thought you said this was connected to the curse att — ”
“Let me finish!” Nanami seethed, letting slip a few irritated grumbles before going back to his story. “While up on the roof, the goons stupidly revealed their motive. They were wanting to steal my phone.”
“You’re phone? Why would they want your crummy ‘ole phone?”
Nanami’s eyes flared heatedly. His phone was neither crummy nor old. “Do you realize how much personal information is stored in a cell phone nowadays, Satoru? All anyone would have to do is guess a few lucky numbers and immediately have access to all your messages, your credit card purchases, what websites you’ve visited, the whole gambit. There’s a reason cell phones are sought after when apprehending a suspect. They’re like evidential gold mines.”
“Alright, alright, I get it,” Satoru relented, batting the air as though it would dispel his faux pas. “You don’t have to talk down to me. I’m caffeine deprived, not stupid.”
“Someone wants information on Hannah, and is going through great lengths to obtain it,” Nanami continued, gripping his chin between his fingers analytically. “They must’ve known I had been roped into her investigation a few weeks ago, and tried apprehending my phone at a time I’d least expect it, meaning there has to be a mole feeding them intel. The loss of human life doesn’t seem to deter them either. They want to make as much noise as possible. Get our attention. Raise hell.”
The Six Eyes wielder began picking his ear boredly as his comrade rambled. “I still don’t see how this is all related...”
“Satoru,” Nanami said sternly. “You and Hannah were the only ones trapped inside the curse’s Domain.”
“No, not true,” Satoru quipped. “There were also the kids.”
The salaryman exhaled. “Fair enough, but so far there have been no other living witnesses showing symptoms of Domain exposure. The dead will require autospies of course, but as of now it’s just the four of you. It doesn’t help that you admitted to getting separated either, and knowing the curse was one of Sukuna’s finger bearers is also troubling. It could mean he…” Nanami paused. “No, forget it. We’ll wait for more evidence before drawing more conclusions.”
“Conclusions? What conclusions?” Satoru said this moronically as though the salaryman were speaking in riddles, but feared he already knew the answer. Not counting the kids, revealing he and Hannah had been the only two living escapees made the bolts tighten in his chest. He couldn’t deny it any longer. Hannah was being repeatedly targeted by someone? Someone with the ability to transport special-grade level curses from one place to another, including the backstage of a fully packed theater without anyone knowing. There was really only one person who could accomplish such an undertaking. But still. What would his former best friend want with his wife? That logic made zero sense. The Sight was triggered from raw cursed energy floating in the atmosphere. The amount of cursed energy increased when curses were being spawned, or when cursed objects, especially powerful ones, were beginning to unravel. Japan was never in short supply of those, but if Suguru was searching for Sukuna’s fingers, or a powerful cursed object, why use Hannah to find them. The curse from tonight was a finger bearer. What good was it to use somebody with The Sight when you had no trouble locating them yourself? Or was there something else at play?
Is this out of spite, Suguru? Satoru thought. Are you targeting her to get to me?
“Still have that finger on you?”
“Yeah.” Satoru paused his reflections and dug out the Sukuna finger from his pocket, purple and withered, like it had been preserved in a case of formaldehyde. He saw the revulsion show on his comrade’s face and laughed. “I know. Gross, isn’t it?”
“Idiot, stop flailing it around. You’re an adult. Act like one.”
“Chill, man, chill,” Satoru appeased. “I’ll pay Kumari a visit and have her reseal the damn thing. Haven’t seen her and Ichiro in a while — Yeah, yeah, then I’ll hand it over to the Council like a good boy, so stop micromanaging already.”
Nanami rolled his eyes and looked back at the rescue workers and flashing ambulances. “We’ll have a better picture of what happened in the coming days. For now best keep an eye on Hannah and be on your guard. It seems whoever is behind this is hiring non-sorcerers to appear less conspicuous.”
Satoru blinked at him. “Non-sorcerers? That’s weird. What makes you think that?”
“The grunts used no cursed weapons or spells that I could think of. Plus, one of them was carrying ¥250,000 in his coat pocket.” Nanami let out a detestable snort. “A sheer pittance, if you ask me. Who keeps hit money where someone else could easily steal it?”
Satoru felt like he’d been kicked in the groin. The memory of Hannah slipping that exact amount in a random waiter's breast pocket resurfaced in his mind. They had gotten a good look at her. And he had let them.
“Tell me everything you saw, Kento.”
…
Hannah sat anxiously in the cab of the ambulance, watching Satoru converse with a serious looking man with ash-blond hair, holding a bloodied cleaver knife. Unlike Satoru, however, he was still wearing his tails, and his bow-tie and shirt were clean as swan feathers, like he had stepped out of the party for a casual smoke and found the bloody butcher knife lying there by happenstance. They had been talking for over twenty minutes, her husband’s facial expressions eclipsing from joking, to confused, to…worried?
The Yamazaki siblings were curled in a blanket on either side of her. Kenta regained consciousness long enough for a nurse to hook an IV in him, but had fallen asleep on Hannah’s arm, peacefully sucking his thumb. Meanwhile Hiro hadn’t touched the carton of juice and apple slices the nurses had given him. He lied awake, eagerly waiting for news of his parents who had yet to turn up. They had been watching first responders carry the loaded body bags to-and-fro, having lost count after the number reached thirty.
“Those are dead people, aren’t they?” Hiro whispered. “In those bags?”
“Yes,” Hannah said. Another body was being brought out from the wreckage. “They are.”
“Do you think my Mama and Papa are in there?”
“I don’t know, Hiro.” She reached for his hand and squeezed. “Let’s hope not.”
A woman wearing a long white coat over her gown was moving from ambulance to ambulance. Her satin gloves were replaced with yellow latex and her chocolate brown hair was kept from her face in a messy bun. The makeup couldn’t hide the heavy dark circles under her eyes which looked more pronounced as she worked. It was Shoko. She was collecting vials of patients’ blood and offering her sympathies to the victims. It had been a stressful six hours.
“Your turn,” she said rather cheerily, her eyes emoting something like relief upon finding Hannah with the boys. She held up an unused syringe and rattled three empty vials.
“What is this for?” Hannah asked.
“Safety protocol,” Shoko replied. “We collect everyone’s blood and send it off for testing. Helps us know whether your body is experiencing any long lasting side effects from the cursed energy. It’s standard procedure. No biggie.”
Hiro squirmed and hugged himself closer to Hannah. “I don’t like needles,” he whined.
Hannah stretched out the crook of her elbow for Shoko to draw blood first and smiled. “Surely after all that you can’t be afraid of a little needle.”
This harmless ribbing seemed to work. The six year old pouted but eventually outstretched his arm once Shoko was finished with Hannah. It didn’t hurt so bad. The doctor was careful where she stuck the needle and gave him a green colored band-aid when he voiced it was his favorite color. She quietly did the same with Kenta, who was still asleep on Hannah’s arm, and removed the empty IV on him shortly afterwards. At some point Satoru approached the group.
“We good over here?”
Hannah looked up. Her husband’s hair had returned to its normal, unruly self; the gel no longer keeping it parted to one side. His dress shirt was untucked and his sleeves were still rolled, making him give off a haggard appearance while still being handsome. She had to revert her eyes elsewhere when she felt blood rush to her face.
“Sugoi,” Hiro whispered in admiration, craning his neck to peer up at the sorcerer like he did earlier, except he had a better view of him now. “How are you so tall?”
Satoru smirked. He couldn't say he was a huge fan of children, but they were almost always fans of him (except darling little Megumi-chan). He patted Hiro’s head and slipped him a sly-eyed wink.
“Thanks for looking after Hannah for me, squirt. I owe ya.”
Hiro couldn’t believe a real life superhero was holding a conversation with him.
“That’s nothing,” he said modestly as any six year old would and looked back to the sorcerer’s wife for reassurance. “You should've seen what she did.” He didn’t notice the way the woman froze. “Hannah healed Kenta’s leg.”
Satoru’s eyes narrowed. “Healed?”
“Yeah.” Hiro nodded excitedly, using grand sweeping gestures. “She shot gold light from her hands, vroom, and made the bad, purpley stuff go away, and then Kenta woke up, but now he’s sleeping again. You should’ve been there. It was so cool.”
Brow raised, Satoru glanced over to Hannah for more context. She dismissively waved her hand.
“Children. They have quite the imagination. Really, Hiro, whatever gave you that idea? You must’ve hit your head.”
“Huh?” The accusation of treachery on Hiro’s face was heart shattering. “But you…”
Hannah shook her head. “Kenta’s leg was never injured, remember? We just thought it was because his pants were torn.”
He dropped his arms. “But what about the gold light?”
“Gold light?” Hannah chuckled. “Silly goose, there was never any gold light. Maybe we should have Shoko check you for a concussion. I’m growing concerned.”
The boy felt as though he had missed a step going down the stairs. Hannah, who he regarded as his friend, was lying. He knew very well he had not hit his head and was not con-cursed (or whatever she said), but also knew no one would believe him. Hannah was a grown up. He wasn’t. Her word would be taken more seriously than his. She had swept him under the bus. How come?
“Hiro! Kenta!!!”
The group turned to see an exasperated man and woman push through the throngs of rescue personnel. Together, they shoved Shoko and Satoru aside like revolving doors and pulled Hiro into a bone-crushing hug. Hannah too evaded these newcomers. No question they were Mr. and Mrs. Yamazaki. Hiro and Kenta’s raven black hair was the same as their mother’s, and their brown eyes must’ve come from their father. She also noted the scrapes and bruises marking the parents’ faces, along with their hand bandages, but thankfully the two of them looked healthy.
“My babies!” Mrs Yamazaki sobbed while her husband stood watch, tears welling his eyes. It was apparent to everyone how relieved they both were for having found their children alive. Kenta had awoken from his slumber, confused as to what was going on, mumbling about how hungry he was when his mother hugged him; The two year old wouldn’t remember a thing from tonight. Hiro was crying as well. His parents were okay. He and his brother would not be left orphans. They were a family again.
“Thank you!” both parents cried, kneeling before Hannah and Satoru, foreheads touching the ground to pay them homage. Hiro had relayed to them all that had happened. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. How can we ever repay you?”
Hannah was rendered speechless to the point it felt awkward. She had never been thanked to such a degree and was fumbling on how to respond. Satoru pulled through for her.
“No payment necessary. We’re just glad you folks made it out in one piece. That right, Hannah?”
“Um, yes,” Hannah coughed. “Please, there’s no need to thank us. Really.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Yamazaki,” Shoko politely interrupted. “My name is Dr. Ieiri. If you don’t mind, will you come with me for a moment? I have some papers you’ll need to sign before we can discharge you.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” they said in unison and shuffled behind the jujutsu doctor to another ambulance. Mrs. Yamazaki still had Kenta in her arms, leaving her eldest son with Hannah for a while longer. Satoru left to reconvene with Utahime who was newly accessorized in a workers helmet and construction gloves, busily helping volunteers lift debris and guide survivors to one of the nearby medical stations scattered throughout.
Alone with her once more, Hiro looked up at Hannah.
“Why did you lie back there?”
The woman gave him a sad smile. “I wish I could tell you, Hiro, I really do, but I’m afraid I can’t. I’m sorry.”
The six year old peered down at his dress shoes.
“Will I ever see you again?”
Hannah's smile waned. It had dawned on her in the ambulance that the boy was sensitive to cursed energy and would likely become a fine jujutsu sorcerer or window one day. But that day was not now, so instead she knelt in front of the child, leaned forward, and kissed him sweetly on the cheek.
“Take care of your brother, Hiro.” Goodbye, you brave boy.
Shortly afterwards, Hiro’s parents returned with little Kenta who had yet again fallen asleep, thumb lodged in his mouth. United as a family, the Yamazaki’s bowed one last time and waved farewell to Hannah as they departed with an officer who would escort them safely back home. Hannah watched until they had made it past the street corner and could be seen no more. She felt someone nudge her arm.
“You ready?”
She turned to see Satoru, fists stuffed in his pockets, his turquoise blue eyes shining amidst all the rotating emergency lights. He too had been watching the Yamazaki’s leave. Now feeling a tad bittersweet at their parting, Hannah nodded and followed her husband to the Rolls Royce parked on the side of the road. Mr. Ichiji slid out the driver's seat, peppering them with questions: “Are you alright?” “Do you need anything?” “Have you eaten at all?” Hannah tiredly assured him she was fine and slid inside when he opened the passenger door. Satoru climbed in the opposite seat, just as they had arrived.
Hannah sat all the way back, cushioning her head along the headrest. The medics had given her sandals to walk in and let her keep the blanket from earlier. She draped it over her legs and snuck a glance at Satoru, plugging his now working phone to a charging cord. She felt a pang in her chest.
“I’m sorry for getting angry at you the way I did. I didn’t mean it.”
Mr. Ijichi, ever the eavesdropper, rolled the privacy screen up. Don’t mind me, I’m not here.
“Why? It’s not like you were wrong,” Satoru scoffed, changing his mind and unplugging his phone from the charger, slipping the device back into his pocket. “I’m the one who screwed everything up.”
“But you said the act was involuntary. I should’ve listen — ”
“Hannah…” Satoru turned sharply to her. “We both know there is no excuse for what I‘ve done. If I were anyone else I’d be facing criminal charges for sexual harassment. End of story.” He turned away and slicked a rough hand through his hair. “Shit, Utahime is right. I really am a terrible person.”
Hannah felt her lips tug. “The worst.”
He peaked over his shoulder. “Worse than a cancer diagnosis?”
“No,” she giggled. “I wouldn’t say you’re that bad.”
A low laugh escaped him. “Phew, good to know,” and he reached across the aisle to fasten her seatbelt, pulling the blanket over her arms to keep her nice and warm. “Cancer really sucks.”
Her eyes began to droop. “Yeah, it does.”
“But you don't think I suck?”
“No, I don’t think you suck.”
“Even when I’m being an asshat?”
“Yes,” she yawned contentedly. “Even when you’re being an asshat.”
Mr. Ijichi put the Phantom in drive and sped up the empty street, heading for the exit that would return them to the Gojo estate. Hannah fully closed her eyes and as she drifted off to blissful sleep, she suddenly had the most peculiar thought. How strange. Last she had fallen asleep in the backseat of a car, she had been by herself, newly married and dejected by an unwilling husband who had since turned a new leaf and had kindly buckled her seatbelt and tucked her in. He was there with her.
They were going home.
Notes:
Alright, that concludes the NNTT Arc!!! Yay!!! Two Sukuna fingers down, eighteen (three😉) more to go.
SIDE NOTE: I will be taking a short break in preparation for the next chapter. I need to catch up on my reading and rest my brain, so there will be no update next week. Still can’t believe I published four chapters in one month. That has to be, like, a new world record or something.
Let me know your thoughts on this chapter in the comment section below.👇🏻
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Chapter 18: Fighting the Inevitable
Summary:
⚾️🍰🎡💕💋
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Baseball is more than just a game. It has eternal value. Through it, one learns the beautiful and noble spirit of Japan. — Suishu Tobita (1886–1965) Japan’s dubbed “God of Baseball.”
This country has got its national flag all wrong. Instead of a rising sun in the center, there should be a baseball. — British Tourist
Chapter 18: Fighting the Inevitable
Satoru was the one who suggested they attend a baseball game together. “Things have gotten pretty shitty around here,” were his exact words. “And I want a reason to make Utahime jealous.” Hannah was in no position to refuse. It was indeed a dark time for Japan. The theater had left a terrible gloom over the country. Sixteen days since the “terrorist bombing” and the public still did not know the truth behind the attack, believing Aum Shinrikyo responsible. Unreal, they thought. The mysterious disappearances of children, gas leaks blowing up schools, and now this? A terrorist attack leaving more than 600 dead. Holy crap, what was this world coming to?
So then. How did Tokyo remedy this depressing gloom, you might ask? Well, they sat down to enjoy a baseball game. That’s what. Yeah, show those terrorist devils that their doomsday plan was a failure. That they couldn’t upend this country’s way of life no matter how hard they tried. Sports offered a way back to normalcy, to heal. And what better way to heal other than baseball?
No, that was not hyperbole.
Other than the matsuri festivals celebrated at the end of the year, seldom was it socially acceptable for people to let their hair down and unwind from the eighty hour workweek and strict school system. So for many Japanese diehards, baseball was its own religion, its own art form, a means of escape where the impossible became possible and dreams of the most remarkable kind came true. Hard work. Perseverance. Athletic excellence. The team sport affectionately dubbed “America’s national pastime” could just as easily be “Japan’s national pastime.” There was no modern sport Japan loved and revered more than baseball. They practically lived and breathed it. Even football, the most popular sport on earth, couldn’t vie for Japan’s heart. This was bēsubōru country, baby, take your checkered soccer balls and kick them somewhere else.
Satoru had opted they go to a day game. The Yomiuri Giants were playing against the Hanshin Tigers, their arch rivals, and as expected the Dome was seated to the brim. Shaped like a humongous egg, Tokyo Dome could house well over 45,000, but the attendance that afternoon felt innumerous, as if the entire city, baseball and non-baseball fans alike, had taken off work to witness the spectacle.
Rival fans uniformed in either Yomiuri orange or Hanshin black and yellow waited behind concession stands, peddling headbands (hachimaki), baseball caps, colorful frying pans, drumsticks, and various other noisemakers. Cheerleaders and mascots danced their routines, waving to the crowd from the field as young “beer girls” in highlighter-yellow uniforms walked up and down the stadium aisles, carrying pony kegs on their backs to serve cold beer to the masses.
Hannah noticed then that she wasn’t wearing Tigers or Giants gear like the rest. Instead, Satoru had lent her one of his jerseys. Emblazoned in all caps on the front was the bold word “SEATTLE” with the eye of a compass centered in front of the “S,” which felt odd because Seattle was an American city. Was there a Japanese Seattle she didn’t know about? The player on the back read “ICHIRO 51.” and the fit was five sizes too big. She had to button it up to keep it from sliding off her shoulders.
Looking out at the field, Satoru had bought them good seats; not too high up, but not too close so Hannah could capture everything. They were sitting on the Tigers’ side. She took a bite out of her enormous hotdog that could easily feed two people and glanced at her husband sitting adjacent, sipping his soda through a straw, dark glasses hiding his eyes as he observed the buzzing atmosphere below. He had his baseball cap on backwards, monickering the Japanese flag.
Evidently, they were both pacifists at this game. Like her, Satoru had chosen not to wear Giants or Tigers gear, nor a Seattle jersey. Rather, his uniform showed two red birds perched on a baseball bat. “St. Louis Cardinals” stitched in retro cursive on the front with a patch on the sleeve cap stamped “2006 World Series Champions.” Her eyes landed on the name lettered on the back in cardinalate red. “TAGUCHI 99.”
“I watched Taguchi Sō play during the 2006 World Series as a teen,” Satoru said, catching her snooping as he slurped his soda. “Not many Japanese players make it to the MLB. Much less, the World Series. But the man did it twice. He's the first Japanese to nab two World Series rings before retiring from the Majors. An absolute legend.”
Hannah swallowed her mouthful of hotdog, listening intently. “Does that make him your favorite player then?”
Satoru grinned. “Nah, I don’t have a favorite player,” he chuckled. “Keeps things interesting that way.”
The game was already in full swing by that point and had transitioned to the top of the third. The two teams remained scoreless. Hannah watched as the Giants pitcher stood on the mound, got in his stance, and fully rotate his arm in spectacular motion to deliver his throw, a nasty two-seam fastball clocked at 92 mph, but the Tigers hitter standing in the “batter’s box” had a good eye and swung his wooden bat — CRACK!! — thus making solid contact. And like a shooting star the baseball ricocheted off the slender wooden stick and took flight, soaring higher and higher, beyond the left outfielder’s bandwidth. Now positively electric, half the stadium rose from their seats, thinking it would stay fair, but alas. The buffering wind veered the baseball away from the foul pole and sent it plummeting to the stands. A very distinct groan could be heard throughout the stadium as the Tigers hitter jogged from first base back to home, shaking his head in frustration. It’s not a home run, but a foul ball.
Hannah blinked, not having a clue what just happened and swallowed another biteful of hotdog.
“Honestly, I thought it would be more like cricket.”
Drinking his soda, Satoru froze mid-slurp to give her a blank stare. “You do realize you’ve just insulted both cricket and baseball fans with that one sentence, right?”
Ah yes, that was another fundamental Hannah quickly learned. Baseball was not cricket, and cricket was not baseball. They were totally different sports and no fan dared commit sacrilege by conflating the two. However they were both admittedly complex, yet Satoru had done a good job giving her play-by-play as the game went on, making sure he covered all the basics. If she understood him correctly, the rules of baseball were as follows:
Baseball is a game played between two teams, whose goal it is to score more “runs” (points) than the other. After nine “innings” where each team has gotten nine chances to score runs, the team with the most points wins. If the score is tied, the game goes into extra innings. Now, in order to score a run, an offensive player must put the baseball in play by hitting it with a wooden bat; either with a full body swing, or holding the bat horizontally over “home plate” to tap the baseball gently which is called a bunt. If the hitter is successful and manages to hit the baseball and it stays fair, then he must run around and step on the three “bases” (cushions/also called the “(bags”) that are evenly spaced like a diamond as fast as he can before running across home to score one run. If the hitter misses the oncoming “pitch” (throw), or he does not swing and the baseball is caught within the “strike zone” then it is labeled a strike against him. Alternatively, if he does not swing and the baseball is caught outside the strike zone, then it is labeled a ball. If a hitter gets three strikes, he is out. But if the hitter gets four balls before he gets three strikes, he is automatically awarded first base. If the batter hits the baseball, but it is caught midair by an opposing player on the field, then the batter is also out. Additionally, if the hitter is running around the bases and an opposing player “tags” him with the baseball in his glove (there are nine opposing players on a field), or steps on the base with the baseball in his glove… 1
You get the idea.
As one might imagine, baseball could be very confusing. There were a lot of rules involved. That’s why it was advised to watch the sport in person. And while she was intimidated by it then, Hannah would eventually fall head over heels in love with baseball that season. In fact, nine times out of ten, the Gojo’s future date nights would be spent eating fried foods at baseball games and cheering on Hannah’s beloved Seibu Lions down at Belluna Stadium. And for their third wedding anniversary Satoru would fly them out to Los Angeles to watch Team Japan take on Team USA in the 2017 Baseball World Classic semifinals. Japan would not advance, sadly, nor retake the championship title for another six years, but Hannah would be cheering passionately throughout the entire game, start to finish; Scoffing when the umpires made the wrong call and leaping for joy when Kikuchi Ryosuke homered in the bottom of the sixth. But as of now, Hannah was a beginner, trying to learn the nuances between a “splitter” and a “cutter.” So far, the pitches looked identical.
For the rest of the game the foreign wife continued observing and listening. She had memorized the chants the fans were clapping to and liked the taiko drums and brass trumpets blaring from somewhere out in the stands. However, she still struggled to know when the baseball was fair and when it was foul. Satoru would lean along his armrest to explain. She could tell he was enjoying himself as his breath tickled her skin.
“See the white lines on either side of the baseball diamond, leading up to the foul poles?” Hannah saw the chalked white lines he was referring to and nodded. “The baseball is fair if it stays within those two lines. Anywhere else, it’s foul.”
“Except when it passes over third or first base?”
“Yeah, now you’re getting it,” he nudged her affectionately with his elbow, “You’re catchin’ on quick, Princess. Soon you’ll be calling balls and strikes.”
Hannah smiled proudly at his praise and broke into jubilant applause as the Tigers hitter from earlier successfully hit the oncoming pitch yet again. This time the baseball was a line drive out to right field, staying fair. Her eyes followed the Tigers player as he raced around the diamond, stopping at third base before the Giants' baseman could tag him out. He’s safe, it’s a triple. The crowd yelled and cheered. Then the second hitter in the Tigers’ lineup stepped inside the batter’s box, looking to bring his teammate home from third. Their momentum would carry on for the remainder of the game.
By the end of nine innings, the Hanshin Tigers would defeat the fan favorite Yomiuri Giants: 6 - 2
…
After their baseball extravaganza, there was still quite a bit of daylight left and most venues were open. Satoru and Hannah decided to explore the area, and of course this meant visiting a garden. Koishikawa Kōraku-en (Garden for Taking Pleasure Later) was conveniently situated right next to the Dome. It would’ve been a cryin’ shame not to go.
Hannah was practically bouncing with excitement. Kōraku-en was one of the three most treasured gardens of Japan. What made it unique to the other two, however, was the blended harmony of Japanese and Chinese elements, which was inspired by a famous poem where the emperor could only rest easy once his people were taken care of; hence the garden for “taking pleasure later.” In the early weeks of spring it was a popular destination to photograph the pink sakura blossoms, and then the vibrant red maple and golden ginkgo leaves come autumn. Like the Gojo’s garden back home, Kōraku-en was centered around a resplendent lake with ducks and koi fish. Satoru and Hannah walked along the large moss-covered rocks and stepping stones, listening to the gentle waterfalls scattered here and there. The fiery azaleas bushes and hanging wisteria were still in bloom. With no June rain to sabotage the mood, walking the pathways made for a lovely summer stroll, and since it was a weekday, the crowds weren’t as heavy. They could hear the birds chirping way up in the trees, blocking out the car horns and sirens of Tokyo. The city felt as though it were miles away.
An hour later, Satoru and Hannah left the garden and stopped near a fancy looking vending machine to grab a quick treat, which was yet another quirk about Japan: The various kinds of vending machines. Want a healthy banana to snack on? There’s a vending machine for that. Need an umbrella on a rainy day? There’s a vending machine for that. Forgot to bring tampons with you to work? Yup, there’s a vending machine for that too. The Japanese were nothing if not resourceful.
Satoru’s vending unit of choice was the much beloved Okashi Gaku’s “Cake in a Can.”
The plastic canisters were see-through, but Hannah couldn't make up her mind on what flavor she wanted, so she allowed her husband to pick for her. She watched him swiftly dial the keypad, numbers 1 and 4, and pay for the cakes with his IC card he used for boarding the metro. Like a soda dispenser, two cans dropped to the bottom. Her husband bent down to retrieve them and handed her the pink one. “Almond Cherry Blossom” it read, while Satoru selected “Chocolate Sponge with Strawberries” for himself.
“Cheers,” he sang, holding up his plastic can. Hannah let out a small giggle and clanged her cake can to his.
“Cheers,” she responded back, and not forgetting her manners added a small, “Itadakimasu.”
They peeled back the aluminum lids simultaneously. Satoru didn’t waste time unwrapping his plastic spoon and digging in, but Hannah paused for a moment to examine the novelty confection. She gently poked the white chocolate chips at the top and spooned out a dollop of cream. She then brought it to her lips, taking her first bite.
“So?” she heard Satoru say. He had already finished half his can. “What do you think?”
Hannah chewed the melted chips. The first layer of cream was actually mochi mixed with red bean paste, giving it a truly Japanese flavor and on the sides were jellied sakura blossoms made of kanten. The almond cake wasn’t too sweet, nor too rich. Exactly how she liked it. Delicious! Hannah gave a hum of approval, which enticed Satoru to coast over.
“I wanna taste.”
And that’s when things took a dramatic turn.
Every ligament in Hannah’s body came to a screeching halt as her husband leaned over and took a huge, relishing bite of the pre-scooped cake on her spoon. The very same spoon she had also used. He closed his mouth and withdrew the plastic between his lips slowly. Too slowly. Her heart seemed to skitter. No hesitation, he had eaten off her spoon. Gojo Satoru had just eaten off her spoon. Her. Plastic. Spoon. Did that imply, oh God, have they quite possibly shared…
…an indirect kiss?
“Meh, it’s alright I guess,” Satoru said, licking the cream off his lips, as though everything was normal. “Could use more mochi.”
She couldn’t believe it. The Japanese were known for being absurdly polite. They were soft spoken. Reserved. Perhaps a bit shy like herself and conscientious of how their peers perceived them when not inebriated or cheering at a baseball game. Individuality was often frowned upon. They even had a saying for it: 'The nail that sticks out gets hammered down'. But Satoru? Satoru was a huge stubborn nail that refused to be struck. He carried none of those polite mannerisms, tending to voice the quiet parts out loud. If he didn’t like you, he said so. If you were looking for his honest opinion, he gave it to you. Brash. Chatty. Arrogant. He was also teasingly sarcastic and coquettish, making it hard for Hannah to know when he was flirting and when he was being his generic obtuse self. Wait, is that what was happening? she thought. Was he flirting with her?
She couldn't help but notice how people, especially women, young and old, blushed when they passed them by on the street, whispering to their friends and giggling. Hannah knew what had them talking. How did a foreigner like her end up with a guy like that? Yes, even with the dark frames covering his eyes, Satoru was strikingly handsome in every breadth of the word. Snow white hair, turquoise blue eyes, and sculpted tall body, he was a magnet for attention.
Earlier when they were leaving the stadium, Hannah watched him stretch out, and as he raised his arms, his baseball jersey rolled up and her eyes focused on the deep grooves chiseled along his hip bones, the muscled abdominals, a happy trail of white hair lining down his naval, before he lowered his arms and the jersey fell back into place. Good lord. Her heart ratcheted in her ears and there was no avoiding the tingling sensation that ran along her scalp, down her neck, and around to the front. A strange warmth she couldn’t adequately describe pooled between her thighs, thrumming. She clenched her legs together and tried suppressing the horrendous flush from creeping up her cheeks, praying he didn’t notice. Merely thinking about it had her blushing again.
Much about their argument whilst inside the Domain had gone unsaid. Her virginity rang out like a distress signal. It still had her reeling, knowing he knew what she looked like without her clothes on. But if he had done it more than once, it meant he liked what he saw, no? Isn’t that what she wanted? They were bound to talk about it sooner or later. You're not a little girl anymore, Hannah. You’re married. Yet the bride felt there had been a glitch. Like some sort of hidden communication was going on between them that her grasp of the Japanese language, or any language, couldn’t translate.
“Yum, that really hit the spot,” Satoru said, eating the last of his chocolate strawberry cake. “Want me to finish yours?”
Hannah, suddenly not making eye contact, shoved the sakura cake can in his lap. He swiped it gleefully, but noted her odd behavior.
“You okay, Princess? Is something the matter?”
“N-No, nothing is the matter.”
“You sure? Your face is all splotchy. Could you be having an allergic reaction?”
“I promise you, I’m fine.”
Unconvinced, Satoru grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around, her cheeks like cherry tomatoes. Hannah forced herself not to squirm as he brought the back of his hand up to her forehead.
“Hmm. It doesn’t feel like you have a fever,” he said, moving his back hand from her forehead down to her burning cheek. “Maybe you need to drink more fluids.”
More fluids. Right. Not the hormonal fluids swimming through her bloodstream. Nope. Definitely not those.
Hannah coughed and turned aside, encouraging him to let go, and quickly got to her feet, relieving the queasiness building in her stomach. “Really, I’m fine,” she wiped the sweat off her palms, “So, where to next?”
Satoru threw their empty cake cans away in the nearest recycling bin. He checked the time on his phone, 4:47 PM, nodded, and started walking towards an unknown destination. Hannah followed his lead and after a few short blocks realized he was guiding her towards the gate entrance of an amusement park. But right as they crossed the gates he turned himself around, slipped her a devilish wink that said “I’m up to no good,” and very suavely wove his calloused fingers with hers.
He brought her inside the park, holding her hand.
It was easy for the average person to forget how big Tokyo was. How big exactly? Well, big enough to fit a grand total of 23 amusement parks. That’s how big.
Satoru waited with Hannah as they stood in line for the Ferris wheel. Phase 1 and 2 of Operation: “Make Sure Wife Had Fun" had been a smashing success. He had taken the day off for it: No missions. No annoying higher-ups to play stupid politics with. No official documents to fill out. He had enjoyed a long overdue break. Finally! Now on to Phase 3.
They hadn’t changed out of their baseball attire. Hannah rarely wore her hair down, but today it was half-tied in a lavender ribbon. He had been enamored all day watching the glossy auburn locks swish around her waistline, brown, gold, and red. His Suzuki Ichiro jersey was way too large for her, but something inside him liked that. Looked a million times better on her than it ever did on him. Best of all, Hannah had smiled more in the last seven hours than she had in the three months they had known each other. And boy, did she have a beautiful smile. Absolutely radiant. The kind that could light up a whole room and make a grown man’s heart kick into a full-on sprint. Verdant brown eyes. Petal soft lips. Those cute freckles dotting her nose. That ass in those jeans. Ugh, it just wasn’t fair.
This is my…friend I was talking to you about.
Friend. A ripple of embarrassment shot through him at the memory, his pride feeling as though it were torn to shreds. He hadn’t forgotten the fact he’d been flatly friendzoned, and knowing he had made her cry because he chose to think with his dick and not his brain made the feeling worse. It was his fault. That’s really what this day was for. Satoru was going to make it up to her. Properly. He only hoped she wouldn’t reject his advances.
The Six Eyes wielder had been more, how would he put it, handsy than normal. (No, not that kind of handsy. Get your mind out of the gutter). More straightforward. Bolder. Testing to see how far she'd let him push the envelope before growing uncomfortable; touching her, giving sidelong glances, feigning ignorance, etc. He thought eating off her spoon made it blatantly obvious. Best piece of cake he’d ever had by the way, and her reaction had been adorable. Baby steps, Satoru. You can do this. Let her set the tone.
Hannah had made a hard pass on the roller coaster, but Satoru was able to persuade her into riding the log flume with him - she enjoyed that part - and more than once she let him snap a pic of her as they explored the park, choosing which attraction to ride next. They rested for a quick dinner and decided on a shooting gallery ride called “Gan Gun BATTLERS” where they wore 3D glasses while sitting on animatronic chairs, shooting various targets with ray guns. Satoru was especially proficient on that ride. The couple rode other stuff, but Hannah did not enjoy the haunted house one bit, and as Satoru expected she gripped the back of his jersey and kept her eyes closed the entire trek. He thought the special effects were rather lame, but liked her clinging to him, wanting his protection, so that was a win, right?
Their final ride for the evening was the huge Ferris wheel named “The Big-O” due to its centerless frame, an engineering feat at the time it was built. However, Satoru had other things on his mind than gigantic rotating wheels. For much of the day, he had been brushing his fingertips against hers in an effort to hook a finger and hold her hand. In theory they had already held hands before inside the Domain, but she had been too scared for it to hold any meaning. He had succeeded when they arrived. He kept trying to push his luck again as they waited in line. Everytime their fingers touched, his eyes would flick back to check her reaction. She refused to look at him, blushing, her cheeks tinted a pretty pink. So cute.
By the time they stood at the front of the line, his hand was prying apart her hina doll fingers to slide them through the openings. Her palm was soft. He worried he would scratch her with his calluses.
She hadn’t pulled away.
So neither did he.
Phase 3 was lookin’ good. Gojo-1, you’re clear for takeoff.
The attendant waved them inside the glass caged gondola and they cozied up next to each other, still holding hands. A couple seconds later, the attendant gave the thumbs up, and the ride cranked and whirred, slowly lifting the gondola forward away from the ground. Too cramped to fit his 6’2 height, Satoru crossed his legs along the empty seats. Hannah admonished him for it. “That’s not safe,” but he wasn’t concerned. The Ferris wheel could break down and collapse on top of them and he could walk out of there, carefree, with his hands behind his head.
The sun dipped below the horizon, transforming day into night. The gondola kept rising higher and higher till they reached the very top. They could see inside the Tokyo Dome and the roof of LaQua spa. Screams and laughter could be heard as people riding the roller coaster roared past them. The inside of the gondola was equipped with a karaoke machine. Anxious by their proximity and the fact they were too high up to go anywhere, Hannah scrolled through the digitalized playlist, pretending to be busy while averting eye contact, which greatly amused Satoru. Note that she had not let go of his hand. He peered out the glass window at the city, mouth curving into a frown. Damn. It needed to be higher. Then his eyes caught the peak of Tokyo Tower blinking miles away in the distance. Aha, now that’s more like it.
Barely a second ticked by for the Six Eyes wielder to unclasp Hannah’s hand and pull her close, the momentum bringing her flush against his chest.
“Oof. Satoru, what in — ”
“Fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gents. We’re going places.”
“Places? L-Like where?”
“You’ll see,” he said, circling his arms around her. “Hope you're not afraid of heights.”
That was all the warning she got. The Jujutsu sorcerer kicked open the gondola's door, setting off the safety alarm, and in a heartbeat the Ferris wheel and amusement park became a blurring rush. Time and space sped rabidly, but it wasn’t nauseating like a carnival ride. Hannah instead felt weightless as though she were floating in a vacuum, until the cold, biting wind assailed her. They weren’t moving anymore. Satoru had warped them outside someplace, but where? Hannah blinked her eyes.
The married couple stared at each other for a fleeting moment, turquoise blue colliding with moss brown, before both of them diverted their gazes, and that’s when Hannah looked down and saw there wasn’t a floor. Or even the ground.
They were high up. Waayy high up.
Like three hundred meters high up.
With nothing underneath to catch them.
The panic was immediate. Satoru had his forearm wrapped around her lower back, keeping her aloft so that she could stand on his toes, but Hannah grabbed onto his torso as though she were a koala bear hugging a tree, afraid they would fall.
“Where the blazes are we?!” she cried.
She could hear the shrug in his voice. “Tokyo Tower.”
“What?!!”
“I took us to the top of Tokyo Tower.”
Hannah’s eyes saw the red and white latticed steel, illuminated in lights like the Eiffel, the same tower that was once the tallest structure in the world. Satoru wasn’t kidding. They really were at the top. The tippy top. He could’ve chosen to warp them inside the observation deck, but no. The more she looked down, the more Hannah thought her stomach would cave in on itself and forfeit her dinner. Her vision swayed.
“Satoru, I-I want down!” she whimpered.
“You’re perfectly safe, Hannah. I’m not gonna drop ya.”
“Get me DOWN!!!” she cried harder, tears ready to fall. Hannah rarely raised her voice, but her tone was obstinate. She didn’t care that he was the strongest. She wanted down that very instant.
Meanwhile Satoru was at a loss. He had meant the acrophobia comment as a joke. She had no issues riding the Ferris wheel, so he figured why not take his chances; Go big, or go home as they say. He hadn’t expected this to be her reaction (though looking back on it he probably should have). If he wanted to pull off Phase 3, he was going to have to redirect her fear.
Knowing she couldn’t escape or risk falling to her death, Hannah buried her face into her husband’s chest. It was getting cold, the breeze whipping all around them, her hair flying everywhere. She shivered and huddled closer to him for warmth.
Now on any given day Satoru would be over the moon for receiving a hug from Hannah, but there were two issues: One, she was terrified (and maybe a little angry with him). And two, her nipples had hardened from the night chill and were pressing into his chest through the baseball jersey, which had him visualizing other…things. Like those same pretty pink buds rubbing between his fingers and melting in his — Anyway, why did he bring her up here again? Oh, yeah. That’s right.
“Hannah.” He cradled her buried cheek and gingerly turned it to one side. “Look.”
Hanging onto him like her life depended on it, Hannah drew the courage to pull away from his shirt and open her eyes.
Her mouth parted.
More than three hundred meters below, the city had become a glittering firework. They could see everything, every street corner and alleyway; The trains, the humongous JumboTrons, the white and yellow taxis, skyscrapers looking like Lego pieces, the Sumida-gawa river slicing the capitol in half. They could see Tokyo Dome and the amusement park; The bright red Buddhist temple Sensō-ji in honor of Kannon, the goddess of mercy, next to the Shinto shrine Asakusa-jinja, and Niju Bridge meant for leading guests towards the Imperial Palace with Mount Fuji’s grandeur overseeing all. So much music and noise and color. This was what he wanted to show her.
“Wow,” she whispered, no longer worried about the height. “It's beautiful.”
“Yeah,” Satoru answered, but he wasn’t looking at the view. “It is.”
The ribbon that had tied back Hannah’s hair had unraveled, leaving the auburn tresses to blow where they may. The wind brought her scent to him. Lilies after a spring rain. He could see the green in her hazel eyes, transfixed by all the noise and color, the soft pillows of her lips filling him with unexplained longing. More beautiful than any person had permission to be.
Man, he had it bad.
Satoru had always prided himself on not taking anything, or anyone, too seriously. Then life threw him a wicked curveball he couldn’t avoid. Not that he’d want to avoid Hannah. She was like warm sunshine in this dark, twisted world. She cared about him in ways no one else had since high school and she didn't treat him like an alien from a different planet. She was kind and courageous and beautiful, and so, so smart. For heaven’s sake, she knew how to milk a cow and spoke multiple languages. Three whole months he’d been holding back on her. This woman who he purchased for four and a half billion yen, yet whose value was beyond price. He couldn’t recall the partners who came before. They were nothing more than bodies and faces and hands. The stars, the moon, the sky; they had nothing on this sweetheart in his arms.
He could already hear his subconscious mind warning him to take heed: “She is to be your companion in happiness and enjoyment, but not your companion in the next world.” “She is to be your companion in eating and drinking, but not your companion in experiencing the ripening of actions.” “She is to be your companion in pleasure, but not your companion in suffering.” Imperfect. Unreliable. Temporary. That is how a husband on the Path should view his wife. He’d have to let her go one day, whether it be eighty years, twenty years, or tomorrow. Getting attached would make things worse, but fuck it. That ship had already sailed. It was too late to turn back now.2
Cause I don’t want to be your friend.
When Gojo Satoru was born, it was said that the balance of the world shifted, birthing the dawn of a new shining era, the likes of which no one could’ve imagined.
When Gojo Satoru fused Red and Blue to make Hollow Purple, there was nothing in existence strong enough to defeat him. He was invincible. The greatest. History in the making.
But when Gojo Satoru fell in love for the first time, both body and soul, that new shining universe, that invincibility, changed. You couldn’t hear it. It didn’t make a sound: The sky didn’t fall. The ocean didn’t dry up. The earth didn’t quake. A world record wasn’t broken. All it took was one glance, one touch, and suddenly life would never be the same. He had found a weakness, forever woven into the fabric of his heart. Resistance was futile.
Not wanting to fight the inevitable any longer, Gojo Satoru tilted his wife’s chin. Brushed back her long auburn hair. Closed his eyes.
And pressed his lips to hers.
Notes:
SATORU: (*deep breath*) And that’s how babies are made.
HANNAH: (*confused*) What? No they’re not. Satoru, what are you —
SATORU: Wear protection, kids!
HANNAH: Satoru!!!😖
SATORU: 😂😂😂
Finally it happened. Woo!!!For the complete list of notes, click HERE. You’re gonna want to read them.
1. If you’re a baseball lover like myself, and want to learn more about Japan’s passion for the sport, and the differences between the American and Japanese philosophies, I’d recommend “You Gotta Have Wa: When Two Cultures Collide on the Baseball Diamond” by Robert Whiting. The two quotes above I got from this book.
2. Here, Satoru quotes from the Inquiry of Urga. While not seen as a major religious text in Japan, I’d like to think Satoru is well versed in many texts. It’s also worth noting that most Japanese are not religious, but I think religion makes the plot more interesting.
3.Okashi Gaku’s “Cake in a Can.”
- Overview of some Japanese vending machines. I would love having a security goat. 🐐 I pass on the bugs though.🐜🐜🐜
4. Koishikawa Kōraku-en (Garden for Taking Pleasure Later) really is located right next to the Tokyo Dome as is an amusement park.
- The “Big O” Ferris wheel.
- Going up inside Tokyo Tower.
- The Skytree is actually twice as tall as Tokyo Tower, but I think Tokyo Tower is prettier and more romantic since it’s modeled after the Eiffel Tower, so that was my rationale.
- I have no idea whether Hannah would be able to see all of Tokyo from that height, but let’s pretend. Tokyo is massive.
5. This is also a good thing to point out, but my beta reader asked me why I didn’t mention anything about sumo wrestling, since it is technically Japan’s official national sport. Long story short, sumo has been embroiled in a lot of scandals recently and is not as popular with younger audiences. That being said, sumo will never disappear from Japan and holds great cultural significance, but viewership wise, baseball is more popular than sumo. However, you can watch this short video and decide for yourself. Who knows. Maybe its popularity will be restored once again.
- Here is also a brief history of sumo.
Side note: If Satoru showed up wearing a St. Louis Cardinals jersey, I would straight up die of happiness.💘
LASTLY, I have officially started my oneshot series GTAW: The Years After. Make sure you subscribe so you’ll never miss an update. It’s gonna be fun, but the first oneshot covers a loaded topic. You’ve been warned.
Follow me on Tumblr.
NEXT CHAPTER: Hannah receives an unexpected visitor while Satoru is away. Who could it be?
Chapter 19: Duch and Butch
Summary:
Lady Cressida Thames visits the Gojo estate.
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 19: Duch and Butch
My Dearest Duch,
I come with the most splendid news. After some thinking, I have decided to spend holiday in Tokyo next week and will be paying you a visit. How marvellous! I know it’s been a while, so why don’t we catch up over a nice cup of tea. I’ll write later in lieu of my arrival. Keep the kettle on for me.
Till then,
Butch (C.T.)
XoXoX
Hannah’s eyes hungrily re-read the letter for the fourth consecutive time during breakfast. The parchment was dated three days ago, but she wondered whether it had been a mistake. It had been almost two years since they last spoke with each other. Why on God’s green earth would Cressida want to see her? Her whole life she had been tossed around Europe like a crumpled brown parcel, constantly hopping from one dilapidated convent to the next, hidden away from the world, and not once had her cousin come to visit her, much less pick up a pen and write a letter, but there it was. In her hand. “Duch” and “Butch.” Blimey, those were names she hadn’t heard in ages.
“Are you feeling alright, ma’am?” Makoto said, genuine concern in her tone. “Is the food not to your liking?”
Hannah looked up at the housekeeper setting down a fresh pot of coffee and hurriedly folded up the letter, slipping it back inside its Graveur linen envelope, the two Thames sirens waxed in the center.
“Oh, no, not at all, Makoto-san,” Hannah said, a little startled. She gave the housekeeper a small smile. “The food is quite good. Delicious even. No need to make a fuss.”
“A fuss?” Satoru yawned, at last emerging from the hallway. “Better not be a fuss.”
Hannah watched the Six Eyes wielder stride into the parlor and kneel down at the low table, rubbing his tired eyelids. It was officially late June. Unlike most mornings when he came in wearing a plain tee and sweatpants, Satoru had chosen instead to wear a loose fitting, dark ebony yukata, a matching obi tied around his waist. The weather bring hot, there was no nagajuban. The front showed off his bare neck and collarbone rather handsomely.
Then she saw his eyes land on the envelope.
“What’s that?”
Hannah grew tense.
“N-Nothing,” she lied, her eyes deflecting off his collarbone, and hid the opened parchment under the table on her lap (as though he couldn’t see). “Lady Inumaki has invited me over for lunch again. That’s all.”
Satoru let out a soft grunt, and began piling his bowl with rice and strips of raw tuna, dropping the topic. Makoto poured coffee into his mug. He took a bite of food and glanced timidly at his wife sitting across.
“So…How’d you sleep last night?”
Hannah met his gaze and quickly looked down.
“Fine,” she answered. “You?”
Satoru also looked down, shrugging.
“Fine.”
They were both liars. Truth was neither of them had gotten any sleep. Following the kiss, the train ride home had been excruciatingly awkward and their conversation brief. All they managed to get in wordwise was a quick “Goodnight” before dashing inside their respective rooms. The awkwardness had yet to settle, turning almost frigid. Like a giant wall of ice had been forcibly wedged between them, impossible to break. They were no better than strangers.
Their odd behavior made Makoto uneasy as she prepared breakfast, but the housekeeper hadn’t the slightest inclination what was going on. Her young master and mistress had been getting along so well lately. What could’ve caused such a disturbance?
Taking a couple bites of rice, Satoru fiddled with his plate and coughed into his fist.
“I’ve been assigned another mission.”
Hannah looked up. “Oh? Where to?”
“Okinawa. There’s been another curse sighting.” He said this with the least amount of enthusiasm. “My flight leaves this afternoon. I could be gone awhile, so you and Makoto will be in charge of things till I get back.”
Hannah bowed her head, looking at the table. “I see.”
“You sure you’ll be alright?”
She shrugged. “It’s no different from all the other times. Makoto and I will manage fine on our own.”
Satoru gave a nod. “I’ll have my cell. If you need me for any reason —”
“Don’t hesitate to call,” Hannah finished, having heard this speech a thousand times, but she struggled to hide her disappointment. “But do hurry back, please.”
Satoru couldn’t help but chuckle. “Aw, why so glum, Princess? I thought you’d be happy having the place to yourself again.”
Rather than laugh along with his joke, Hannah shook her head and went back to eating her meal.
“It isn’t the same without you here.”
There were a million and one ways to interpret that single sentence, but they weren’t going to discuss it then, choosing instead to finish their breakfast in relative, albeit less awkward, silence.
The kiss was not brought up.
With Satoru gone, Cressida arrived at the Gojo estate not two days later.
“Duch!” she cried gaily, rushing to take off her shoes after Hannah’s polite request (those heels would ruin the tatami). Elegant in an eau-de-nil Chanel suit and bowler hat, Cressida set down her bulky looking briefcase and purse, her many charm bracelets jangling like bells, and kissed her young cousin on both cheeks. “My, I guess what they say isn’t true. You really can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
The sorcerer's wife tried not to wince at the backhanded compliment, wishing Satoru was there with her. While the rift between them hadn’t settled, his presence would’ve been a great comfort because Cressida was still posh, beautiful, and conceited as ever. Her “sow’s ear” comment was in reference to the kimono. Hannah had chosen a tsumugi instead of a yukata. While the jacquarded silk wouldn’t keep her cool from the summer heat, it would, with any luck, leave an indelible impression on Cressida, who wasn’t shy about her love of expensive clothing. The kimono itself was light blue and covered head to toe in paisley motifs, while a black fukuro obi, filigreed with gold medallions and phoenixes, secured her waistline. The combination was lovely, but more formal than necessary, yet somehow Hannah knew her cousin wouldn’t know enough about Japanese customs to call her out on it. As the cherry on top, Makoto suggested she wear a pair of dainty Georgian style earrings, plated in gold.
“Cressida,” Hannah greeted apprehensively, finding it strange she no longer had to curtsy when addressing her cousin. “I hope your flight wasn’t long.”
Lady Cressida shriveled her nose. “My flight was dreadful, thank you for asking. I tried convincing Papa I take another boat, but naturally he said no. Seems he has forgotten a Thames’ place is in the water..” Smoothing her skirt, she walked over to the Jakuchū painting of the Gojo family tree, looking interested, but was unable to read the gold kanji scrawled along the branches. She then turned around to look back at Hannah and clapped her hands together. “Anywho, show me around this charming little house of yours, Duch. Give me the full royal tour.”
Hannah led Cressida through the many washi-paneled rooms and rush-covered hallways, giving more or less the same history lesson Makoto had given her when she first entered the “little” samurai house. She showed her the kamidana room housing the bronzed Buddhist altar, the English dining room, the reception hall decorated with the tokonoma alcove and three katana swords whose hilts were carved of jade. However Cressida, like a military sergeant blessed with a watchmaker’s eye for detail, took her time inspecting Hannah’s closet, checking to see it ticked all the essential boxes. She went through each rack and drawer one by one, making selections, taking careful notes, before finishing her inspection with a curt, “Yes, I suppose these will do.”
The wardrobe having passed the test, the two women put their shoes back on and enjoyed a short promenade around the gardens, and as they walked Cressida shared with Hannah her recent travels. She had sailed many oceans, yachting at Monaco, then South Africa, then finally Thailand, spending her year on a never-ending holiday, with exception to her recent flight to Japan. “I’m staying at the Seiyo Ginza,” she dolefully carried on. “Have you heard of it? I found their wine selections most superb.” Hannah said no, doubting the hotel Cressida was residing at was cheap. If it wasn’t £1,500 a night and over five stars, then her cousin wanted no part in it.
Makoto had tea and a light meal waiting for them in the reception hall. Kneeling at a low table, Hannah could better appreciate Cressida’s new haircut. Her once long raven locks had been shorn into a chic bob, the edges curling around her face, making her look like a 1920s flapper. The Chanel suit only enhanced the effect. “Oh, can’t tell you how relieved I was to chop it all off,” she delighted, looking through the end of a compact mirror as she reapplied her favorite red lipstick. Cressida had no qualms being fawned over and adored. “Always hated having long hair.” She smashed her lips together and placed the rouge back in her purse. “That bloody harp.”
Hannah visibly perked up. “You brought it with you?
Cressida closed the lid of her mirror in dramatic fashion and rolled her bewitching blue eyes. “Of course I brought it with me. I'm its keeper now, aren’t I?” She traded in her compact mirror for an enameled cigarette case. “By the way, do you mind if I have a light? I know the Japanese aren’t antagonistic towards smoking.”
With some reluctance, Hannah gave Cressida the go ahead to light her cigarette. The tobacco leaves were infused with cloves, emitting an incense-like aroma, snapping and crackling from the flame. Apparently they were a popular brand from Indonesia, but Hannah slid open a second partition wall in case the fragrance lingered. Makoto would have a fit.
“And Atticus?” she said upon sitting back down. “Have you heard from him at all?”
Cressida sighed insouciantly and took a generous drag. “Last I spoke with my brother, he was in Egypt. You remember that archeological dig they uncovered back in March, the one believing to be Queen Nefertiti’s lost tomb? Made international news?” She pointed her cigarette at Hannah. “That was Atticus. As you can imagine, Papa was quite pleased, but he’s never satisfied long after a heist. Sent him to South America to begin scavenging the Pacific for shipwrecks. I assume that’s where he is now, but who knows. We don’t talk much these days.”
The Thames heiress reached for a lone plate and flicked her ashes on it, and Hannah saw one of the many charms on her bracelets, the initials V.A. dangling from a gold chain next to a lock and key. Sympathy welled within her. She said the next sentence aloud without thinking.
“I’m sorry about Vera.”
Cressida's body ceased function, her complexion turning pale like a dead person’s.
The room became quiet, save for the ticking of the clock. Perhaps she’d been over analyzing, but Hannah swore she saw her cousin’s bottom lip quiver for a second, then stiffen in a hard line. Cressida knew how to keep her emotions in check, but those pained blue eyes staring back at her were the eyes of someone who had experienced an unbearable loss. Hannah regretted her words.
“Gosh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No.” Cressida snapped out of her stupor and took her cousin’s hand. “Please, I want to talk about her…I…I don’t do it enough honestly.”
The story was a sad one. Lady Vera Avery was one of the sorcerers who died at the Louvre last October alongside Ivan Lebowitz. She was Lord Belgaven’s only daughter and Cressida’s best friend since childhood, however Hannah discovered the true nature of their relationship by accident, on the night of Cressida’s coming-out ball.
Wasserton, with its Roman colonnades and grand marble staircases, had been a product of the late 18th century sometime before the Napoleonic Era. Alexander Thames II had been the genius behind its construction, and being a brilliant architect, had incorporated a bevy of secret passageways and tunnels that connected possibly every room and cranny, including the servant’s bedroom Hannah resided during her visits. She had found the hidden door under the rug at six years old. Fast forward eight years later when Hannah was again staying at Wasserton - by then her third visit - she had used the same hidden door to sneak around the mansion and watch the opulent ball happening downstairs. Like Cinderella trapped in the cellar, she had not been allowed to attend.
High above where no one could see her, Hannah watched the opulent party from the air vents. She hummed dreamily to the music as lords and ladies waltzed and fox-trotted effortlessly around the ballroom, diamonds sparkling, flasks of champagne bubbling, laughter and merriment being had. There was an endless flow of conversation milling about which greatly excited Hannah. She paid rapturous attention to the young gentleman asking the young debutantes to dance and tried imagining a world where Elizabeth Thames had not lost her virtue to an unnamed man. Then perhaps a dashing young suitor would be asking her for a dance. Sadly, it was not to be.
At the stroke of midnight, Hannah made the lonely return to her room by candlelight but soon encountered a bump in the road. Apparently, she was not the only one scurrying around the walls like a mouse that night. Someone else was utilizing the tunnels too.
And it wasn’t merely to snoop.
Hannah would’ve avoided them if she could, but the two debutantes were blocking her way. Caught in a rush of passion, they had already stripped themselves of their gowns, white chiffon piled on the floor, tiaras slipping off, lips locked in a searing kiss, under the pretense they were alone. They were not.
Vera spotted Hannah first and froze like a deer in the headlights, parting quickly from her lover.
“What is it, love? What’s the matter?” Cressida turned around to see her cousin standing there, staring wide-eyed and .
The cat was officially out of the bag.
The British haut monde tended to give nicknames to each other, a simple way of indicating who was in and who was out. Few questioned why Cressida went by the name “Butch,” naively assuming it had something to do with her expertise sporting a hunter’s rifle, or her passion for equestrianism, or the cavalier way she held her cigarette, acting more tomboy than “posh girl.” Lady Cressida Thames? A lesbian? Why, don’t be ridiculous. She didn’t fit the stereotype. Her raven black hair was far too long and lusciously curled. Her clothes, ultra feminine with nothing less than Parisian couture and three-inch heels, face dolled in a full head of makeup to accentuate her tempting blue eyes, which she used to flirt with the men almost as much as she did the women. Stunningly beautiful. This in mind, no one suspected Cressida’s sexuality to be anything other than straight. The nickname “Butch” was nothing more than a bit of harmless fun, an inside joke, a gaff.
Ah, but looks can be deceiving.
While she may have had every reason, Hannah did not rat Cressida to her uncle, and in doing so had formed a secret alliance. That was also around the time Cressida began calling her “Duch.” She meant it as a term of endearment, and Hannah understood that now, but there was a time when she took it as an insult. An illegitimate, Hannah would never become a duchess or inherit a title. So when it was revealed that she was to marry the Gojo heir and not Cressida, Hannah thought her uncle had gone barking mad. Cressida Thames was his only daughter and pressed with every advantage; looks, money, prestige, and more importantly, magic. She had all the ingredients required of a sorcerer’s wife. It was expectant upon her to marry well, and perhaps that was what Lord Thames had up his sleeve. Sorcerer families needed heirs to keep the bloodlines going. For his daughter, that meant female lovers were out of the question, making the circumstances surrounding Vera’s death almost too suspect to ignore.
“My father did it. I know he did,” Cressida said bitterly, jaw clenched. “He knew Vera wouldn’t survive the mission and persuaded the Association to send her anyway.” Her hands balled into fists. “Someone betrayed us.”
“Not me,” Hannah blurted without meaning. “It wasn’t me, I promise.”
Cressida offered her cousin a strained smile. “No, Duch. I know it wasn’t you, but you see,” she swallowed the lump in her throat and took a staggered breath, “Vera was my everything, and now that she’s dead I feel lost. My one great happiness is gone.”
Hannah solemnly bowed her head. Much could be said about sin and damnation, about marriage belonging solely to one man and one woman, the New Testament and the Old. Hannah knew all the theological arguments, she knew Matthew 19 and Mark 10, but she also knew God was love. And if God was love, then was it right to suggest that those who abided in love, also abided in God? Did Cressida’s unwavering love for Vera amount to anything? Hannah often pondered these questions, but kept them buried in her heart. Now was not the time for philosophizing.
“I’m sorry, Cressida.” she said, but knowing what else to say. “I truly am.”
Cressida unfurled a handkerchief and wiped an escaped tear from her eye.
“Yes, well, crying about it won’t do us any good. Let’s change subject before my mascara runs.” She sniffed and rummaged her purse for another cigarette. “Talk to me about this elusive husband of yours. Is he descent?”
Hannah withheld little. She told Cressida almost everything. The night he saved her from the curse on her way back to her dorm; Their morning jogs and training sessions; Watching movies together; The tumultuous night at the theater; The baseball game, the indirect kiss, then the skyline of Tokyo, followed by the actual kiss; Her lack of self-confidence, which was directly linked to her virginity. And in the midst of her rambling, Hannah for the first time contemplated how many partners Satoru has had.
“I hate to break your heart, Duch, but men like him don’t come wearing chastity belts. I wager he’s plucked the bloom off every rose in the garden.”
Hannah's heart plummeted at that. “You really think so?”
“Think so?” Cressida said with a laugh. “I know so.”
But how? Hannah found herself wondering. Was that really a fair judgment, to accuse someone of being a roaming Lothario without ever having met him? Satoru was secretive, yes, but as far as Hannah knew, he’d mentioned nothing of past lovers. And while he happened to be a shameless flirt, the gestures never quite reached the levels Cressida was implying, either that, or her husband had taken great care not to sweet-talk the ladies whenever she was around. Even still, the assumption felt off. Everytime Satoru went away on a mission, he always returned the day he had promised, not at a designated time of course, but usually before sunset. When he wasn’t away, he spent most of his days relaxing at home and training with Hannah. And more recently, they had begun the long, overdue process of renovating the estate; Shoji panels needed replacing every few years, and since they now were in the rainy month of June, they had begun checking the 200 year old house for leaks and mildew. In the past week alone, they had invited a flood of carpenters, gardeners, inspectors, and financiers into their home, and Hannah was tasked with more work than before, seeing to it that the property was kept ship-shape. There were people to see, correspondence to answer, checkbooks to balance. Satoru couldn’t have time for lovers. They were far too busy. But still there was that unsettling voice in the back of her head, relentlessly badgering her: “You won’t measure up. He’ll find someone better."
Hannah looked up at her cousin for guidance.
“What do I do?”
Cressida rested her cigarette on a plate and propped her chin. “Hmm, you said he kissed you, didn’t he?” Hannah nodded. “Yes, but how did he kiss you?”
“W-What? What does that have to — ”
“Did he force himself on you, Duch? Threaten you? Touch you inappropriately? Men can be dogs when it comes to that sort of thing.”
Hannah vehemently denied this. “No, no, he didn’t force himself on me at all. In fact he…” she paused. “He apologized afterwards.”
Cressida raised both brows. “Really? That’s rather odd. You sure it wasn’t your imagination playing tricks on you?"
Hannah shook her head. “No, I remember now. He said, ‘sorry’ before teleporting us back down.” He had said it so softly in fact she almost didn’t hear him, but Satoru had said it: “Gomen.”
“Heavens, then it must be serious.”
“What’s serious?”
The Thames heiress picked up her cigarette again, choosing not to answer and inhaled another puff of tobacco-clove.
“You know, I slept with a man once,” she confessed, veering slightly off topic. “Just to try it. See what all the talk was about.”
Hannah was in the middle of taking a sip of tea, and being unprepared for the comment, nearly had it go down the wrong pipe. “And…was it nice?” she coughed, clearing her throat.
Cressida gestured with a lazy, sinuous shrug.
“No, not really. He was a bit too soft for my tastes. Almost like riding a miniature pony.” She made a wry shape with her mouth. “Only I couldn’t decide whether he rode me, or I rode him.” Then breaking into a great bellyful of laughter, she threw back her head and gave Hannah a knowing wink, but poor Hannah couldn’t find it in herself to laugh along.
“I wish I knew what I was doing?” she huffed, frustrated by her inexperience. “I know nothing about men.”
Cressida let out a snort. “Men aren’t complicated, Hannah. And they certainly don’t apologize after kissing someone unless their intentions are forthcoming, so I wouldn’t reach for the lifejacket just yet. Be honest with him and he’ll be honest with you.” The Thames heiress finished her second cigarette and stood up. “Anywho, I didn’t come all this way to gossip. I’ve brought you something.” She walked over to Hannah, carrying the bulky briefcase she came in with. It looked heavy. “Consider it my late wedding present.”
Hannah gave her cousin a skeptical look as she set the leather case down beside her and returned to her seat. Lying it flat on the ground, Hannah unjoined the clasps, popped open the lid, and gasped.
Inside were two tiaras: A metal kokoshnik faceted with emerald cabochons and rows of diamonds, mimicking the appearance of fish scales. Hannah recognized it immediately. This was the tiara adorning her mother in many of the portraits at Wasserton, including her favorite that hung in the East library, pairing nicely with the emerald necklace that now sat in a glass case in her closet. However, the other tiara she did not recognize. Its garland structure bore semblance to curling ocean waves crashing into the sea. Tiny briolette diamonds hung off the edges like sparkling water drops. She could hardly speak, they were so enchanting.
This was no simple wedding gift.
“Cressida, how on earth did you get these?”
The heiress looked mighty pleased with herself.
“Why I smuggled them, of course. Had to make sure Papa wouldn’t notice anything gone awry. Lord knows he has enough jewels. I dare say, my accomplice was rather thorough this time. He even managed to forge the signatures.” She whipped out the selling documents from her purse and placed them squarely on the table. Signed on two black lines was Hannah’s fake signature alongside Lord Thames’. “I believe these now belong to you.”
Utterly mystified, Hannah carefully pried the emerald diadem from its velvet moorings, admiring the lapidarist’s fine handiwork, shifting it side to side to watch the fire dance inside the previous stones. The weight felt both heavier and lighter than expected. She didn’t know much about jewels, but she knew these gems were of the highest quality.
“I can’t wear them in public, you know?” she admitted woefully, twirling the diamonds. “It isn’t appropriate for people outside the Imperial Family to wear tiaras.”
“So?” The heiress shrugged. “I never said you had to wear them. The point is that they’re yours.”
“Why though?” Hannah insisted. “You’ve never shown charity to me like this before? Why bother now?”
“Because.” Cressida’s face became frighteningly stern. There was a storm in her ocean blue eyes that could not be quelled. “I never got to thank you properly for safeguarding Vera’s virtue back then, and while we may not have treated you as such, you were a Thames before you were anyone else. I don’t care what the law states.” She tapped the selling documents with her long manicured fingers. “This is as much your birthright as it is mine. And besides.” Her voice lowered. “They took my one great happiness from me. They don’t get to take anything, from anyone, ever again. Mark my words.”
Having nothing more to say, Hannah looked down her lap and continued admiring her mother’s tiara. Cressida may have been vain and stuck up and unfairly judgemental, but her loyalty held no bounds. She could be trusted.
“And Hannah?” the heiress added. “There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“Hmm?” Hannah looked up from the tiaras.
Cressida leaned over the table, dropping to the softest whisper. “You haven't told them the truth, have you? About…us?
Hannah knew what Cressida meant and grew solemn. “No,” she mouthed. “I’ve said nothing.”
“Good.” The heiress nodded approvingly. “You know the rules: Audi, vide, tace.”
The sorcerer’s wife tried hiding her dismay, “Yes, Cressida,” and looked down at the tiara in her lap. It felt heavier than it did a second ago as the Latin emptied her mouth. “Audi, vide, tace.”
Notes:
No notes this time. 🤗
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Chapter 20: A Heart to Heart
Summary:
We return to Satoru's POV.
Let's just say our boy's going through some personal issues, mainly due to his male anatomy.🫠
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this.
Also, special shout out to sacrificialpiccolo on Discord for helping me with the Japanese translations.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone. We find it with another.” — Thomas Merton
Our spirits are entwined
in a loosely tied knot
on a string of gems,
and though it has come undone
I long to see you still. — waka from The Tales of Ise.
Chapter 20: A Heart to Heart
Satoru couldn’t remember how or when he got home that night. His mission in Okinawa had been largely uneventful: Another special-grade needed to be exorcized from a retirement home. Nothing unusual. What was unusual, however, was him waking up on the living room couch and not in his bedroom like he expected. What the heck happened?
“Good morning,” sang a bell-like voice.
The Six Eyes wielder looked up to see his wife standing near the doorway.
“Welcome home,” she beamed.
Satoru blinked, looking at her head to toe. “Thanks…I think?” She was dressed in kimono with her long auburn hair and cheery smile, but there was something off about her demeanor he couldn’t quite grasp. “You okay?”
“Mmhm,” she hummed, but the way her smile curled into a very un-Hannah-like grin made his stomach pool with warmth and travel farther south. “You said you needed me for something.”
“For something?” Satoru was thoroughly confused. “Like wha — ?”
She moved fast. In a heartbeat, Hannah was standing over him, nudging her knees between his legs and prying them wide apart. Satoru stiffened, “Hey, the hell are you…” but all rational thought flew out the proverbial window the second she knelt down and coveted his crotch with her hand. No warning, no permission granted, just got on her knees and grabbed it, digging her fingers between the fabric to fondle the juncture underneath. Satoru couldn’t remember wearing jeans to sleep. Within seconds, his cock was swelling against his fly like a motherfucker, but that was peanuts compared to what she did next.
Showing him those innocent, puppy-dog eyes, she leaned completely in and took his zipper with her teeth, dragging it down very slowly. Too slowly. His mind drew a blank. Holy shit. Holy shit, she’s really going to… The zipper came undone. She proceeded to hook her fingers around his belt loops, giving them a nice tug, and despite his better judgment, Satoru lifted his ass off the couch for her to shimmy the jeans past his ankles, leaving him in just his briefs. He spread his legs out for her. Wasting little energy, she slipped her fingers under the elastic band and peeled back the soiled cotton, letting his hard cock fully expand and stretch out. He heard her emit a cute little giggle, “It’s so big,” and before he knew it, she was stroking him up and down with those soft, hina-doll hands of hers, teasing the exposed head with the ball of her finger. Swallowing a moan, he threw his head back on the couch cushions, letting her ravish him as much as she pleased, unconsciously calling out her name. How so unlike him. Satoru preferred things rough. Really rough. Under normal circumstances he would’ve seized full control of the situation, grabbed a fistful of auburn hair and commence to manhandling her like Ann Darrow, but for some reason felt hesitant to assume the reins. Hannah wasn’t built for that type of foreplay. It’d be no different than a lawn mower running over a daisy. And be perfectly honest, she was doing just fine without him.
“Does that feel good, Satoru?” she asked lustily, lowering her hands to begin massaging his swollen balls, his ultimate pleasure spot. “How about now?” The sound that left him was a cross between a ragged moan, and a delirious laugh. He curled his toes and sucked in a sharp breath. He hadn’t gotten a handjob like this in so long, maybe never. Wonderful. Her fingers felt absolutely wonderful, like he was being groped by a fairy goddess. She gave his ballsac a good, gentle squeeze, stroking his erect flesh up and down in an easy rhythm, working him in slowly then faster and faster. Soon the pressure began to build between his thighs. Satoru was reaching his limit, but his wife wasn’t finished. Oh no, not yet.
She halted her ministrations, and Satoru’s eyes landed on her mouth hovering dangerously above his tip, her soft puffs breathing on it. “Do you want me to, darling?” Hannah purred in a sultry English accent and unfurled her wet tongue, wagging in front of his aching cock enticingly. Her voice carried a spellbinding effect, and he found himself powerless to stop the fresh trickles of precum from dribbling out. “Oh, I think you do.” she laughed, watching the secretions drip to the floor. “Just say the word, Satoru, and this mouth-pussy is all yours.” Wait a minute, did she just say...nevermind. Satoru was so aroused he could care less what she said. His eyes began to water at the edges, ready for his orgasm to break any minute and release him from this agony. It was only a matter of time. He was breathing harder now, throbbing, pounding, focusing on how her open mouth inched closer and closer. Give it to me, baby. I’m ready.
He waited to feel her tongue swipe across the sensitive tip-flesh, gasping when her mouth fully enclosed around his manhood like a wet glove, pushing further inwards, holding him tight. Gritting his teeth, he tried his best not to buck, but felt the titillating moan emanating from the back of her throat, humming throughout his hips, and nearly lost all sense of propriety. He heard a lewd sucking noise, felt her head bob up and down and pull on him repeatedly. Something ruptured…
and then Satoru woke up.
Wide-eyed and panting, he jolted upright in the bed and looked down to see his very defined erection rising through the covers like it had pulled a massive prank. His nuts hadn’t busted, but the throbbing was irritable. He was tempted to reach for the bottle of orange lube from his dresser drawer and finish the job. He had a condom stashed somewhere around here.
Instead Satoru exhaled a strained “Fuck.” He had dreamed it again. The exact same as before: his wife jerking him off dumb before sucking him dry.
The wet dream made him feel detestably shallow, ashamed even. Like he’d sunk to a new personal low. Satoru no longer lived his life as the philandering playboy, to the extent he ever was one. That lifestyle got pretty tiresome, and yet the irogonomi image people often accused him of having, however short lived, was hard to dispel. That wasn’t to say he abstained entirely. Satoru was still a male after all. There was always porn available and the aforementioned “pink salons.” Gojo didn’t like to admit he was once a frequent patron of these establishments, but being a jujutsu sorcerer came with its own stresses. And what easier way to relieve stress than having a pretty lady in a kinky maid outfit wash your dick with a warm towel and then blow you for less than a two-person meal at a sit-down restaurant?1 Some men treated the experience no different than a pedicure, though Satoru had grown discomforted by the way the women were often treated with poor pay and shitty clients, so he hadn’t visited one in quite a while. But if gossiping spectators thought he was with a new partner every night, they were mistaken. Especially these days. Being assigned multiple missions at once, there was simply no time for sex and fooling around. As crazy as it was for Gojo to believe, he actually had responsibilities now. Responsibilities like a certain wife he had totally fallen in love with and whose relationship he might’ve jeopardized because of a kiss, which judging by her shell-shocked reaction, had obviously been her first. She was a virgin. So clearly a virgin. He had forgotten that.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, he mentally scolded himself. You fucked up again, Satoru. You weren’t thinking. He had been too eager, too hasty. His emotions had gotten in the way, fearing he made the wrong move. It wasn’t like he was desperate. Hannah was worth more than a quick fuck. His intent wasn’t to scare her, or use her to inflate his enlarged ego. He wanted to woo her. Properly.
Satoru checked the clock on his nightstand. 2:31 AM. No way was he going back to sleep. On nights like these, there was only one thing that worked to ease his restless mind.
Ignoring the huge semi burgeoning between his legs, Satoru groggily rolled out of bed, swiped some clean clothes from his dresser drawer, and minced down the hallway and tiptoed past Hannah’s room. Making it successfully to the bathroom without waking his wife (the Six Eyes showed she was sleeping soundly for a change), he stripped off his soiled boxers and hopped in for a cold shower. He lathered and rinsed off, then quickly gave himself a clean shave, brushed his teeth, and got dressed; no different than any other after-midnight-self-care routine. The icy cold water succeeded in calming his erection and he could walk around better. Running a dry towel over his hair, he inspected his somewhat haggard reflection in the sink mirror. Were those dark-circles under his eyes? What an unwelcoming prospect. At this rate, he’d give Shoko’s complexion a run for her money. The hairs along the back of his neck had grown out as well, giving him an uneven undercut. He would have to buzz them again soon, but not tonight. The bathroom wasn’t that far from the bedrooms and it didn’t take much for noise to carry in the house. If he tried trimming his hair now, the buzzer could disturb his wife, so without risking that whole fiasco, Satoru threw his dirty clothing in the hamper, keeping the towel on his head, and crept his way to the family room honoring Amida, the gods, and the deceased relatives he never knew.
He neatly folded the towel used to dry his hair on a chigaidana shelf above the rush flooring, and walked towards the ornate looking cabinet. He opened the black lacquered doors, bowed gasshō once to the gold Buddha housed in the kuden (case), and got on his knees, taking an incense stick and snapping it in half. He then struck a match. Lighting one end of the stick, he fanned it gingerly with his hand. Smoke began billowing out the side, a sweet fragrance permeating the room like a temple. Satoru breathed in the charred sandalwood and earthy florals, dropping the stick inside the incense burner (kasha), no bigger than a jewelry box, and placed the lion-dog cover back on. He lit the lantern and the four candles below, and took two steps backwards and bowed before sitting down.
Of course he didn’t have to light the incense. He wasn’t making an offering or chanting the nembutsu, but the smell always made him feel better; stilled his restless mind, his soul. Sitting crossed legged on the floor, he rested his hands in his lap and closed his eyes, listening contemplatively to the incense twig crackle and snap, the altar candles burning, and the house eaves creaking from the gentle winds blowing in from the mountains. The Six Eyes could see through his eyelids, but if he rolled them downwards at just the right angle, he could almost pretend he were normal and the ocular technique didn’t exist. The room was quiet. Dark. Relaxing. The only light came from the flickering candles, shrouding the room in amber-glow and shadow. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, unmoving, taking in his homely surroundings. Then his ears detected the soft thuds of footsteps treading ever closer, ending his peaceful meditation. They were too short to be Makoto’s gate, so that only left one other person. Her soft footfalls got louder as she approached the butsudan room, seeming to halt near the doorframe. Satoru slowly cranked one eye open and looked over his shoulder.
“It’s late. You should be asleep.”
For a second nothing happened. The room remained as it was, until Hannah’s auburn hair poked out the door frame. He had spotted her already hiding behind the wall like a chapel mouse.
“Sorry,” she squeaked. Even with the candle flame, he could see the rosy blush forming along her freckled cheeks. “Do you have a minute? To talk, I mean.”
He should’ve seen it coming. This was karma, wasn’t it? Not good, not bad, just was. All roads leading to this precise encounter. He had to erase the lewd dream earlier from his mind. He could hear Makoto’s lecture “Be a gentleman” a thousand times repeating in his head.
Breathing tiredly through his nose, Satoru massaged his weary strained eyes and twisted himself around to face her.
“Yeah. What’s up?”
Garbed in a blue satin nightgown and robe, Hannah leaned forward and glanced nervously at the altar with the gold Buddha. Her long auburn hair was tucked in a braid like a cord and tassel. She had the same look of someone afraid they were breaking an entry. Sensing her hesitancy, Satoru waved her inside.
“You can come in here, Hannah. It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Accepting his invitation, she looked around the room one more time and cautiously took a step. She had never physically been inside the sacred space before, passing it by regularly on her way back to her bedroom, but never fancying more than a quick peek. She could tell the butsudan was quite old, perhaps older than the two century year old house it dwelled under.
The Gojo family had always been Buddhist to some degree, but had become loyal practitioners of Jōdo Buddhism (in secret) soon after the age of Hōnen and his pupil Shinran, with traces of Zen scattered here and there, switching at times between Jōdo-shū and Jōdo Shinshū, but adhering to the Jōdo school and the Primal Vow of Other Power all the same. Unlike other branches of Buddhism who placed stronger emphasis on Shakyamuni, Jōdo-Buddhism sought enlightenment through the guidance and intercession of Amida, the Buddha of Infinite Wisdom and Compassion. His gold statue was centered in the Gojo family altar, depicting him in an upright stance on top of a lotus flower, the right hand extended downward (yoga-in), the left held up with his thumb and forefinger touching in a circle (semus), welcoming all those ready to receive his message. A small contented smile graced his features as rays of plated gold crowned his head like a halo. She didn’t know why exactly, but something about the imagery reminded Hannah of the Divine Mercy.
Beside the holy statue were two offerings of rice and an ikebana vase containing a bouquet of white lilies that Makoto watered and cared for next to a lantern. There was then a level down from the Buddha statue that displayed the smoking incense burner and a small ringing gong the shape of a bowl (rin) resting upon a pillow. There were additional ornaments and religious items plated in gold ormolu and expensive woods that Hannah did not know the names of, but as with most things about the Gojo family, the butsudan was a work of art. She looked again at the heavenly detailing and raised a thick eyebrow, becoming confused.
“There’s no urn?”
Satoru shook his head. “Not everybody keeps their family’s ashes in the home.”
“Oh, I see.” Hannah nodded in understanding. “I didn’t want to intrude out of respect. We’re allowed to cremate in the Church, although the ashes have to be buried in the same spot.”
“That’s interesting. Now what is it you actually wanted to talk to me about?”
He asked this already knowing the answer, but wanted to hear her say it. Confirm it. This conversation they were about to embark was long overdue. The burning incense crackled. Hannah stared at the floor, anxiously twiddling her thumbs and avoiding his eyes, blushing, wondering how to start.
“Well…It’s about the other day. I wanted to begin by apologizing for whatever I — ” Satoru raised his hand.
“Okay, new rule. If I hear you apologize one more time for doing absolutely nothing wrong, I’m gonna throw this zabuton at you.” He held up the velvet square cushion, preparing to take aim. Hannah shied away.
“B-But I heard you apologize. I thought that meant I did something bad?”
He pouted. “That’s a really funny way of taking an apology from someone. I’m the dumbass here, in case you forgot?”
“You’re not a dumbass,” Hannah refuted. “And for what it’s worth, you did nothing wrong either because I…” She took a deep breath. You can do this, Hannah. Cressida told you to be honest, so be honest. You're not that nervous bride at the altar anymore. Her eyes went to the floor. “I really want this marriage to work. Whatever happens, please don’t take my initial behavior as rejection because that’s not at all how I feel. It’s just,” she began to ramble, her cheeks growing hotter, “everything is new to me. I hadn’t even held a boy’s hand until now, and when you kissed me I-I wasn’t sure what to do. I was afraid I’d mess up or annoy you somehow and now I’m embarrassed for telling you this. You must think I’m — ”
She was silenced by Satoru’s tall stature rising from his seat and reaching out to cup her tiny hand. He was standing so close. She looked up to see the Six Eyes, an otherworldly shade of turquoise blue. What he whispered next took her by complete surprise.
“I like you, Hannah. Truly.”
Suki dayo, Hannah. Hontō ni.
Japanese was a highly contextual language. There were multiple ways to decompartmentalize those two sentences. ’Suki.’ That was the optimal word he had used. Similar to English, expressing how one ‘liked’ something was common vernacular: ‘I like the color green.’ ‘I like baseball.’ ‘I like seven pumps of espresso with my caramel macchiato.’ When used in reference to a person, however, the word held a deeper connotation. ‘Suki dayo’ wasn’t a phrase you directed to just anyone, and yet he had directed it to her. Not favorite colors. Not baseball, or harmful amounts of caffeine. Satoru liked her. Her husband liked her. He had said so. Oh my days. The revelation had her suddenly feeling almost faint, heart bouncing back and forth between her eardrums and chest like a violent pendulum.
“You…You do?”
Her genuine surprise must’ve shown. Satoru let out a stray chuckle and nodded, turning her hand up to trace the dainty palm with his finger. She had to fight the urge to shiver from the touch. His fingers felt nice.
“You’re a very kind person,” he went on to say. “I like your warmth. How smart you are. How you're always able to see the good in people. The fact you’ll go to great lengths to protect the innocent at the expense of your own life. That’s a rare trait. You're stronger than you let on.” He winked. “Pretty too.”
“Really?” Hannah said, awestruck. “You think I’m strong?” And pretty? Gosh. No one had ever said that to her before.
He tucked a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear and snorted. “Only a dimwit would be blind not to see it.”
“Then,” Hannah blinked up at him once more, “I haven’t upset you?”
“Ha, no. All you've done is blame yourself unnecessarily for my faults.”
Hannah's eyes returned to looking at their hands.
“So…what now?”
What now? That was the question she had asked him after the wedding, the first real conversation they had ever shared. He had dismissed her then, warning her to stay away. How shameful it looked now. Satoru didn’t want to make the same mistake twice, but pushed the thought to the back of his mind and shrugged.
“Don’t know. Either way, I’m not gonna force you to do anything you're not comfortable with. Clearly, I’ve been spurned too many times on that front.”
Hannah wasn’t quite convinced.
“Won’t that bother you though, knowing I’m not…ready?”
He quirked an eyebrow. “What? For sex?”
In the future, there’d be moments Hannah would chide him for his straightforwardness, but that wasn’t the case here. She was actually rather relieved he skipped straight to the point. Warmth spread throughout her cheeks as she nodded. His laugh was rich and hardy as he placed a reassuring hand on her head.
“I don’t want you thinking about that. Marriage I’m told is a marathon, not a sprint. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it and see how you feel then.” He flashed her a cheesy, closed-eyed grin. “Deal?”
Hannah couldn’t refute that argument. Fr. O’Malley had told her all those weeks ago to avoid “90%” of what Satoru said and instead focus on what he did, but goodness, what a paradigm shift this night turned out to be. Sarcasm and jokes aside, a confession was the very last thing she expected him to say. How would she describe the emotion budding in her chest? Relief? Gratitude? Joy? Perhaps all three? It was more than one shy girl from Berkshire could ask for. If he weren’t standing right there, she would’ve bursted into tears. He liked her, and while Hannah didn’t voice it aloud quite yet, his feelings had not gone entirely unreciprocated.
“Deal.”
Standing hand in hand under the flickering candle glow, husband and wife turned to look at the enlightened face of Amida, whose small smile seemed most pleased by the new development. The ice had broken. Harmony had been restored.
They would try harder to make it work from then on out.
Notes:
Little, teensy bit of smut for ya'll, hehe. 🤭
1. Prostitution is illegal in Japan. However, the crime only counts as prostitution when there is only heterosexual intercourse. Everything else is fair game, with exception that the act not be filmed and sold for a profit. Foreigners are prohibited from entering pink salons. In his book “Tokyo Vice: An American Reporter on the Police Beat in Japan,” Jake Adelstein writes:
[Pink salons] otherwise known as blow job parlors; hand jobs are also available. Usually 3,000 yen ($30) for thirty minutes. You get a cup of coffee in addition to the gratification. There aren’t many of these parlors left in greater Tokyo. According to one magazine that targets women who want to work in the sex industry, there is the occupational risk of carpal tunnel syndrome. Adelstein, Jake. Tokyo Vice (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard) (p. 114). Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.
2. All of my information about Jōdo Shinshū Buddhism can be found in this PDF. This was a great source and I learned an awful lot. Here is another article on how the butsudan should look.
Follow me on Tumblr.
Also, don't forget about GTAW: The Years After.
Till then.👋🏻
NEXT CHAPTER: Life goes more or less back to normal...sorta. Is that Megumi I see out on the horizon?😍
Chapter 21: Life's Tiny Victories
Summary:
Satoru seriously needs to settle down.🤭
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you KyokoRenea for helping me write this chapter until MsButter gets back.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A wife is the central pillar of a house. — Japanese proverb
Marriages, like a garden, take time to grow. But the harvest is rich unto those who patiently and tenderly care for the ground. — Darlene Schacht
Chapter 21: Life's Tiny Victories
The way his sensei greeted them reminded Megumi of a whining dog, excitedly peeing all over the floor.
“Megumi-kun!! You’re back. I missed you.”
The boy glowered. Satoru greatly misjudged his young ward’s tolerance if he thought these saccharine endearments would magically cancel out his annoyingness. Quite the contrary. Megumi had been reluctant to come but was harangued by his older sister that they go. “Don’t you want to see Hannah-san?” she had said, crossing her arms in a huff. “No fair. How come you’ve gotten to meet her and I haven’t? I’m the eldest.”
She had a point.
Being half-siblings never bothered Megumi. Why should sharing a different mother and father bother anyone? That’s dumb. It’s not like it was their fault. You don’t get to choose your parents, and you most definitely don’t get to choose whether one of them dies, and the other abandons you like two pieces of roadside trash, never to return. Gone were the days when Megumi would look up at the sky and curse his dad for leaving them in their hour of need. But now he thought ‘good riddance.’ The man was trash, not them, and he had been too young to remember him that well anyway.
Tsumiki tried being the good, nurturing older sister. She was supportive of him and loved her younger brother dearly, but Megumi was reluctant to open up to anyone. Even to his own flesh and blood.
Their apartment wasn’t upper-class by any stretch. Gojo-sensei talked of upgrading them to a sweeter gig, but these offers were swiftly declined. Both Fushiguro children opted for comfort rather than luxury. Who needed a four-bedroom penthouse suite with an unbeatable view, when a two bedroom apartment in a safe, affluent neighborhood more than sufficed? And more importantly, they didn’t want to become dependent on Gojo’s money. In their eyes he wasn’t family, nor a close friend. He was doing them a favor they couldn’t repay. And then some.
“Aw, come on, Megumi-kun. Don’t be such a sour puss. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
Megumi glowered some more. “I told you not to call me that.”
“But why, Megumi-kun? Would you rather I switch back to Megumi-chan? I thought we outgrew that phase?”
The eleven year old seemed to bristle. “I'd rather you not call me anything at all.”
“Megumiiiii. That’s no way to treat your kind and loving sensei. Be nice.”
“Weirdo, leave me alone. You're just acting like this because the others are here.”
“Hey, I’m no weirdo. Take that back.” Satoru picked up the eleven year old, kicking and screaming, and headlocked him in a noogie, digging his fist into the poor boy’s skull. “Take it back. Take it back. Take it — ”
“Stop!” Megumi yelled.
“Okay, I’ll stop, but only if you repeat after me: ‘Satoru-sensei is the bestest, not weirdest person in the whole wide world.’”
The boy's growl was almost feral. “Never.”
Hannah turned to the other Fushiguro sibling for an explanation. “Are they always like this? Diametrically opposed, I mean?”
“Yep,” the girl said with a nod. “Afraid so.”
“Seems odd how they’re teacher and student.”
“Very odd. I’ve never understood it myself.”
Hannah giggled. “They’re like honey and vinegar.”
“Or a sun beam colliding with a rain cloud,” the girl added with a small bow. “I’m Tsumiki by the way, Megumi’s older sister.”
Hannah cordially bowed back. “Yes, I’m so glad to finally meet you. Megumi speaks of you all the time.”
“Does he? How funny.” Tsumiki nervously tucked a strand of her loose brown hair behind her ear. “I know you’re the one he’s enlisted as his English tutor. I can’t tell you how much it’s helped. If there’s a fee for your services, we’ll be more than happy to — ”
“Services? Oh, no, no.” Hannah frantically waved her hand, a light blush appearing on her face. “I’ve enjoyed doing it. He’s such a fast learner. Please, keep your money.”
The seeds to a very special friendship had been sown. Hannah wondered what it would be like to have a sister. Tsumiki would be the closest thing to it, their ages twelve and twenty, a separation of eight years. Not very long. The two talked as if they’d known each other their whole lives. Like her brother, Tsumiki was surprisingly mature for her age. (What twelve year old uses words like ‘services’ in a sentence?) They nattered on about school exams, about the looming summer break, and favorite hobbies. Hannah swore she could’ve kissed the girl la bise on both cheeks when she mentioned the potted plants she collected. Orchids. Orchidaceae: 26,000 plus species with more than 100,000 cultivars thriving on this one planet since around the Cretaceous period. They could be found on every continent (except Antarctica). The same diverse, saprophytic plant that produces vanilla and was once believed to scare off evil spirits. Not counting how the orchid got its name (‘orchis’ is Greek for testicles), they made for lovely home flowers, and orchid collectors were a passionate bunch no matter their age. Some even spent their entire life savings in acquiring a rare and endangered species. It was reported that one of England’s last remaining lady’s slipper orchids (Cypripedium calceolus) had to be put under armed security to guard against potential thieves. And like those pesky orchid thieves, Hannah knew ‘rare’ when she saw it. Tsumiki was one of those said rarities. A precious person. Such treasures were meant to be found and never let go. “Do you like flowers too, Hannah-san?” Why yes. Yes, she did. Thank you very much for asking. Perhaps she would get Tsumiki’s opinion on daylilies for her English garden before she went home. She’d be sure to love it.1
“Is this what being ignored feels like?”
Hannah and Tsumiki paused their conversation and glanced over at Satoru. He had relinquished a grumbling Megumi from his headlock, who was busy massaging his sore noggin. Those noogies really hurt.
He didn’t receive an answer though because Makoto stepped outside holding a tray.
“Could I interest anyone in some lemonade?”
The children ran up to the beloved housekeeper. “Ah, Ms. Tsumiki. Master Megumi,” she delighted as they all shuffled inside to escape the summer heat and drink their lemonade.
Both Fushiguro siblings noted Hannah and Satoru reaching out for the other's hand upon entering the house, their fingers weaving together. They had infatuated smiles on their faces as they made eye contact, a sweet gesture that spoke droves. Were they even aware of how they looked to the rest of the world?
“Cute,” Tsumiki whispered. “Things seem to be going well for them.”
Megumi blinked dubiously at the couple while sipping his lemonade. In all the years they’d known him, the boy had never seen his sensei look so…happy. Hannah was laughing at a joke he had said. She looked happy too. Where did this bubbly feeling in the pit of his stomach come from? The eleven year old let out a pessimistic snort.
“Whatever. I still say it’s weird.”
Brother and sister stayed at the Gojo’s for lunch and then piled into Mr. Ijichi’s Lexus which would take them home. They would see each other again in a few days.
July was an active month for Japan. During this time, visitors from all over the country were migrating to Kyoto to partake in the month-long Gion Festival. It was the fourteenth day. The float processions would soon begin. Satoru asked if Hannah wanted to go on a weekend, but with so much work to be done, she thought it better to hold off.
Running an estate was no walk in the park.
The majority of its rooms were kept regularly clean and free of dust, but hadn’t been occupied in quite awhile. Walking through them was like walking through a history book, regal vestiges of the decadent Meiji era and the long-reigning Tokugawa shogunate that preceded it. Nothing had been purchased within living memory; Pearl-inlaid cabinets. Woodblock paintings (ukiyo-e) by Jakuchū, Hōitsu, and Yoshitoshi. Folding screens airbrushed with gold leaf. Sparsely laden throughout the rooms were dozens of priceless Satsuma vases ornamented in glistening enamels and gilt. Hannah had two favorites; One in the drawing room showing a sparrow perched on a ginkgo branch, curiously watching a spider anchor itself down a gossamer laced web. And another situated in the parlor where she and Satoru ate their meals, illustrating a pair of flirtatious monkeys swinging loftily from vines of hanging wisteria. Each made her smile. But there would be further additions made to these rooms that would have her smiling even more.
Afterall, this was her house now.
While traditionally men were charged with earning money and providing for the family, it was women who ran the household, managed finances, hired staff, and raised the children. This would be her day-to-day life, and as her first real indulgence as Gojo matriarch, Hannah requested that every room - from the kitchen to the onsen - contain a flower arrangement, ikebana or likewise. Oh, it was grand fun trimming roses and irises and honing her arrangement skills with Makoto, who also found the activity gratifying. Designing flowers was a welcome reprieve from cooking and cleaning.
Though the work wasn’t all play. Satoru and Hannah were busy as bees that entire summer.
Satoru was saddled with missions and meetings and report write-ups. Administrational bullshit. If it weren’t for his wife and housekeeper he’d stage a protest. Organize a labor union or something: “We demand paid holiday! Sorcerers’ rights are human rights!” The idea sounded better by the minute. His fatigue was starting to show. The Six Eyes user carried Bufferin everywhere he went, fearing he’d contract an ibuprofen addiction before long. The migraines were bearable with reverse curse technique, but only just so. Hannah was less lenient than Makoto when it came to how many pills he was allowed to take at home. “You should take no more than three capsules, Satoru, and at twelve hour intervals. It’ll wreck your bowels if you take any more.” His bowels, eh? Sounded serious, though he didn’t see much of an issue. If his intestines imploded, he could simply heal them, but he knew she only made a fuss because she cared. Cared for his health. Cared for him. One of the few people in this life who did. Every day he’d discover a new reason why his wife was brilliant.
One of Satoru’s special pet projects was his charity; a program that provided financial aid to children who had either lost a parent or had become orphaned due to curse attacks. It was funded by both the government - that is to say the Japanese taxpayer - and the sorcerer families (70% government / 30% sorcerer families). Two years it had taken Satoru to finally get the ball rolling and convince the higher-ups that the project was worthwhile, though it took a considerable amount of time and effort. There were 112 children residing in some form of foster care and 134 living in single parent households. The sums weren’t huge, just enough to pay for utilities or groceries, maybe a rental payment on an apartment. Whatever the family or child needed to make life a little easier. Hannah had proposed a new idea.
“What if we sent the children care packages for their birthdays?”
Satoru blinked. “Care packages?”
“Fun little parcels filled with either their favorite sweets, or maybe a new toy they’ve been wanting but can’t afford.”
“Okay, and how would we do this?”
Hannah smashed her lips together; her ‘thinking face’ as he came to call it. “Yes, I’ve thought of that too. There are 246 children in the system, correct?”
Satoru nodded.
“And we know their date of birth and current home addresses?”
Again, Satoru nodded.
“Then why don’t we mail a survey for the children to fill out, or perhaps the parents? We can review how many replies we get and operate from there.”
Satoru nodded a third time, but was wondering something. “Alright, you’ve got me on board, but that’s 246 days out of the year, Hannah. This would be no small undertaking.”
Her eyes shone with determination. “Nothing is too big an undertaking when it comes to protecting childhood.”
Well, he couldn’t argue with that one. Hear, hear! Was it wrong that he found her kinda sexy when she brainstormed? Anywho, they would type up a mini questionnaire and send it out the following week.
Speaking of questionnaires, answering correspondence became its own undertaking. Hannah and Makoto had gotten through the congratulatory letters and well wishers from her wedding. Though there was still no sign of tea invitations from either the Kamos or the Zen’ins. Hannah tried not to be too put out about it. However, when she found a mulberry-papered envelope sealed with a large golden chrysanthemum in the center she just about fainted. A golden chrysanthemum; The Imperial seal.
“Please tell me we won’t be entertaining the Emperor,” she begged Makoto, dread ringing in her voice.
“Not to worry, ma’am,” the housekeeper assuaged. “One of the duties of the Imperial family is to uphold the secrecy of the jujutsu world. These letters are simply out of common courtesy. You and the young master might be invited to official state functions, but rest assured. The Emperor has never stayed a night in this house.”
“Oh, thank God.” Hannah exhaled a deep sigh of relief. She turned the envelope over. “Will I be expected to write back, you think?”
“A short ‘thank you’ never hurts. It’s usually Her Majesty, the Empress, who manages these affairs. Her personal insignia is the Beach Rose. I will show you how to write to her.”
On top of writing to royalty, there were also financial matters for Hannah to contend with; Outstanding balances that needed to be paid. Budgeting for food and home renovations before winter. Satoru and Hannah had decided that ¾ of the shoji panels facing the outside would be replaced with glass instead of washi paper. The alterations would be expensive now, but in the long run would cut down on added costs, as glass did not have to be regularly replaced every few years. Satoru had trusted Hannah to oversee the project. Then there was going over dinner plans with Makoto. The housekeeper was looking to incorporate more European dishes to the menu card. For Thursday nights it would be a mixture between French and English like so:
Cassoulet de Homard et Mayonnaise
Pâté de Grouse de Jambon et de Poulet Découpés
~
Sole à la Florentine
~
Galantine de Volaille et Longue Searlette à l’Aspic
~
Pâte de Chateaubriand
Poulet à la Crème Paprika
~
Petit pois à l’Anglais
~
Pommes à l’Anglais
~
Charlotte Russe
Might be a bit of a stretch, but she hoped the food would meet Satoru’s approval.2 Hannah let Makoto make most of the decisions. She wasn’t picky and encouraged the housekeeper to make leftovers so she wouldn’t have to cook every night.
And at last when Hannah wasn’t buried neck-deep in letters, or balancing checkbooks, or catching up on her tea ceremony lessons (which were coming along splendidly) Hannah was given time out of the busy week to step outside and garden.
She had quickly befriended the Gojo family’s fifty-two year old gardener, Mr. Aoyama, who was nonetheless charmed by his new lady’s horticultural knowledge, especially for being one so young. The garden estates he had worked on in the past, with their great ladies and multi-millionaires, had never been this enthusiastic. He even watched her strap on a pair of gardening gloves and Wellingtons, pick up a trusty shovel, and join in on the mulching herself. A woman after my own heart, he thought. About time these privileged ladies, with their sniveling noses and outdated prejudices, come down from their ivory towers and learn what proper work is and get their hands dirty.
During the course of her twenty years, Hannah had developed a placid sense of unquestioning acceptance. She had been handed a raw deal in life, but what good was it to stomp your feet and endlessly complain about how unfair the world was? Better to get on with it and move on. That’s why gardening brought her so much joy. It was her oyster, an artistic exercise to enjoy and partake in while it lasted, making her forget her indemnities. Whenever she had enough free time on her hands, it would be spent budgeting and designing the groundwork for her English garden Satoru had promised; her ‘Eden’ as she’d later come to call it, spanning less than two hectares, her own tiny piece of heaven.
She already had the blueprint laid out. On a mood board in her bedroom were pictures of flower varieties and garden ideas she had snipped from magazine and newspaper clippings next to watercolor palettes, ranging from the deepest indigo to lightest pale yellow. This presentation gave Hannah a visual aid for deciding on color and texture combinations. So far, she’d listed her main frontrunners in a journal, referencing it like some kind of magic crystal ball, foretelling the future.
The early months of spring would bloom ranunculus, Japanese anemones, and star-petaled narcissi, and numerous shrubs of calming lilac. For early summer it would be English roses, snapdragons, daylilies of every color, red and orange oriental poppies, bigleaf blue hydrangea and blushing pink peonies, exploding with sweet, fragrant perfume. Come late summer and early autumn, there’d be burgundy hued dahlias shaped like honeycombed pom-poms, together with zinnias, golden chrysanthemums, ‘Midnight Magic’ crepe myrtle, and Antwerp hollyhock, their heavily flowered columnar spiraling up towards the sun, all shades of ostentatious reds, pinks, purples, and yellows. And then when the first frost of winter finally arrived there would be an assortment of rosemary, snowdrops, and holly; Hardier breeds, making their last hurrah before spring. This continual carousel of blooms would stem from a ‘layering technique’ where once the perennial ran its course for the season, a new one would spring and take its place like a growing-living-dying song.
Trial and error were bound to erupt. Multiple factors had to be taken into careful consideration for this dream garden to become reality. Preparations had to be made, specifically as it pertained to soil. Fortunately for Hannah, Japan’s soil was naturally compacted with rich nutrients and organic minerals from millennia of volcanic activity, creating the ideal ratio of silt, ash, and clay needed to grow plants. However, much of the species Hannah wanted to cultivate weren’t native to Japan. Ericaceous plants, like hydrangeas and rhododendrons, were natural born ‘acid lovers’ and could thrive in denser pH environments, however, if the soil contained too much alkaline substances - like lime, for instance - then calcifuges plants, such as camellias and azaleas, could be unintentionally poisoned. Acidic levels had to be maintained at just the right levels depending on what was being planted (which could be checked with the aid of an inexpensive pH kit). So to mitigate the increase of dead growth, Hannah decided she would make the soil from scratch.
Home-made compost followed a relatively simple recipe; a 50-50 mixture of nitrogen and carbon based ingredients left exposed to oxygen and water, later breaking down into humus. Basic science. What was used in making the mixture was left entirely to the gardener’s discretion; dead leaves, woody stems, eggshells, food scraps, seaweed, fresh animal manure, etc. If making compost in the summertime, the added heat would help the nitrogen rich ingredients decompose quicker and encourage good bacteria to germinate, as microorganisms were necessary to produce healthy soil. This provided cheaper, more beneficial compost instead of buying it in big stretchy plastic bags. The only downside was time. It would take months for the soil to be ready, and even then Hannah would have to wait. Unlike Edith’s roses she planted during her first week at Jujutsu High, where she dug into the ground and arduously churned the soil with a tiller and spade, Hannah was going to apply a ‘no-dig’ method. This meant she would prep the flower beds by first marking the perimeters with stakes and twine and then flattening dampened cardboard over the site; One layer of compost would be packed under the cardboard and another layer would be stacked on top. Since these were brand new flower beds, the cardboard would prevent sunlight from filtering through, thus killing any weeds or invasive plants beneath without robbing the soil of nutrients. Given time, the cardboard between the two compost layers would biodegrade, making food for benevolent garden dwellers buried deep inside the earth (worms loved decomposed cardboard). But composting was only half the battle.
With the plants selected, and the beds and compost prepped, there was also the climate to account for.
The Gojo estate was hidden away in the bucolic Takao mountains, meaning the garden terrace would be seated at higher elevation, leaving it exposed to more sunlight and harsher weather conditions. Windbreakers would need to be put in place to protect from damaging storm gusts and winter temperatures would plunge well below zero. She would have to study-up on the area’s annual rain and snowfall as well, and whether more landscaping would be involved. Not all the flowers would make it through the year, and it would take multiple seasons to get the garden she wanted, but if she played her cards right, Hannah would be able plant bulbs and sow her first seeds by mid-autumn at the earliest.
Satoru was impressed by Hannah’s vast gardening expertise, as anyone would be. Over the years he would grow accustomed to entering the house and seeing profusions of flowers in every shape, color, and scent decorate the halls and window arches, breathing life and color into the space; his wife’s personal touch. Whenever she worked, he would always be milling around the vicinity, snooping over her shoulder, curious about what she was doing, asking questions like “What is ‘comfrey tea?’ Do you drink it?” (The answer was no. You do not drink it) Though on occasions, sometimes his questions delved more into the transcendent.
“Do you really believe the entire world was created in six days?”
Hannah peered up from taking notes in her garden journal. He was towering directly above her, hands placed in his pockets. Like always.
“I suppose,” she said with a shrug. “If you took the Book of Genesis at face value, sure. Why not.”
Satoru looked even more perplexed. “I thought Christians took everything in their Bible literally?”
Hannah smiled, a certain glimmer in her moss brown eyes that looked like a challenge. “Not always. For instance you could argue there is not one creation story told in the Bible, but three. The first chapter of Genesis is separate from the story of Adam and Eve. Then there’s also the story of Noah and his ark, before God issued a great flood over the earth, setting it anew. Rather than being taken as history, the purpose of these stories is to emphasize God’s dominion over creation, and that Man, His greatest creation, somehow fell victim to original sin in the process.” She stood up from her seat. “Anywho, now you have me curious. Do Buddhists ever ponder the origins of the universe?”
Satoru shook his head.
“To be honest, no,” he replied flatly. “There is the tale of the Izanagi and Izanami creating the islands of Japan with brine, dripping from a jeweled spear, which could symbolize the world. But from a purely Buddhist perspective, the universe has no beginning or end, so philosophizing how it came into being is seen as a fruitless exercise that leads to nowhere.”
This didn’t stop Hannah from trying.
“But didn’t the Buddha say that everything comes to an end at some point?” she said. “And if everything comes to an end, then it must have had a beginning, no?”3
Over the years, they would have many discussions like this, volleying questions back and forth, pondering the deeper meanings of life. But like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, neither husband nor wife would concede to the other’s beliefs. Satoru had trouble grasping Christianity’s radical take on monotheism: How one deity could simultaneously be a divine Creator, a Human (who was also ‘hypostatically’ divine), and a strange Spirit that bore no distinctive shape whatsoever but was often depicted in the form of a dove, and somehow not be called polytheistic. Additionally this Trinitarian Deity was revered as being all-loving, omnipresent, and omniscient, and yet if that were the case, Satoru couldn’t conceive how this supposed ‘all-loving’ God could allow evil things to befall innocent human beings, especially at the hands of His ‘most holy’ church. Then there were the outlandish beliefs surrounding the Eucharist, which he found a little creepy: Wine and unleavened bread that ‘transubstantiate’ into the actual blood and flesh of Christ while retaining the ‘accidents’ of real bread and wine, which you then ate? Huh? What the heck was that all about? He wasn’t a philosopher, but wouldn’t that make Christians cannibals? Plus, this Jesus character sounded very similar to the Buddha at given times, but he wasn’t going to read too much into it.4
Hannah, in the meanwhile, struggled equally with Shinto and Buddhism, and how both religions could co-exist without delegitimizing the other. Were the gods more paramount to the highly secular Japanese, or did the Buddha and his Dharma take first precedence? To her knowledge Shinto was an altogether pantheistic faith where rocks, trees, and even mountains could be worshiped as kami (deities). The many myths and legends surrounding these kami, however, Hannah saw no differently than those of Zeus or Ra; fictional tales used to convey didactic truths. Buddhism offered more spiritual substance, yes, though she failed to understand karma’s intrinsic nature and why it held so much sway over one’s life, or more importantly, where it came from; a moot point given Buddhism’s beliefs of causality rather than creation. It didn’t matter who or where it originated from, or why ‘the true way of things’ functioned the way it did; how good deeds produced happiness and bad deeds produced suffering. What was enlightenment anyway? Why did it matter so much whether you obtained it or not, and could all the world’s sufferings really be eliminated by practicing ‘mindfulness’ and following the Five Precepts, and then awaiting rebirth in the ‘Pure Land?’ So many reeling questions…
‘We are not meant to resolve all contradictions,’ wrote the meek Thomas Merton, and so Hannah and Satoru would agree to disagree. These beliefs, however confusing, however paradoxical, weren’t worth fighting over, not to the detriment of a marriage. They had come too far to risk falling out. Challenge and learn, yes. Disrespect and insult, no. Let bygones be bygones and put it to rest.
On a less philosophical note, Hannah’s training was showing signs of tremendous progress. Satoru had moved on from teaching her how to punch and kick and was now in the middle of teaching her defensive maneuvers, like how to escape from being pinned to the ground.
“This is ridiculous,” Hannah panted, struggling desperately to free herself. “How can I possibly get out like this?”
“Because I’m telling you,” was all Satoru said, increasing his weight, barely holding up a sweat as he subdued her, casually switching to a gruff, sagely English. “If no mistake have you made, yet losing you are, a different game you should play.”
She wasn’t laughing at his Yoda impression, having only watched Stars Wars last week. They resigned to training indoors for the evening and had cleared the reception hall, creating a dojo-like atmosphere. Crouched on his hands and knees, Satoru had her pinned in the ‘Mount Position,’ seizing her wrists and restraining them to the floor, while his legs straddled her waist, immobilizing her. She was boxed in. Hannah tried pushing him off with her upper body, but Satoru’s grip was tight. With all the power stored in his shoulder and arms, her hands barely lifted off the floor. Gravity was on his side. He wasn’t letting go. And like all good esoterics, Satoru wasn’t going to just tell her how to break free - No, no - that would be too practical. Instead he would keep silent and force his wife to figure it out on her own.
Hannah kicked and writhed and shimmied. She once attempted to bite him, but his Infinity made it so her teeth never sought flesh (not that she was biting very hard). As was usual with training, he wore a thin black cotton tee and matching black sweatpants, which were probably overpriced. She could see every ripple and flex of his toned biceps and pectoral muscles underneath the cotton as he worked to restrain her. The position was rather demoralizing; a man overpowering a woman with the use of his body. The intimacy of their position felt unfamiliar too - dare she say, sensual - but Hannah ignored the proximity of their bodies and focused on getting out from underneath him. Twenty minutes in, her efforts were met with no success and after some more prolonged struggling, she gave up.
“I can’t,” she said out of breath. “You’re too strong.”
Her husband held back a smile, her inadvertent praise sounding like music to his ears. “Excuses, excuses,” he chided, not looking the least bit tired. “C’mon, Hannah, use that clever little brain of yours. If I have your hands pinned like this,” he took her seized wrists and (lightly) pressed them back to the floor, “and you can’t use your legs,” he clamped his own legs around her waist, “what else could you do?”
“Nothing. I’m stuck.”
“No, you’re not. There is a way out. You just have to be creative. Think outside the box.”
‘Creative.’ Well, that was one way of looking at it.
Hannah’s eyes searched his person for an opening, any indication he had left an opportunity for her to escape. His body was still on top of her like a human cage, squeezing her wrists, pressing them to the floor. She attempted to push him off again. “Nope, you’ve tried that enough times already,” he said, transferring more of his weight on top of her. “Promise ya, it’s not gonna work.” He was right, of course. Trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result was foolish. Alright, Hannah. Think outside the box. Be creative.
Satoru’s Infinity could repel and attract various things at once. For instance, if he were walking down the street holding a bag of groceries in the middle of a torrential downpour, he could keep the grocery bag in his hand while repelling off the rain. The bag was allowed in his orbit, the raindrops were not. She had seen him do this more than once, an invisible shield carapaced around him, stepping back inside the house, dry as a feather. This also explained why his clothes - or any piece of him for that matter - didn’t get stripped away whenever he used his curse technique. However, other than shielding himself from getting bitten, Hannah realized he wasn’t using Infinity that much during their training session. And his arms, which were supporting most of his weight in keeping her restrained, were slanted at an (she eyeballed it) eighty degree angle from his shoulder to his hands. Meaning if she got his shoulders slanted at an angle over his wrists, past ninety degrees, he would be forced to let go or risk face-planting on the floor like the back end of a teeter-totter. But how would she accomplish this? His hold on her was firm.
Hannah looked down at his hips straddling her waist. His knees were planted to the ground, but his hind legs were hooked around her calves. There was nothing other than his hands, keeping him balanced. She thought back to the teeter-totter analogy. This was her way out.
Eureka!
With speed she didn’t know she was capable of Hannah rammed her torso up as far as it would go, bridging her hips, and violently swooped her hands downwards like a snow angel. She barely caught the excited glint in Satoru’s blue eyes at her discovering the loophole. Like she predicted, he fell face forward from the momentum, having no choice but to release her hands to prevent eating the floor, however, Hannah got ahead of herself. See, what she was supposed to do in this instance was hug his torso like a tree, grab his shoulder, lock the arm, and roll. And so having forgotten those four additional steps, she instead tried scrambling out from under him. Big mistake. Without locking his arm, there was nothing blocking it from the rebound. Satoru miscalculated her move…
And elbowed her straight in the nose like a sledgehammer.
CR-ACK-K-K!!
It was a heart rendering sound. Satoru could feel and hear the fracturing of bone as though it were porcelain china.
The smirk on his face vanished completely.
“Oh shit, I didn’t think you’d — Fuck, Hannah, are you alright?”
Stupid of him to ask really. Even the densest simpleton could see her nose was broken. Hannah tasted iron on her tongue. The world was an explosion of stars. Every pinch of her eyes stung. She had taken a direct hit. The cartilage was bent out of line and swelling heavily, bruised purple and red, blood oozing out both nostrils. He didn’t have to use his Six Eyes to know it was horrible. So much for creativity.
“Quick, use this.” Satoru raised his arms and without a moment’s hesitation peeled off his shirt. Cradling the base of her neck, he then tilted her head down, and shoved the wadded shirt to her nose. “Put pressure on it.”
Hannah held the sweaty shirt. Her swollen nasal passages might’ve been clogged with blood, but she still managed to catch remnants of incense and Italian-roast coffee saturated in the cotton; two scents that shouldn’t go together and yet did. The dampened shirt didn’t smell bad as one would imagine, mixed with his sweat and body odor, but rather soothingly pleasant and masculine. So him. Like honeysuckle to an insect, she found it near impossible to resist, closing her eyes and slowly inhaling as much incense and coffee as she could, wanting more. The pressure and pain seemed to gradually subside until she felt something like fingers tilt her chin at the floor again, readjusting the shirt in her hands that was surely covered in blood.
“Gotta keep your head down, Hannah. No looking up.”
Whether it had been deliberate or not, he had given her a clear, perfect view. Hannah had never seen him shirtless before. The strange tingling sensation gripped her body like a vise, and the blood rushing from her nostrils felt as though it were pumping back up her nose to her cranium. He was handsome in a near-painful way. Her eyes traced the breadth of his broad shoulders, to his veiny toned biceps and smooth sculpted chest. Years of training and strict discipline edged in every contour of his musculature, from his trapezoids down to his six-pack, unblemished skin coated in a thin sheen of sweat, no obvious signs of excess body fat to be had. Adonis. Masculine. Ravishing.
How long did it take him to achieve such a physique, she wondered. Perhaps he always had it. Some people have all the luck in that department; height, strength, brains, and dashing good looks.
Her silent appraisal did not go unnoticed.
“Like what you see?”
Hannah's attention snapped from his laughing turquoise blue eyes boring into her. She could feel his chuckle rumble through his chest. It did things to her stomach, turning it into knots.
“It’s alright. You're not the first. I’ll let you off the hook this time.”
“M’not?”
“Nuh-uh. Nope.”
“Oh.” There was a lull. “Um…May I ask how many?”
He arched a brow. “How many what?”
Hannah blushed and turned herself away. Trying to extract this bit of information was a thorny subject, the forbidden fruit she was not allowed to eat from. Yet once the inner voice had reached its verdict, there was little point evading the question. “Firsts before me.”
Frowning, his eyes were like blocks of ice. Not angry per say, just guarded.
“Does it matter?”
The quietness returned. She could hear the sound of a bee trapped somewhere against one of the newly installed windows, that familiar buzzing thump on glass. Yes. Yes, it did matter. It mattered to her a great deal not knowing how many lovers had come before her. Satoru rarely divulged anything about his past and judging by his frosty reaction, that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.
He removed the shirt to inspect her nose. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he concentrated, white brows pinched together, biting his lower lip. She suppressed a shiver, feeling his rough calluses graze her cheek.
“Looks like you're not a human spigot anymore,” he said. “Good. Reverse Curse Technique should clear this up in a jiffy.”
Hannah’s eyes widened. “You can do that?”
Her husband’s hubris returned. Slipping her a wink, Satoru gingerly cupped the back of her head. “Hold still,” he hushed, and lifted his spare hand above her face, thinking back to what he learned in his school days: How energy can neither be created, nor destroyed, only converted from one form to the other. First law of thermodynamics. Neat stuff. He felt the negative cursed energy pulse at his fingertips, conducting a positive charge. Felt it mend the contused cartilage and broken bone, decrease the swelling, reattach popped blood vessels, but for some reason he also felt…resistance. Like the moment your quad-core processor suddenly runs at half its initial speed, or how water molecules slow down light. A non life-threatening injury, Hannah’s nose should’ve healed the second the positive energy came into contact with her skin, except it didn’t. It bided its time, stalling. Three minutes in and he still hadn’t fixed her nose.
What the hell?
Satoru stopped for a second, increasing his energerial output. He’d never encountered this problem before. It was like the more he emitted, the more he was met with resistance. Like it wasn’t passing through.
Confused, he glanced over at his wife. She seemed oblivious of the delay, showing no signs of further discomfort, staring up at the ceiling. He went back to the task at hand.
It took him a while longer than usual, but with enough persistence the nose returned as it was. He decided to cheat, just once, and use the Six Eyes ‘x-ray’ vision to assess his handiwork. The purple and red bruising hadn’t completely gone away, although the nasal bone and septum were fully repaired.
“Are we good?”
Believing Shoko would approve of his technique skills, he nodded. “We’re good.”
“Do you want to continue where we left off? I can keep going.”
“Nah,” he said dismissively, taking his bloody shirt from her before standing up. He extended his hand out, hoisting his little wife off the floor. “That’s enough blood loss for one evening. Let’s get some food in you before you pass out.”
She eyed the red splotches on the floor. “What about the tatami? I ruined those too.”
“Leave ‘em be. If they can’t be salvaged, we’ll order new ones.”
The amber sun started to set above the garden lakes. The two placed the table and furniture back where it belonged and headed for the hall. Makoto had dinner ready for them.
…
The food was delicious as always, three Michelin stars, though Satoru seemed to pester Hannah incessantly about her nose every five minutes. She assured him all was fine and the pain had settled. Upon finishing their meal, the two helped Makoto clean the dishes and put the leftovers in the fridge, and after the last piece of Meissen was hand washed and dried, they thanked the housekeeper for her valiant efforts and let her retire for the evening. Being a Friday night, the couple had nowhere to be tomorrow, so the two chose to stay up a while longer and watch a movie together over ice-cream; plain old Vanilla for Hannah and Triple Chocolate Fudge for Satoru. Satoru had been insisting all week they watch Avatar. They cozied up on the couch with their frozen dairy treats and mentally teleported to the planet of Pandora. The plot was so-so, but the world building was unlike any other. “It looks almost real,” Hannah kept repeating. Satoru agreed. For a five year old movie, the CGI held up nicely.
Three hours later, the film credits rolled. The Six Eyes user stretched his arms out with a yawn. Hannah herself stifled a yawn, signaling it was time for bed.
They continued commenting about the movie as their bedrooms were right around the corner.
“Did you say it made two billion U.S dollars at the box-office?”
Satoru raised a finger. “Two point nine billion.”
Hannah tried doing the money conversion in her head and pulled a sour face. “That’s too much money.”
Satoru chuckled as they faced each other in the hallway right outside their respective rooms.
This was when things got good.
Like two infatuated teenagers standing by their lockers, the couple waited before parting. Satoru had his hands tied behind his back while Hannah was staring bashfully at the floor. They both knew what came next. Since that night facing the smiling Amida statue, husband and wife had been partaking in a new pre-bedtime ritual. Kissing; Nothing quite like the passion (and romance) they shared at Tokyo Tower overlooking the city skyline; A chaste kiss on the cheek; A light peck on the lips. But that was about to change because Satoru was anything if not persistent.
“Can we try…something else?”
Hannah tilted her head in that innocent manner of hers. Satoru had to bite his lower lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. She was so adorable. “Something else?”
“Yeah, something more,” he searched for the word, “substantial.”
His wife's brow narrowed, looking a tad apprehensive. “I thought we were taking things slow?”
“We are,” he said. “But this’ll be different.”
“Different? Different how?”
“Just follow my lead and you’ll see.”
“Satoru, I — ”
“Shh.” He held a finger to her lips and spoke tenderly. “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”
Hannah took an apprehensive breath, felt one of his palms frame her cheek, the other hook around her waist, and then came the moment of truth. Satoru’s mouth gently sought hers, but it wasn’t short lived like the others. Far from it. The way he opened her with his tongue was as though her lips were made of smooth butter and he was parsing through them with a hot knife.
Oh, it was a kiss. It really was. Hannah had no experience to fall back on, but she knew Satoru was a good kisser. He had to be. Their previous kisses had been sweet and chaste. This kiss was long and meandering, his satin-like tongue slowly stirring the inside of her mouth like an old-fashioned butter churner. ‘Follow my lead,’ she remembered him saying. Closing her eyes, Hannah began copying his movements. To be honest, she wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing - at least - she thought she wasn’t sure. The wife had been too intoxicated to remember a certain infamous night out, where she might’ve stumbled home drunk at two in the morning and quite possibly flashed Satoru her naked breasts, before enveloping him in a searing French kiss. But again, her memory was a blur. It was no use to her now sober, fully aware of how tentative and uncoordinated she was except...
Dear God, he tasted wonderful.
Every so often they’d come up for air, dip their heads, and meet in yet another kiss, just as deep and languid as the last. How long they stood in that hallway, their tongues moving to an unspecified rhythm, taking their sweet time exploring one another, these new uncharted waters, she didn’t know. Satoru was doing most of the work, his left hand wandering up and down her back, while the right got tangled in her hair. The moment seemed to stretch on forever and it became quite hot between them. Hannah thought the flames engulfing her entire body would consume her, a blend of embarrassment, heat, and pleasure. The whimper that came out of her throat was automatic.
Satoru broke away.
“Sorry,” he panted, face slightly flushed from exertion. “Should’ve tapped out sooner.” He cleared his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, whaddya think? Fantastic? Amazing? Phenomenal?”
“Good,” Hannah answered, also out of breath. She could think of nothing more to say. “It was good.”
His laugh was disbelieving.
“Actually though?”
She pursed her lips and looked guilty at the floor. Her blush hadn’t gone away. “I guess some more practice couldn’t hurt.”
Satoru grinned at the invitation.
“Practice, hmm?” There was a knowing glint in his eyes he couldn’t hide. “Maybe we’ll add it to your training regiment.”
He watched his wife shyly peer up at him, a smile creeping at the edges of her kissed lips. Lips kissed by him. Her eyes were so hazel, so warm, empty of everything that wasn’t just the two of them. “I wouldn’t be against that.”
The Six Eyes wielder could’ve danced a jig up and down the hallway, playing every bit the love-struck imbecile he knew himself to be.
It was the tiny victories in life.
Chapter 22: The Nature of Bees
Summary:
Satoru has a (job) proposition for his wife.😉
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you KyokoRenea for helping me write this chapter until MsButter gets back.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For bees, the flower is the fountain of life. For flowers, the bee is the messenger of love. – Kahlil Gibran
No bees, no honey; no work, no money. – Proverb
Chapter 22: The Nature of Bees
Hannah waited for the little honeybee to lap up the rose pollen on her finger, its velvety yellow body tickling her skin as it licked and buzzed. After a minute or so, the task was finished, and bidding a fond farewell, the little honeybell turned herself around, flicked her small antennae in thanks, and flew off.
“You’re welcome,” Hannah chimed as the insect departed, possibly returning to her hive with the saddlebags of fresh pollen clinging to her legs.
Honeybees were such amazing creatures; Never stopping, never tiring, hurrying from one pollen-filled bloom to the next, gentle and mild. Hornets and wasps, however, were mean spirited and highly aggressive, as were German dark bees and the African “killer” bees. Common bumblebees were often mistaken for their honeybee cousins, but were not the same in both size and mannerism and could not produce honey. Other honey-less distant relatives included ants, sawflies, and the noblest of all hymenoptera, the praying mantis, but none worked harder, nor carried as much environmental importance as the honeybee. It was why Hannah loved them so. The same golden insect emblazoned all over St. Peter's Baldachin and whose wax was used in making Paschal candles. It was said that a single bee colony could pollinate close to 300 million flowers in a day, meaning if there were no honeybees - or bees in general - there’d be no flowers. If there were no flowers, then there’d be no flower gardeners, and if there were no gardeners, the world would be a much darker and less beautiful place. Crops would fail, as would roughly ¾ of all flowering plants unless helped by human intervention.1
For this reason, Hannah's affection for the honeybee held no limitations. They could do no wrong in her eyes and not once had she been stung. They were Mother Nature’s little helpers.
Having done her good deed for the day, Hannah wiped her hands over her dirty overalls, put her gloves back on, and picked up her gardening shears and disinfectant wipes. These roses weren’t going to trim themselves.
Last week was spent tirelessly transplanting the roses from Jujutsu High to the Gojo estate. These were the same roses she’d planted her first week at the school; the night she was attacked when returning to her dorm after dark. Hannah woke before sunrise, carting the wheelbarrow and a shovel. Finally August, the rose shrubs were now rose bushes and had prospered beautifully in their foreign environment, taking on a deep reddish-purple hue reminiscent of merlot.
To minimize any damage she might incur, Hannah surgically dug a moat around the thorny rose shrubs with the shovel, avoiding the delicate root hairs, and used her gloved hands to (again very carefully) unearth each prickly rose bush from the soil. Technically, it was not advisable to transplant roses in the middle of summer when the flowers were beginning to bloom and the sun was at its hottest. They were also covered with leaves and very heavy (for her). Hannah worried the whole procedure would stress the plants, causing them to go into shock but these were no ordinary roses.2 They would endure, and once all six roses had been successfully uprooted, she enlisted the help of Mr. Aoyama to wheel them up (yes, all the way up) the hill to the house.
They had placed the bushes in their own individual pot. Hannah’s homemade compost wasn’t ready. So she bought a soilless mixture made of peat moss and perlite instead. Excellent for retaining moisture, yet allow for water to drain out the holes drilled at the bottom of the containers. In the end, the hardy roses not only survived the shocking ordeal, but thrived, their soft layered petals blooming like plumage. They weren’t going anywhere, if the attracted honeybees were any indicator.
Hannah ran a disinfectant wipe over the blades and went back to trimming, cutting the plant at a clean, forty-five degree angle where the stem met leaf. The clipped rose was then transferred to a water bucket with the others. So far, she had enough roses to make a bouquet for the English dining room. They hardly ever ate in there, but the wine-colored flowers would pair lovely with the oak furnishings.
She began humming a tune. A shadow eclipsed her as she clipped another rose off its stem. She felt a weight land on her braided crown, something like lips and a nose.
“Why’re you doing that?”
Hannah didn’t have to look up to know who it was, not that his voice didn’t give him away. Lately, Satoru liked perching his head on top of hers as a way of grabbing her attention.
“To clean the shears,” she answered, showing him the shears and wipes, his head staying nestled where it was. “Roses are prone to infection, so it’s best to sanitize the blades after each use.”3 She held up the freshly cut rose for him to take. “Here, smell one.”
Satoru took the multi-layered rose, aware of the thorns, and drew it to his nose. His brows shot up. “Woah.” The smell was so sweet and fruity he could literally taste it on his tongue, forcing him to comically choke down a cough.
Hannah tried suppressing a giggle. “Intense, isn’t it?”
The Six Eyes wielder nodded, blinking a few times. “Boy, you’re not kidding.” He cleared his throat and held the fragrant bloom to his nose once more, taking a more moderate whiff. The deep burgundy petals felt velvety soft on his skin. “Smells almost like candy.”
Hannah's smile widened. “These roses were a gift to me from Sister Edith before I came here.”
“Sister Edith,” Satoru mused in thought, rose still pressed to his nose. “You’ve mentioned that name before. Who was she again?”
“She was my Japanese instructor during my stay with the Sisters of St. Horatia. Every word I’m speaking to you is because of her.”
“Ah, now I remember. Sounds like she was quite the lady.”
“Of course. The best.”
“You must miss her.”
Hannah’s smile slipped a crack. “Very much so,” she spoke somberly, running her hands over the rose petals. “Edith was fluent in almost every language you could think of, from Greek to Juǀʼhoan. I’ll probably never see her again, circumstances being what they are.”
Satoru’s brows furrowed. “How come?”
Hannah snipped off another rose. “The Sisters of St. Horatia is a cloistered order. They’re not permitted to leave the convent.”
“Wait, for real? Like ever?”
She turned to nod solemnly. “Like ever.”
“That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”
“It’s the life they chose, Satoru.” Hannah rested the rose on her lap. “The Sisters of St. Horatia are unique in that they’re archivists. They specialize in preserving and interpreting ancient texts. Magical texts. It’s believed their library holds some of the West’s oldest sorcerery. Mother Superior oversees the operation.”
“Mother Superior?”
“The abbess,” Hannah said. “In convents, the head nun in charge is called ‘Mother Superior.’ I don’t know what her actual name is. She’s tied closely to the Association and was tasked with my upbringing as a child, including my education.”
Satoru’s face perked up. “Oh right, that's what I wanted to talk to you about.”
She stared blankly at him. “You want me to join a convent?”
“Wha — No.” He seemed partially offended. “Why would I want you to join a — ”
“Relax, silly. I’m teasing,” Hannah said, perhaps a little too happy he took the bait. “Married women aren’t allowed to join convents. As soon as they saw our marital records, I’d be shown the door.”
“Oh.” Her husband’s shoulders drooped. “Well, I wanted to get your thoughts on something. See if you might be interested.”
“Sure, but can you give me a moment to fiinish? I’m almost done.”
Satoru eyed the bouquet of roses she was assembling. “Anything I can do to help?”
Hannah stopped her pruning and thought for a moment. “Actually, now that you’ve mentioned it….” She leaned over and patted the large rose pot in front of her. “I’d like to move this one up to the house, but it’s too heavy. Think you could lend a girl a hand, Mr. Muscles?”
Satoru issued her a mock salut. “Ma’am, yes ma’am,” and rolled his shoulders, biceps and triceps rippling under his shirt. “Watch and be amazed, kiddos. Mr. Muscles is gonna show you how it’s done.”
Topped with heavy soil and plant, the large clay pot weighed well over a hundred pounds. It would’ve easily taken two average-sized people to lift, but Satoru managed the feat on his own no problem, a testament to how strong he physically was. Hannah had seen him bench press nearly twice his usual body weight with workout equipment. Yet she stayed close behind as he hobbled to the house, awkwardly carrying the pot, for fear he’d throw out his back. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until he stationed the container near the stairs leading up to the porch. Hannah nodded. This new spot would do nicely.
“Woo, that was good,” Satoru said, wiping the sweat off his brow and looked up to the sky. “Sun is brutal today.”
Hannah agreed. It had grown considerably hot since lunch. Deciding to take a break from the summer sun, the couple collected the clipped roses and walked back inside the house to the reception hall. There on the center table was a glass pitcher filled with ice water, two cups, two damp towels for each to cool off with, and a vase to put the roses in. Makoto sure was sneaky.
“So,” Hannah said, after finishing her first glass of ice water. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”
Satoru ran one of the cool towels over his neck and chin. “Tsumiki and Megumi’s school evaluations came in.”
Hannah poured herself another glass. “And the verdict?”
He put the towel down and smirked. “Take a look for yourself.” She observed him reach inside his back pocket and pull out two opened envelopes. Curious, Hannah walked over and took them from him, re-opening each and laying the contents on the table for a better look.
Japanese primary school evals (from first to sixth grade) were assessed by a three-tiered rank system (1,2,3), with 1 indicating the student “needs effort,” and 3 indicating the student’s grasp on the subject was “satisfactory” or higher. Hannah eyed the two report cards, noting how Tsumiki scored nothing below a 2 (“almost satisfactory”) with Music, Social Studies, and Japanese being her best subjects. Megumi also received high marks. The lowest he scored was a 2 in Music and English, with Mathematics, Science, Sports (and surprisingly enough, Art) all scoring a 3.
Below the subject lines were the behavior evaluations where teachers listed the students' cooperation in class, both towards staff and the other children. Hannah skimmed those parts, but caught the underlined text “gets into fights” on Megumi’s page. Perhaps she would ask about it later, though overall she was pleased by the outcome.4
“See, I told Megumi he had nothing to worry about,” she laughed. “He did well, and from the looks of it, so did Tsumiki.”
“Tsumiki’s scores are always good,” Satoru said. “But Megumi? His English scores? I’ve never seen them keep above a 1. It’s the only subject he struggles with on top of socializing. These are his marks now.” He then revealed to her two other evaluation cards, placing them next to the newer one on the table. “And these were his marks from December and March.”
Hannah examined the older evaluations. His grades looked relatively the same, except for English, which showed a glaring 1 printed in the center box on each. His new score was 2. Megumi had improved his grade by a full number in the course of a single semester.
“Any chance you had something to do with it?” Satoru added slyly.
Hannah shook her head. “I didn’t do much. He understood the basics. All he needed was someone to explain them better.”
Butterflies swarmed her stomach as she watched Satoru’s lips draw together, grinning so wide it was close to maniacal. “Excellent. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Hannah blinked at him confused for a moment as he explained his reasoning. “I had a meeting with the school board this morning at Jujutsu High.”
“Yes, I remember you telling me. How’d it go?”
He gave her a wink. “The wait is officially over. You, my dear Hannah, are looking at Jujutsu High’s brand new hire.”
Hannah’s eyes widened. “Really? They gave you the teaching job?” Satoru nodded and a beaming smile soon appeared on her face. “Oh Satoru, congratulations. That’s wonderful news. I’m happy for you.”
Her husband bashfully scratched his head. “Thanks. My first day won’t be till next year, so there’s still time, but that’s not all.” He lifted a finger, tapping her lightly on the nose. “The department will also be in search of a new English teacher soon.”
Her smile faltered. “An English teacher?”
“Yeah.” Satoru walked over and situated himself down on one of the cushions, leaning his elbow on the table. “Seems the current one is looking to throw in the towel. To be honest, I don’t know that much about him - cause yours truly tested out of English freshman year - but apparently he’s been teaching English since the late Cretaceous or whatever, and during the meeting he asked if we knew anybody interested in filling the role,” he pointed at her, “and I said you.”
“M-Me?” Hannah squeaked.
He nodded. “Yeah, you.”
A couple seconds ticked by, the news of this proposal slowly sinking in.
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not joking.”
“You think I could teach English at Jujutsu High?
“If you wanted to,” he caveated.
“And the school board wouldn’t mind? Spouses working alongside each other, I mean.”
“I don’t see the harm.” Satoru shrugged. “It’s not like English and Jujutsu orbit in the same circles.”
“Why would you mention my name, Satoru? I don’t have a uni degree or a teaching certificate.”
“Neither do I,” her husband quickly rebutted. “I never went to university. The only certification I have is a high school diploma.”
“But that’s still more than I have. And my Japanese citizenship hasn’t been finalized. Won’t that hinder things?”5
Satoru waved his hand. “Nah, we’ll find our way around that crap. We do it all the time.”
“Then what of the estate? If we’re both busy teaching, who’s going to run it? Makoto can’t juggle the work all by herself.”
“The estate is busy now because I’ve been putting off renovations for years. Once those are completed things’ll start to die down.”
“I have no credentials, Satoru,” Hannah pleaded, hammering the message home. “No references or formal education. I don’t even know the first thing about preparing lectures or grading papers, and this would be high school level English, not sixth grade. My public speaking skills are rubbish. I’ll make a complete fool of myself in front of everyone.”
“No, you won’t,” Satoru assured, taking her hands. “I’ll be here to help. Plus, you’ll have a year to prepare, and Jujutsu High’s enrollment has been on the decline for decades. The classes shouldn’t exceed more than a handful of students at most.”
“But what if someone else needs the job?” Hannah kept lamenting. “Someone with experience who’s better qualified. I’d be selfishly taking the opportunity away from them.”
“Then that’s their loss,” Satoru tisked, rolling his eyes. “Don't get me wrong, Princess, I admire your compassion - love it even - but we gotta strike while the iron is hot here. Nobody is gonna shame you for being ambitious every once in a while. The reason I’m asking is because I think you’d be right for the job. Give you something to do besides loafing around the house all day making flower arrangements,” he tucked a strand of loose auburn hair behind her ear, his new favorite habit, and tilted her chin up to look at him as his voice grew soft. “Can’t have those good brains go to waste now, hmm?”
Hannah looked away, a flush forming on her cheeks. “Flower arranging isn’t ‘loafing around,’” she pouted, crossing her arms. “I've been outside since dawn.”
She felt Satoru bridge the gap between them, wrapping her in his embrace.
“Look,” he sighed defeatistly in her hair. “Forget I said anything. It’s obvious you're not interested.”
Rather than push him away, Hannah leaned more into him, resting her head on his chest. She felt so safe there, entranced by the steady rhythm of his heart. “I never said I wasn’t interested,” she mumbled into his cotton tee. “I’m simply questioning how it would work.”
“Oh, it would work,” Satoru chuckled deeply, chest rumbling under her cheek. “I’d make it work.”
“You shouldn’t use your position to land me a job, Satoru. It’ll be seen as corrupt.”
“Hey, there’s gotta be some perks to being me,” he joked. “Not like I’d have to say much. You’re from England, the frickin’ motherland of English. What other credentials would they need?”
“A lot.”
He laughed and undid her braid, combing his fingers through her long shiny hair. She didn’t tell him no because it felt nice. “Just tell me you’ll think about it, okay?” he said. “Pretty please with a cherry on top?”
“But what about — “
“Nope, no more buts.”
“But I — “
“Access denied.”
“Satoru.”
“Satoru is unable to take your call at this time. Please leave a message and he will get back with you after this obnoxiously long beep. Beeeeeeeeeee…. ”
Hannah slumped and let out the smallest exhale, calling it quits. “Fine, I’ll think about it.”
He paused mid-beep.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Yay!” He hugged her closer, lifting her off the ground and swaying back and forth. “Knew you wouldn’t let me down, Princess. I knew it, knew it, knew it.”
Hannah couldn’t help but smile. Cheek smothered against him, he placed her back on the ground, allowing her to tilt her head up.
The Six Eyes were like twin spheres of blue abalone, glimmering down at her. She could see every shade and tint; turquoise, chalcedony, larimar, the sky and sea. They were none of this world. Fully drawn, she soon found herself standing on her tippy toes, lips soft and pliant. Words needn't be exchanged. Satoru got the message and lowered his hands to grip her hips. Gravity became weightless as he propelled her gently upwards, bringing their mouths together so her body could melt into his sweet kiss.
It was good they had these moments to fall back on because the next few days would not be as kind
Notes:
Hehe, shorter chapter this time.
1. All my facts about bees I have paraphrased from Susan Brackney’s Plan B: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About the Hardest-Working Creatures on the Planet, pp. 5-6, Kindle ed.
2. How to properly transplant a rose bush: video.
3. An article on how to prune/trim your roses.
4. There are normally three semesters to a Japanese school year. 1st Term (Apr-Aug) 2nd Term (Sept-Dec) 3rd Term (Jan-Mar) with a spring, winter, and summer break taken in between. If you’re curious about how a Japanese school report card is assessed, take a look at this study.
5. Hannah would have no problem finding employment thanks to her permanent residency visa status, but the process of Japanese naturalization can be very lengthy. Being married to a Japanese national, Hannah would first have to complete three years of marriage, including 1 year of residency, before being eligible to apply for Japanese naturalization. She would also have to revoke her English nationality, as dual citizenship is not allowed in Japan. You can learn more about how Japanese naturalization works here.Follow me on Tumblr.
NEXT CHAPTER: Hannah witnesses the jujutsu higher-ups’ cruelty first hand.
Chapter 23: Great Courage Is Righteous Anger
Summary:
小は血気の怒りなり、大勇は理儀の怒りな: Ko wa kekki no ikari nari, taiyū wa satoru tadashi no: “Small courage is hot-blooded anger; great courage is righteous anger.”
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you KyokoRenea for helping me write this chapter until MsButter gets back.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 23: Great Courage Is Righteous Anger
Morning had not yet broken when they descended the flight of stairs, headed underground to the basement of Jujutsu High. Electricity had not been installed in this part of the school. Paper lanterns flickering with candle flame were the only source of light. It smelled like mildew and old earth. The walls were all grey concrete and gypsum. And as Satoru led them down the stairs, Hannah couldn’t decide if the shapeless splotches on the walls were the beginnings of oncoming mold, or blood stains they hadn’t managed to wash off. When they reached the bottom, the basement was no more than a cave made of the same concrete borders and wooden flooring, bare of all furnishings except hoards of paper lanterns and a raised podium like a judge’s bench, teethed with five chairs.
Hannah made sure to look especially done up today. How she dressed would reflect on Satoru, not that he particularly cared what others thought of him. Arriving together, Hannah wanted to make a decent impression - a pale yellow iromuji with an apricot sash brocaded in shimmering peonies - though she was left feeling confused. Satoru hadn’t explained what business they had walled inside Jujutsu High’s basement at 6 AM, except that their presence was mandatory and backing out wasn’t an option. She rustled the silken sleeves of her kimono, growing a little hot under the fabric. No yukata this time.
There were a lot more people than she initially expected. Thirteen…Eighteen….Twenty-seven…. They kept filing in the dimly lit room. Satoru and her had the courtesy of sitting at the very front. Hannah noted how the women arriving with their husbands, fathers, even sons, kneeled at least one step behind, never beside, like they were household servants and not prominent ladies. It wasn’t how she and Satoru sat. Satoru had her sitting right next to him, their thighs practically touching.
Hannah’s kepting checking over her shoulder for any sign of a familiar face. Lady Tomoe entered the room with her husband. The Inumaki matriarch caught sight of her and the two women nodded amiably. However, Hannah thought the woman would rather be somewhere else. Absolutely no one looked delighted to be here.
Everything, including the candle flames, came to a standstill when a new group made their presence known. A austere looking man of middle age, dark hairline showing small signs of receding with a large round nose, came walking past. He was flanked by another, perhaps slightly younger man, and two impeccably dressed women, both of whom wore kimono like Hannah, but whose colors were equally serious as the man leading them inside. (Cheery colors were apparently verboten, as were prints.) Their footsteps were almost in perfect unison and the way the woman walked looked as though they were gliding across the wooden tile, making little to no sound. It was so effortless. So elegant. Hannah couldn’t help but watch in amazement.
They made their route up the aisles of people and stopped next to where Hannah and Satoru sat. They came on Hannah’s side. She saw the man leading the small brigade stop and give a curt bow of acknowledgement to Satoru, who made no effort to bow back, keeping his hands folded in the sleeves of his haori. The man kneeled down to sit. The other man then followed suit, as did the women, waiting until the men had fully seated themselves before doing so. Folding their legs underneath them, Hannah's eyes landed on the trifold holly tree leaves below their naps and shoulders, joined to look like the head of a three-leaf clover. It was the mon of the Kamo. These were members of the Kamo clan.
One of the women flitted her eyes to Hannah, artfully giving her a perfect profile. Her brown eyes were reminiscent of an adder, poised and calculating, with straight obsidian black hair fashioned in a smooth chignon. She was aged and no longer young, though still a beauty, with tiny crows-feet scratched at the corners of her lids. Hannah had seen this woman once, but at that moment could not recall when or where. They looked each other down for a moment or two, neither wanting to be the first to blink, until the Kamo woman glanced at Satoru, then back at her and how they were sitting. She pursed her lips and snorted a low “hmph,” before whipping out her fan and turning towards the front of the room. Hannah felt her face grow hot by the interaction. What exactly had she done wrong?
Whispers dispersed amongst the crowd, along with some stray coughing and the flap of paper fans to keep cool. She could hear what they were saying. She could feel their scorn on her cheeks and neck. The wait became too unsettling and the blood in Hannah’s legs were starting to lose circulation. She was about to lean over and ask Satoru for an explanation but was thwarted by a rowdy, slurred voice entering the fray.
“Oi, this joint gonna start, or what? I’ve got shit to do today.”
Everyone affixed their eyes towards a cantankerous older man stomping his way up the middle, clothed in hakama and haori like his other male compatriots. His slate colored hair was slicked back and the mustache on his upper lip pointing outwards in such a way it reminded Hannah of a shrimp. She couldn’t decide whether his age hovered around sixty or somewhere older. Like everyone else, he hadn’t arrived alone. At his six trailed a slim, lanky looking man wearing dark blue hakama and white kosode, a ribbon tying his black hair in a high ponytail. He had a long nose and a hardened, wrinkly face with eyes like shadows. Had he ever smiled a day in his life, Hannah wondered? A single katana was kept sheathed near his hip. She saw the mon on their sleeves and lower necks: a circle with three maruichi slashed horizontally across. The crest of the Zen’in clan.
As the Zen’in sat down, Satoru couldn’t help but get a word in edgewise.
“I see the fruit of your loins isn’t here, Naobito?” he taunted, flashing him a superior, beaming grin. “Failed you yet again, has he?”
The Zen’in head smirked. “Annoying brat.” He reached inside the sleeves of his haori for a small silver flask. He unpopped the lid and brought it to his lips, partaking in a long swig. “Mind your own fucking business.”
“Ooo, so defensive.” Satoru let out a low chuckle, not at all scared by the man’s threat. “Ya know, you should really lay off the booze, Naobito. I’m told alcohol makes you age faster,” he held his chin between his fingers, “But on second thought, maybe hitting an early grave would be a stroke of luck. Certainly would make life easier for me.”
“You son of a bitch,” the Zen’in head growled. “That mouth of yours never stops flabbin’, does it?”
At this, Satoru laughed, Six Eyes glittering behind the dark frames bridged along his nose.
“I say nothing that isn’t true, Naobito. You of all people should know that.”
The Zen’in leader snorted and swilled more of his flask. Hannah watched. Truth be told, she didn’t like this side of Satoru, even when the receiving end had it coming. She wasn’t given the opportunity to inquire him about it.
Five elders came through another set of doors from the front; four men, one woman. They stepped onto the judicial looking bench and took their seats. The lights grew dim, lantern light waning, save for the very front of the room where the elder’s sat.
“Let us begin,” one of them bellowed.
The doors opened. Hannah heard the rattling sound of chains. Something small and unassuming stepped forward into the light and Hannah’s heart went very still. It was but a young girl, five or six years old, though it was hard to tell when she was wrapped from the waist up in prisoner’s chains, rustling and clanging. Covered in spell-tags, they looked almost too heavy for her little body to bear.
“Satoru, what’s going on?” Hannah whispered. “Who is she?”
Satoru didn’t meet her eye, dark tinted shades obscuring those beautiful turquoise blues. She felt his hand reach over and grasp hers, running his thumb along her knuckles in a soothing gesture, saying nothing. His face was alarmingly stoic like a statue, holding none of the carefree, easygoing emotion she found comforting. It set a horrible, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Watanabe Keiko,” announced one of the higher-ups. “You have been brought before this Court so that you may be tried on accusations of trespassing, theft, and supposed murder. Should this hearing find you guilty of these crimes, corrective measures will be promptly taken without further delay, according to the special auspices granted by the Director of Jujutsu and the provisions constituted under Article V of the Memorandum on the Duty of Jujutsu Sorcerers, clause B, as in keeping with the law.” The higher-up licked his finger to turn the page, speaking in one full sentence as though breathing were optional. “The charges brought against you are as follows: That you did unlawfully, deliberately, trespass and disturb the final burial place of a feudal lord of which strong paranormal activity has been reported. That you did unlawfully, deliberately, steal a special-grade cursed artifact from said burial place, thus resulting in you becoming afflicted by a special-grade curse. And that you, through possession of this curse, took the lives of thirty-three people, including your mother, father, and young sister, before jujutsu sorcerers were able to arrive on the scene and subdue the danger. No survivors were found, nor has the curse, which remains within you, been exorcized as of yet.”
Hannah’s mouth fell slack. News of a horrible accident in Aomori leaving over three dozen people dead had been aired all over Japan. But to think this girl was the actual reason…
The higher-up speaking readjusted his thin readers and wove his fingers together ruminatively and eyed the girl in chains. “Tell me, child. Do you still live on,” he squinted back down at his paper, “2-2-53, Towada-shu, Aomori?”
Too afraid to say anything, Keiko swallowed the limp in her throat and nodded her head.
“And you are seven years old?”
The girl did not glance up from staring at the floor and again nodded. The higher-up continued.
“Can you recall where you were the night of July 11th, 11:31 PM standard time?”
The girl raised her head. “I don’t know. I…I can’t remember,” she said lamely.
The higher-up grunted and picked up a thin slate of tin on his podium; a red circle slashed diagonally in the center. He held it high for all to see.
“Do you know what this sign means?”
She took a tentative glance at the sign before quickly looking back down.
“It means ‘do not enter,’ sir.”
“Very good. We were told by police that several of these signs bordered the perimeter. Did you see any of them upon entering the burial place?”
“…I don’t know, sir. I don’t think so.”
“Really? Security footage showed you walking the grounds in the dead of night, unaccompanied by an adult. You passed several of these signs along the way. So then, why did a smart girl like yourself trespass the area despite the warnings?”
Keiko did not answer and kept her eyes trained to the floor. The higher-up moved on to a different question.
“Why did you steal the cursed artifact?”
Once more, she did not answer, scanning the many faces around the room with wide desolate eyes, terrified. Hannah wondered when the girl had last eaten or slept. Her eyes were veiny red, hair unbrushed. Her legs were wobbling from either freight or the heaviness of the chains or possibly both. She spoke in a soft, trembling voice.
“It told me to.”
“It?” the higher-up unattractively stitched his brows together. “What is it?”
“The monster,” the girl replied.
“You mean the curse?”
“Yes,” she whispered pathetically, drawing her shoulders further inwards as though to appear smaller. “The monster told me to.”
Hannah glanced behind. Some of the spectators around them were murmuring in each other’s ears; a few nodded, others frowned and shook their heads disparagingly. One of the attendees sitting two rows behind Satoru and Hannah began barking in howls of laughter, dry and coughing indicating he smoked too much tobacco, dismissing Keiko’s claim at face value.
“It talked to you? It talked to you?!! Why that’s the most outlandish thing I ever heard. Curses cannot talk to people. The words they espouse are nothing more than gibberish. You stupid girl.”
Some of the people began joining in the man’s jeers, while others commenced to more head shaking, not the least bit ashamed of the fact they were laughing at a helpless child’s expense.
“But it did!!” Keiko cried, lifting her head and raising her voice as though sensing how dire the situation was, frantically scanning their unsympathetic faces. The crowd only laughed more. “It did talk to me. It told me to — “
“Silence,” said the first higher-up to the girl. “Do not speak unless spoken to.”
Hannah turned towards Satoru for a reaction, his large callused hand enveloped over hers, thumb tracing her little pale knuckles. She noticed that his jaw was firmly locked in place, not smiling, not amused like he was with Naobito earlier. It had her concerned. Why was he being so quiet?
Then a elderly man with a long white beard, his many gold piercings jangling from his ears and nose, voiced his own question amongst the gathering. He reminded Hannah of an old rockstar that hadn’t lost his sense of self, but age had made him wise.
“Has it talked to you since?” he said, stroking his beard ponderously. He had not joined in on the others’ laughter. “Does it try to converse with you?”
With no greater argument to be had, the girl nodded, and bowed her head, face shadowed by her long unkempt hair. Hannah thought she saw tiny tears trickle to the floor. “I’m sorry,” the girl sobbed repeatedly. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, that settles it then,” said the first higher-up. He turned to his fellow elders, all of whom nodded their heads. With this gesture in mind, the entire Council rose from their positions to declare their verdict. “Based on the case presented here today,” the first higher-up started, “and the amount of irrefutable evidence, we the Council find the accused guilty of all charges, and sentence you, Watanbe Keiko, to death.
“What?!”
“Hannah,” Satoru warned.
Ignoring the sharp prickling in her legs, Hannah shot up from her seating position. She was a little lightheaded from the sudden movement and her heart was thumping widely beneath her ribcage, but her knees didn’t give out. It had taken her a few short seconds to realize she had been the one to shout the question and not someone else. Satoru refrained from letting go of her hand and was tugging, encouraging her to sit back down. He had withdrawn from looking at the trial and was now looking at her. They could hear the crowd whispering behind them; “Gojo better learn to control his wife...” “That’s not how a lady ought to behave...” “Of course it would come from a foreigner...” Hannah felt her cheeks grow warm and faced away, not giving them the satisfaction. Her only focus was on Satoru and little Keiko-chan.
“They can’t do this, Satoru,” she said.
“Hannah, there’s nothing we can — ”
“Who in their right mind executes a child?”
“I know, but…”
“Is your wife well, Gojo?” one of the elders said. “Does she need some air?”
This was unforeseen. In a fair trial there would be a defense attorney and a jury, but this trial held none of those. It was no different than a formality, a means of performance. Seven year old Keiko never stood a chance. She was practically dead on arrival. The decision had already been made long before those present took their seats.
“Perhaps I could help with that,” came a familiar voice from amidst the crowd, and then it spoke English with a distinct Irish accent. “Cailín, would you mind stepping outside with me for a walk? I would appreciate the company.”
“Father O’Malley,” Hannah said, recognizing the Capuchin friar’s brown eyes and woolen habit instantly. He had been there amongst the crowd the whole time, laying low. “But what about…”
The priest hastily beckoned her to him with a warm, pastoral smile. “Come, come. Let’s not borrow any more trouble.”
Hannah quickly turned herself around, attempting to evade eye contact with the many whispering strangers, avoiding them all in search of her husband. Her gaze froze on the Six Eyes, whose focus was aimed solely at her and no one else, asking for his blessing. The notion was granted with a jocular flick of his chin.
“Go.”
Hannah reached for his hand, clasping it dearly.
“I-It’ll be alright, won’t it, Satoru?” she stammered, wanting to convince herself. “Everything will be alright?”
There was a pained faltering to his expression she could not discern; a tightness, an unease. He was smiling, but not with any sense of promise or assurity, gently nudging her towards the Christian priest.
“Go,” he repeated.
Hannah shared with him a sad-ended look, turned to the friar who had his arm outstretched wide, and followed him out the doors, away from this hellish nightmare and its blind enablers.
…
Father O’Malley lead them outside to the gardens, past the crowds of buddha statues and red torii gates, one after the other after the other. They approached a bench underneath an old willow tree next to a pond garden. An impressive display of shakkei (burrowed scenery) was used from the mountain wildlife. There were stepping stones along the waterfront and miniature tiered pagodas. Gold and white koi shimmered in the early morning sun, opening their mouths, prowling for insects. Hannah watched an Asian house gecko scurry to a safer brush as they approached the bench and sat down.
Hannah looked up and could see the gibbous moon behind the willow branches and stratus clouds, barely visible in the middle of the day, but ever present, ever watching. You forget it’s there half the time.
“Is there anything we can do, Father?” she said. “Can’t the Church — ”
“No, my dear,” Fr. O’Malley blatantly interrupted. “The Church must avoid the temptation to step in. Getting involved would only exacerbate the problem.”
Hannah shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t understand it. How is this legal?”
The priest hummed and twiddled his thumbs, thinking of what to say next. These were delicate matters. “They said she was cursed, didn’t they?” Hannah nodded and the priest grumbled and shook his head. “Not good. I’m not sure anything could save the child now.”
“What do you mean? Curses can be broken, can’t they?”
“Most can, yes,” he said. “But when a curse latches itself onto a human soul, other than say a vessel, I’m afraid the damage cannot be so easily undone. Either the host is killed, thus eradicating the curse, or the curse continues feeding off the host’s life force like a blood-sucking leech until it dies. In both cases, early death is assured.”
Hannah felt her heart plummet even lower. “There isn’t a third option?”
“No, cailín,” the priest sighed. “There is not. It’s in God’s hands now.”
They sat in silence, observing the willow leaves land softly on the pond surface like little curled rafts. The wind blew peacefully. A Japanese nightingale warbled on a niwaki tree.
Hannah looked up to see Satoru strolling over to them.
“Has there been any change?” she said, rising from the bench. She was met with a frown.
“No,” he replied.
Hannah swallowed. “When will it happen?”
“She’s being led out now. They don’t see the use in waiting.”
“How will they dispose of the body?”
“She’ll be cremated,” he answered with little emotion. “The remains will be sent to her next of kin. I’ll be called back to excorcize the curse.”
Hannah nodded and bowed her head, auburn hair shrouding most of her face. Her lips trembled. Her shoulders started to shake. She had put up a good front, but could keep it in no longer. Satoru opened his arms and let her tears fall on his chest.
Watanabe Keiko was beheaded at 8:00 AM, on Tuesday, August 26, 2014.
…
Hannah had a light lunch and barely touched her dinner that evening. She trained with Satoru like normal; he had her learn a new kickboxing move, which she flailed at spectacularly. After a shower and dinner, she and Satoru played the English card game “Snap.” They each took turns picking a card from their decks and flipping it up, shouting “Snap!” if the flipped card paired with the card before it. Satoru had never heard of the game and yet won all five matches, insisting it was beginner’s luck and he hadn’t cheated. Hannah didn’t mind. He seemed to enjoy it.
Soon the big grandfather clock next to them struck ten and it was time for bed.
Satoru always made it so Hannah got the bathroom to herself first. She did her business. Brushed, rinsed, and flossed her teeth. Lathered her face with cleanser. Washed it off and patted her skin dry with a towel, then looped her hair in two long braids. She filled a glass with water, drinking two-thirds of it, leaving it on the sink to use later. She checked herself in the mirror, saw nothing odd, and walked back to her room. Bidding goodnight to Satoru, she slid the door closed behind her. She changed into some comfortable pajamas, and settled in her futon for the night.
She would try to sleep. Her mind kept flashing back to Watanabe Keiko chained from the waist up. Killed her family without knowing. No, the curse killed her family and then thirty-three others. It wasn’t her fault. She was innocent. Seven years old. Executed. Hannah felt numb and empty at the thought. The darkness of her room pressed all around her. She tossed and turned. Go away. She pretended she was in one of the convents in Germany near the coast where she could hear the channeling waves of the Baltic.
She tried thinking about the many times as a child she would sneak out in the early morning twilight, or late afternoon, and race to the beach without the nuns knowing. She walked a sandy path through brown grass to the lip of the shoreline. The feeling of soft, gritty sand between her toes, turning to mud as she approached the water, eddying around her bare feet. She tried picturing the curling waves, crashing onto the crenelated rock formations further up coast. The hissing sound of ocean spray mixed with the yelps of scavenging seagulls. The smell and taste of fish and salt hitting her tongue. Using her hands like a trowel, she’d already pilloried a fine treasure of bivalve and gastropod shells. Baltic tellins. Blunt gapers. Cockles and conches. Later she came across a pearl oyster, snapping open its slippery clasps to find it inlaid with enough golden pearls to string a necklace …and finally sleep came.
But she woke an hour later, breathing heavily and sweating. She saw their eyes shining in the dark background on the walls, their shadowed silhouettes. One was Keiko, her neck slashed from a sword, the other was Ami with half her head mawed off from the curse that killed her, and who knows how many others standing there. All of them stared at her. They were dead of course, but their dull, soulless eyes were wide open like birds, and so they stared, saying nothing. She could smell the slaughter. Blood seeping into the walls. Some part of her brain seemed to illicit a jolt and she jumped, sitting upright in her futon. The ghosts dispersed without a sound - another vision, a nightmare, whatever they were - it brought her no relief.
Hannah rose from the covers, legs shaking, and wobbled blindly to her closet in search of dry clothes; a plain tee shirt, underwear, and shorts. Nearly tripping, she quickly changed and glanced at her dresser for the digital clock. He probably wasn’t awake, but it was worth a shot. She was tired of these haunts.
Checking to see no dead children down the hallway, Hannah slid her bedroom door ajar and walked three small steps to Satoru’s bedroom door. His lights were out. She rapped her knuckles twice.
There was no reply at first. Then she heard the rustling of covers, the thud of footsteps, and his door slid open. It was dark, but his white hair stood out to her like blank paper against ink.
“What’s wrong?”
Hannah didn’t speak right away. Even to her the request sounded silly.
“Hannah, what’s wrong?” he asked again, a little worried by her muteness.
She swallowed. Her voice came out so tiny and small.
“Will…Will you stay with me?” Her eyes were glued to the floor. Her cheeks felt like they had blushed into flame. “I don’t want to be alone.”
She wasn’t met with a rebuttal, or a laugh. Or a wise-crack joke about being “a big girl.” Satoru took her by the hand and together they re-entered her room. He laid down on the floor and crawled into the futon, holding the cover open for her to join. It was plenty big enough for two. Hannah slipped in and snuggled up to him like it was routine. Their bare feet touched. He recoiled.
“Are you cold blooded, Princess? Your toes are freezing.”
She winced and gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” he chuckled. “I’ll warm ‘em up.”
He slipped an arm underneath her to help bring her more towards him, her ear pressed to his heart so she could hear it beating. Blood rhythmically pumping from one ventricle to the other. Strong. Alive. Her lids began to close. She felt her braids tug and unravel, large callused fingers roving gently through her hair. She breathed in vetiver and laundry detergent. No coffee since he had changed his shirt and hadn’t eaten breakfast, nor lit incense. She was enveloped in his safe warmth. Sleep came again, and this time when it did, it came easy.
As Satoru watched the woman he loved with all his being fall asleep in his arms, her soft little breaths puttering on his neck. He thought of the day’s earlier events. His hatred for those scumbags burned hotter.
He couldn’t save Keiko, but he vowed the next cursed child to stand trial would be spared. He swore it.
If not for their sakes, then for his wife’s.
Notes:
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These last few chapters have been fun, but it's time we return to the plot.
NEXT CHAPTER: Satoru and Hannah visit Kumari in her shop, and the hunt for the third Sukuna finger...begins.
Chapter 24: Kumari’s Appraisal & Armaments
Summary:
Kumari’s Appraisal & Armaments⚔️
3-14-1, Gaien-higashi, Minato-ku
Tokyo, Japan 001-666~For all your cursed tool needs and purposes~
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you KyokoRenea for helping me write this chapter until MsButter gets back.
Also, huge, HUGE shoutout to Miku001. You provided me with so much awesome research to work with.🙏🏻
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 24: Kumari’s Appraisal & Armaments
Kumari wiped the glass countertop with a dish towel, listening to the ticking of the clock. She wore an apron underneath her blouse and jeans, Rapunzel black hair rolled up in a braided bun. Business was slow for a Tuesday afternoon. Her husband was sent on another mission yesterday, and her 11 month old son, Kichiro, was upstairs in his crib taking a nap. Most of the morning had been spent rearranging the cast iron cauldrons, wands, and empty crystal balls, which were mostly kept for posterity (they did absolutely nothing). The swords, army knives, guns, and medieval crossbows, on the other hand, were the real deal. If there was one art form Kumari appreciated more than anything it was weaponry. Cursed weaponry, at that. There was no better dealer on this side of the South China Sea than her, and everybody in the jujutsu world knew it. That’s why the sorcerer families continued doing business with her, despite the fall out between her in-laws.
Being a cursed tool specialist wasn’t necessarily the easiest job, but Kumari knew she was top-tier. Just recently she had acquired a handsome yatağan, pommeled in bronze, dating back to the early Ottoman Empire. She had her eye on it for months. The seller didn’t bother recognizing the sword’s true value, or the high volumes of dormant cursed energy contained within its curved blade, talking to her. Probably belonged to a powerful warrior at one time. She got it for a steal. It looked nice mounted on the wall with the other swords next to the four-armed goddess Kali, destroyer of evil and consort to Shiva, enraged as she wore the slaughtered heads and arms of her enemies. Kumari grinned. She was rather fond of that imagery.
Samurai armor. French guillotines. A 1923 Tommy gun owned by Al Capone. Sometimes the tools she acquired couldn’t be sold, either because they were too dangerous for society, or had been stolen and needed to be returned to their rightful owners who were tucked somewhere, dead in their tombs. Like a jigsaw puzzle, it was Kumari’s job to gather the pieces and reassemble them.
Her favorite cases were always swords, be they katana, akrafena, rapiers, or her primary weapon of choice, the double-edged khanda. Ever since her parents signed her up for fencing lessons, Kumari knew she had found her vocation. And upon possessing a rare sealing technique used for cursed tools and artifacts, the choice had been made. Japan came calling, and when entering high school she said goodbye to her beloved New Delhi for a new beginning in Tokyo.
Jujutsu High was where she met her husband, freshman year. Their chemistry was instantaneous. All it took was one, quick glance and Ichiro was hers. They dated all throughout high school and university before tying the knot last year. She was pregnant four months later with their baby boy. With their growing family, the newest Chauhan clan moved to an accommodating townhouse in Minato City, where Kumari’s shop “KUMARI’S APPRAISAL & ARMAMENTS” dwelled on the very first floor. Due to the nature of her enterprise, she had special permission from the Japanese government to sell illegal weapons. Only registered jujutsu sorcerers were allowed access.
With her two bare hands, Kumari had carved a comfortable niche for herself, but living in Japan as a foreigner wasn’t always so simple. She still got stared at when walking down the street on her way to the market. Her mocha colored skin and long black hair were quite eye-catching. Ichiro thought she was beautiful of course. His family thought otherwise. Seemed neither money nor royal blood would do for the Kamo’s.
The Chauhan dynasty, Kumari’s ancestors, was believed to have ruled over the region of Sapadalaksha, located in present day Rajasthan where most of India’s kings reigned. They did so for 600 years before the turn of the 12th century and later British colonialism. As a little girl, Kumari could remember her grandfather bouncing her on one knee as he re-dramatized the war stories of Prithviraj Chauhan III laying siege to Muhammad Ghori’s forces at the Battle of Tarain. He would also recite to her the Bhagavad Gita; When Prince Arjuna threw down his bow, ready to forfeit the seemingly useless fight, till lord Krishna reminded him of his duty as a warrior. Her grandmother would be busy in the kitchen making dumplings (momos), singing traditional folk songs. The scent of curry leaves and chili would linger all throughout the house. She missed it sometimes.
The direct Chauhan line lost their royalty, but not their wealth. Kumari wore the ruby and pearl beaded necklace once belonging to Bhupinder Singh, the Maharaja of Patiala, on her wedding with a whole string of decadent jewels, and a lehenga designed and sewn by Sabyasachi Mukherjee. Although the Chauhan’s kept most of their wealth hidden and lived by more modest means; ie, not residing in palatial houses with servants and priceless treasures, staying out of the limelight as much as possible. Both of Kumari's parents worked in academia. Her mother obtained a doctorate in biophysics, while her father served as co-director for the Department of South Asian Studies at a prestigious university, focusing on past and modern Indo-Pakistani relations. Kumari followed in her parents’ academic footsteps, earning a bachelor’s in Military Science and a master’s in Weapon Appraisal after graduating from Jujutsu High, taking up sword smithing as a side hustle. Turns out she excelled in her craft, yet for all the expertise it wouldn’t be enough to curry favor with her in-laws.
She blamed Ichiro’s domineering aunt, Hatsumomo, the most. That witch. Kumari likened her to a Malabar viper, toxic to everyone she saw as indecent, which in her world meant anyone who lacked the right lineage. Jujustu society was very much a world of who’s in and who’s out, but in all the years she had confronted the Kamo woman, Kumari never let the old snake coil under her skin. She attributed the witch’s bitterness from being overlooked as clan leader many years back, despite being the eldest in the Kamo family. Now she wreaked her vengeance as the self-proclaimed “leading lady” of jujutsu society, delegating what was and was not permissible. However, Kumari wasn’t the groveling sort and refused to bend the knee. Her pride wouldn’t allow it. The satisfaction she felt for wearing a heavily embroidered sari in front of the appalled Kamo’s face still lived fresh in her memory (with a gold nath and chain). That was before her and Ichiro were married, the day he formally announced his separation from the Kamo clan, taking the Chauhan name instead. There was no turning back now, but as a wise man once said; when one door closes, another one…
The doorbell to her shop jingled, signaling the arrival of a customer.
Kumari’s head flew up from the countertop to spot the world’s strongest sorcerer entering her store. She smiled.
“Ah, Satoru. I was wondering when you’d show up. I expected your dandelion head in here hours ago.”
The Six Eyes wielder ruffled his snow-white hair. “Sorry. We walked past a new flower shop and Hannah couldn’t resist.”
The girl in question popped out from behind her husband, cheeks noticeably red.
“We weren’t in there very long,” she insisted. “Honest.”
“Oh, it’s fine. You didn’t make an appointment,” Kumari assured, beckoning them inside. “Come in, come in.” The couple walked towards her, allowing the Indian tradeswoman to better evaluate Satoru’s little bride. She already knew the girl was English, if the light dusting of freckles, pale skin, and auburn colored hair were any clues. Plus the accent, which was still distinct when speaking Japanese, thought she hid it well. She was at least five inches shorter.
Kumari noticed Hannah’s hazel eyes on the tiny dagger pierced through her right ear. Ichiro bought it for her as an anniversary present. Vastly intrigued, the Indian woman leaned closer.
“So you’re the illustrious Hannah everyone has been raving about.”
Hannah swallowed nervously. “R-Raving?”
Kumari dismissed the question and extended her hand. “The name is Chauhan Kumari. I specialize in cursed tools and weaponry. You could even say I’m the best arms dealer in the biz. Welcome to my shop.” Her eyes redirected towards Satoru who quickly hid his hand behind his back, having been caught meddling with some miniature voodoo dolls sitting on a revolving rack. She pointed a finger. “And I’ve known this loser since he was a senpai of mine back in Jujutsu High.”
“Your favorite senpai, might I add,” Satoru corrected cheekily, shooting her a wide, cheshire-cat grin before thinking over what she had said. “Hold on, since when am I a loser?”
Kumari rolled her dark green eyes at the jujutsu sorcerer, paying him no heed. Hannah seized the opportunity to reach out.
“It’s a pleasure,” she said, shaking the arm dealer’s outstretched hand.
“I concur,” Kumari replied with a smile.
Bummed that his former underclassman thought so lowly of him, Satoru spun around on his heels, doing a quick scan of the store. He seemed confused. “Oi, where’s that lovesick husband of yours, Kumari? I haven’t seen him since Gion.”
Kumari was back to furiously wiping the countertop with the dish towel, her smile morphing into a frown. “Ichiro is away on a mission.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“Yes,” Kumari huffed, less than happy with the outcome. She scrubbed harder. “Seriously.”
“But why? Wasn’t he assigned to Osaka just last week?”
“Yes, yes. Don’t remind me, Satoru,” the arms dealer fumed, raising her hand to silence him. “I’ve vented enough about it already.”
Satoru sulked. “Shit, and here I thought I was being overworked. The bastards.”
“He’s supposed to be home Thursday night, God willing.”
“What about the tiny squirt?” he asked. “How’s he doin’?”
“Oh, you know. Lively as any other toddler would be. Right now he’s upstairs, taking his afternoon nap.”
“I imagine he must keep you on your toes,” Hannah chimed, joining in the light banter.
“All the bloody time,” the Indian woman exclaimed. “Especially now that he can walk and talk, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. Motherhood has been kind to me.” She placed the dish towel on her shoulder. “Though I understand you’re not here for a life update. Fork it over, pretty boy. Show me what you did.”
Sheepishly, Satoru took out a small cloth bag from his back pocket. He loosed the strings, and flipping the bag upside down, shook out its contents. Several broken shards of Stinging Nettle, the green silked tantō he had gifted Hannah, fell atop the glass countertop like coins, as did the wooden hilt, cracked right in the center. It was his fault. After excorcizing the curse from the opera and teaching Hannah how to use it, the cursed tool self combusted. He had been too rough.
The arms dealer pursed her lips.
“Chutiya,” she cursed in Hindi. “This is the fifth cursed weapon from my shop you’ve broken this year. These daggers don’t grow on bloody trees, you know?”3
Satoru looked almost guilty. “Can it be fixed?”
“Of course it can be fixed!” Kumari shrilled, swatting him with her dish towel. “What kind of business do you think I’m running? A concession stand?” She whipped out a small microscope from her apron to inspect the fragmented surgical steel. “I’ll have to weld the pieces back together and recarve the hilt from scratch, then check its cursed energy output for holes. By my estimation, the repair should take no longer than three weeks.” She glowered at her former senpai suspiciously. “I expect to be well compensated for this, correct?”
Satoru nodded. “You name it, I’ll pay it.”
“Good. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yeah. How much you want for that mean looking guy over there?”
Kumari craned her neck. He was pointing towards a wide-edged combat knife mounted on the wall below the katana. She mentally processed everything she knew about the blade. DNA results showed the black fur on its guard was actually the hide of an eastern lowland gorilla, a critically endangered species forested in the Democratic Republic of Congo. The two holes, or rings, punched in the 12 inch steel were meant to help distribute its weight when held. The hilt was wrapped in wildebeest leather. While imbued with cursed energy, the fighting knife was safe for non-sorcerers. It must’ve been very old, which in her profession upped the retail price. Excellent.
An imp-like smirk graced her features as she swiveled back to face the Six Eyes wielder. “Not sure,” she challenged. “How much do you think it’s worth?”
The game was on.
“Two million,” Satoru said.
She taped her chin. “Mmm, more like five million.”
“What?! There’s no way it costs that much.” He tried throwing a different number. “Three and a half.”
“Four million.”
“Okay then, three eight-hundred.”
“Sorry, Gojo. Four million is my final asking price. Take it or leave it.”
“Dammit,” Satoru swore under his breath with a wry smile, already pulling out his checkbook. “Chauhan, some days I swear you’re out to bleed me dry. You bargain worse than Mei Mei.”
“Mei-san doesn’t have a child to raise,” Kumari reasoned, gladly swiping the signed check of ¥4,000,000 off his hands. She walked around the counter and grabbed the knife from the wall, procuring a case for it. “Thanks for supporting local. Your patronage is greatly appreciated.”
Satoru wallowed in his defeat and lifted his newly made purchase from its case, flipping it side to side. “What’s the knife’s name?”
Kumari placed the check in the register, closing the cash box. “Slaughter Demon.”
Meanwhile, Hannah had her eye locked on a lone wooden shelf situated in the corner, filled with books next to rows of paper scrolls and blank spell-tags. Satoru had been watching. She refused leaving his side and he felt he knew why. His hand landed on her head. Hazel met turquoise as she peered up at him.
“Hey, you don’t need my permission, alright?” he told her. “If you want to look at the books, have at it. You're safe here.”
“Thank you,” she said quickly and darted for the book shelf, wasting no time finding one that caught her attention. Satoru chuckled warmly, observing her flip a few pages, close the book, then return it on the shelf before selecting a new one, fingers running along the paper bindings. Now that she was out of earshot, he felt free to speak.
“Is it ready?”
Kumari’s face suddenly blanched like she was about to be ill. “Yes, wait here.” She disappeared through a curtain behind the counter, soon returning with a mysterious lacquered box. She placed it cautiously in front of him. “Don’t ask how it went. Had to perform the ritual in the basement. I won’t sugarcoat it, Satoru, this one was worse than the first.”
Unafraid, Satoru cracked open the lid. Kumari shivered.
Inside was the lone Sukuna finger obtained from the New National Theatre back in July. Satoru had given the finger to Kumari to re-seal with wax. It had taken close to two months, but the cursed relic was officially under wraps. He picked up the hooked finger that upon closer inspection seemed to be the pinkie belonging to Sukuna’s left hand. He scowled at it. Hundreds dead because of this damn thing. Wordlessly, he transferred the sealed finger from the box into his front pocket. He would return it to Jujutsu High where it would be kept under lock and key.
They heard a small sneeze reminiscent of a child’s. The two sorcerers look to see Hannah coughing and batting away heavy clouds of dust. Somehow, her petite stature managed to free a book on the top shelf yet to be cleaned. She appeared fine, but Kumari's mind wandered to a different matter.
“How is she sleeping?”
Satoru frowned. “To be honest, not that great.”
Hannah’s sleep schedule had gone from bad to shit. The Sight gave her no reprieve. The only good part was when they’d separate for bed, and Satoru would feel a tug on his arm; Hannah pulling him inside her room because she didn’t want to be alone. The grief following Keiko’s execution last week had not lost its grip. She needed him, and Satoru liked being needed. He liked planting secret kisses on her head and holding her close when the nightmares came. His own Sleeping Beauty in his arms. He liked it.
“Have you discussed her visions?” Kumari said.
“We’re starting to,” he sighed. “I keep asking whether she’s noticed anything weird, a clue that another Sukuna finger will pop up. So far, there’s been no patterns. At least, that’s what she’s told me.”
“So she would know for sure if a new finger was set to emerge?”
“Mmhm.”
Kumari leaned atop the glass counter again, staring down at the collection of knickknacks and magical trinkets, resting a palm on her cheek. “The Sight; a rare, involuntary foresight that is initiated by the amount of cursed energy existing in the environment during sleep. What a strange ability.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Satoru huffed.
“I wouldn’t want that power,” Kumari admitted. “Not for all the tea in China, though I do wonder. Are there other abilities associated with it? Telepathy? Mind reading? Hypnosis?”
The Six Eyes wielder shook his head. “None that I’m aware of.” Although, there was a slight hesitation in his voice. Kumari sensed he wasn’t telling the full truth, but wouldn’t prod him. Her thoughts went back to Hannah.
“I can tell she’s a sweet girl,” she sympathized. “Perhaps even a little too sweet.”
“She’s tougher than she looks.”
“You sound smitten.”
She had meant it as a joke, but Satoru wasn't taking the bait and held his silence. Her green eyes widened a fraction.
“Oh-ho, I stand corrected,” she quipped. “More than smitten. Well, I'm happy to hear it. About time you settled down with someone and made a decent life for yourself. Should I prepare to be an Auntie anytime soon?”
Satoru smirked. “I wouldn’t bet on it,” he chuckled dryly. Kumari patted him on the back.
“Aw, no worries, dandelion head. You’ll be changing diapers soon enough, just you wait. Then the real fun begins.”
Satoru’s eyes commenced to watching Hannah parse through the books. She had abandoned the dusty novel on a nearby table, too short to put it back, and was reading a different one. “No offense, Kumari, but that’s the last thing on my mind right now.”
Kumari gave a long sigh, twirling her hand in the air. “Fine, fine, you’re right. But there isn’t much to her, Satoru. A wind gust could probably come in and blow her away.”
Satoru snorted. “Has anyone ever told you not to judge a person by appearances? I said she’s tougher than she lets on.”
“Toughness doesn’t count much these days. Strength perhaps, but not necessarily toughness.”
“She is strong.”
“Says you.”
She heard him give a loud exhale through his nose, a sign he wasn’t going to continue arguing.
“She has me, Kumari.” Kumari turned to the world’s strongest sorcerer as he said it, his eyes trained on his wife turning another page. She saw the conviction cut through those striking blue irises. “I’m all the strength she needs.”
Kumari stared at her former senpai, doubting for a second he was really the same person who once saran-wrapped school staircases and unscrewed teacher’s chairs as pranks, spurting practical jokes on the fly like he intended to make it a career. This Satoru was new to her. Not since Geto’s fall from grace had she seen her friend act so serious.
Has one girl truly changed you that much? the tradeswoman thought.
They saw Hannah walking towards the sales wrap, book in hand.
“Find something interesting?” Satoru said.
“I did, actually,” she gushed, laying a blue covered book along the countertop. Madame Camille’s Simple Guide to Enchanted Textiles. Kumari nodded in approval. A fine choice, and so she took the book and rang it up for them on the register. Satoru handed her the total in change, and once the purchase was finalized, the two Gojo’s bid goodbye to their weapon-enthusiast friend and sauntered out of the shop. Kumari saw Satoru's large hand covet his wife’s smaller one just as the door closed behind them, the besotted gleam in his eye. It was the same twitterpated look Ichiro reserved only for her, the look of a man hopelessly in love. She heard Hannah giggle at something silly he said.
Kumari hummed.
Therein lied her answer.
Notes:
Again, thank you Miku001 for helping me write this chapter and all things India.1.) All of the information about the actual Chauhan dynasty, I gathered from this source.
2.) The Bhagavad Gita (“Song of the Lord”) is a very famous and influential Hindu epic. For added context, Amrutur Srinivasen writes:The Gita is, in some sense, a Hindu manual for a spiritual life. Its story occurs just before the great Mahabharata War is about to commence, when the hero Arjuna decides to quit the battlefield. He suddenly realizes that a battle that pits brothers against brothers, students against teachers, and the young against the old makes no sense. He throws down his powerful bow and becomes silent and dejected. In a timeless moment, the Lord teaches Arjuna the meaning of duty and charges him that he has no choice but to fulfill his duty as a warrior to restore dharma. Srinivasan, Amrutur V. Hinduism For Dummies (p. 50). Wiley. Kindle Edition.
3.) Chutiya: Hindi equivalent to “dumbfuck.” Also used in Punjabi and Telugu.
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ALSO, I want to reassure everyone that regardless of what happens in the manga, SATORU AND MEGUMI SURVIVE in this universe!!!! I've made up my mind and don't care what anyone says.
NEXT CHAPTER: Hannah knows the way to a quarter Dane’s heart.
Chapter 25: The Road To A Friend’s House Is Never Long
Summary:
The road to a friend's house is never long - Danish proverb
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter for helping me write this.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 25: The Road To A Friend’s House Is Never Long
The clock struck five in the morning. Contaminated test tubes and beakers were wet in the sink. A bright green bar nearing 65% completion was loading on a large computer screen surrounded by monitors. Shoko was busy in her lab, observing a single drop of blood, splotched between two thin slides under a beaming microscope. She hadn't left work since yesterday. You’d think after all these years hunkered down in the school’s basement like an obsessive recluse, she’d be used to the loneliness. She could already hear poor Ghost yowling for his breakfast, but there was no room for pause. The blood sample results from the New National Theater had finally come back, but Shoko was only interested in one.
The jujutsu doctor’s lips drew together in concentration, suspending the tail end of a depleted cigarette. Screw resolutions. This was far more important than her respiratory health. Her findings so far were not as she’d hoped. The red blood cell count was starkly lesser than last week. She reckoned about a third of them had vitiated in that timeframe, even with the aid of reverse curse technique, but how? How? The discovery troubled her. She would start from scratch again if need be. After all, there was still more testing to be done.
Exhausted, Shoko wiped the beads of sweat off her brow and smothered her depleted cigarette in the ashtray. The computer monitors showed the data bar closing in at 66%. Twenty minutes and they’d reveal an answer. With a tired breath, Shoko sipped her glass of warm sake, emptying the last of its contents, silently praying hematology was a sham and the results would come back negative.
…
Nanami Kento removed the strainer of brewed oolong leaves from the Royal Copenhagen he had sitting on a tray; a teapot and two cups with matching saucers, Blue Fluted Full Lace. They were heirlooms once owned by his late great uncle, who subsequently died of a stroke three years ago; another Henriksen lost. He had no wife or children and his mother didn’t want them, despite their value, so she bequeathed the china over to him. Not that he ever had a reason to use it. The full set of plates and fine tableware cost more than his apartment lease. He mostly kept the novelties for decoration. And perhaps nostalgia.
But not today.
Today he had a guest.
Nanami closed the lid on his uncle’s Copenhagen teapot and lifted the tray to walk back inside the living room of his small, one-bedroom sized apartment. It wasn’t the grandest place in the world, nor the cheapest. He could afford a much bigger unit if he wished, yet the space was well accommodated. It was furnished with all the essentials befitting of a bachelor; functional kitchen appliances, a washing machine and dryer, a brand new air conditioning system, and modern furniture. He had picked the farthest unit down the hall, so he wouldn’t be subjected to the loud elevator cranking up and down the many floors. It allowed him some peace and quiet in this bustling, wayward city known as Tokyo, granted, if you ignored the endless stream of ambulance sirens, blaring jumbotrons, and cries for help.
The part-time Jujutsu sorcerer entered his living room and acknowledged his guest sitting on the sofa.
“I apologize for bringing you out here like I did. I’m usually not this spontaneous.”
Nanami set the tray down along the coffee table and handed his guest a teacup. Hannah smiled at her host warmly and took the blue and white china from his hand. The porcelain clashed with the pink roses on her dress.
“Not at all, it’s perfectly alright,” she assured him. “I hear you’ve been busy with work, so this is me intruding on your time.” She looked down at the coffee table. “Anyway, I hope you like the rødgrød. Satoru mentioned you were Danish, so...”
Nanami sat down on the leather armchair, opposite her, and glanced at the small portable crockpot she had brought atop the table. Rødgrød med fløde was as much part of the Danish diet as cheeseburgers and fries were to the American. People preferred eating the berry porridge with custard or poured over freshly baked bread. Everyone loved it. Nanami hadn’t tasted the dessert since he was a young boy visiting his grandparents on holiday. Hannah had used raspberries and cherries for hers; exactly how his mormor used to make it. The tarter, the better.
Well, there were those waves of nostalgia hitting him again. He’d sample a bite later.
Satoru had dropped his wife off at his place that afternoon and hurried to go “run some errands.” Whatever that meant. Nanami had no choice but to leave the office. As ever, the Six Eyed moron liked to make things difficult and keep his whereabouts elusive, in addition to getting his lineage wrong.
“A quarter Danish,” Nanami clarified, loosening the lavender silk tie around his neck. He hadn’t been allotted time to change out of his business attire. “My grandfather was born and raised in Denmark, however my grandmother is Swedish.”
Hannah looked positively delighted.
“Ah, a Swede and a Dane,” she exclaimed. It would explain his blond hair. “That’s quite a match. The closest I got to living in Denmark was Germany. Did your grandparents ever alternate between countries?”
“For a time,” the quarter Dane replied. “But my grandmother has lived alone in Aarhus since my grandfather’s passing. I still get Christmas cards from her every year. She’ll be ninety-one this October.”
Unable to stop herself, Hannah heard the word “Christmas” and blurted the next question out loud without thinking.
“Oh. So you’re Christian?”
She could see the tug pull on the corner of his lips, barely noticeable to the untrained eye, and instantly regretted it. He was so cool, you’d think he hadn’t reacted at all. The quarter Dane shook his head. “Mom had me baptized in the Lutheran church as a baby to appease my grandfather, but the buck stopped there. She wasn’t very religious and I myself hold no beliefs.”
Hannah felt her cheeks burn hotter than the tea she was sipping, flushed with embarrassment. Her shoulders sagged. Of course he wasn’t Christian. What a foolish thing to expect? She felt awkward.
“I see,” she said rather sheepishly. “Please, forgive me. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
Nanami nodded understandingly. He thought it wasn’t dumb of her to ask, but with introductions out of the way, they had official matters to attend to.
“Satoru said you had some information about a possible Sukuna finger.”
Hannah nervously tucked a strand of long auburn hair behind her ear, lowering the expensive Copenhagen in her lap.
“Yes,” she said, swallowing her tea and straightening her bad posture. “I think I know where one is.”
Nanami leaned back against the armchair and crossed his legs, hands folded patiently in his lap. His eyes never wavered.
“I’m listening.”
Hannah coughed. “Well, you see,” she began, trying to decide where to start. “I think nothing of them at first. My dreams - er visions - are often quite,” she searched for the adjective, “sporadic, if you know what I mean. But lately I’ve been having a recurring dream.”
“A recurring dream.” Nanami quirked a pencil thin, blond eyebrow. “I’m guessing that’s a dead giveaway?”
Hannah let slip a dry laugh. “You’d be correct. In my experience, whenever a dream is recurring, it’s usually indicative of a vision.”
“What has the vision shown you?”
“It’s hard to describe,” she continued, squinting her eyes as though aiming for a moving target that refused to stay still. “I don’t know why, but it always begins with me…drowning. I’m ever so slowly sinking towards the bottom.” She closed her eyes for a second, trying to imagine the nightmare in her mind. “It’s very dark and murky, so I can’t see anything. I’m terrified out of my wits. I try to kick and swim my way back up to the surface, except someone, or rather something, has me by the ankles and won’t let go. I fight and struggle to free myself, but I can’t. It isn’t until my lungs give out that I finally look down and…” she stopped for a second.
“Go on,” Nanami coaxed gently, waiting in silence. He wasn’t going to force her to talk, if she didn’t want to.
“Eyes,” the seer said, own eyes flitting open. She took a much needed breath from the horrid memory. “Four glowing, scarlet eyes staring at me from the black. That’s it. That’s all I see. Then the vision pivots.”
“Pivots?”
Hannah took a sip of oolong before humming in agreement. “I’m shown a film reel of things. Places, I think. I can’t remember what they are, but there is one feature that stands out from all the rest.”
Nanami also took a sip of tea. “Like what?”
Hannah placed her teacup on the coffee table and used her fingers to “draw” an invisible picture for him. “A massive red o-torii, floating above a large body of water.”
The quarter Dane’s brow narrowed ever so slightly. He knew what place she was referring to.
“Itsukushima Shrine,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” Hannah sighed. “Satoru showed me a picture of it when I told him. It’s the exact same gate. He then mentioned you were working on a secret case and that I should speak to you immediately.”
Well, it’s not so secret anymore, Nanami thought, holding his tongue. Now he understood why Satoru had been so adamant the two of them talk, but hell, what a pain in the ass. The white haired dolt could’ve explained all this on the phone, or typed a quick text, instead of wasting he and his wife’s time. Even though she was a lovely person, both inside and out. Reminded him a bit like Haibara; her kindness and selflessness towards others.
But a tad miffed by this new flux of information, Nanami rose from his leather chair, teacup in hand, and walked over to the large window overlooking Shibuya Crossing, the thousands of city nerdowells commuting below, crammed like sardines.
“In the last four weeks, a total of eighteen people have been reported missing from the shrine,” he said, staring monotonously out the apartment window. “Evidence suggests it’s curse related. I and a few other sorcerers have been called in to investigate the disturbance.”
“Then perhaps this is your lucky break,” Hannah added, hoping to shed some light on the subject.
The quasi-business man continued looking out the apartment, almost like he wasn’t listening (but of course he was). “Itsukushima Shrine is a popular tourist destination in Miyajima. We’ll be fighting heavy crowds if we search during the day. Curse activity tends to worsen at night, but then there’s high and low tide to contest with. Your presence might also be needed. Could get dangerous.” He was listing all the potential roadblocks ahead.
“Can’t we disperse the crowds at least?” was Hannah’s suggestion. “Close the shrine off to tourists?”
Nanami hummed deeply in thought. Things were never that simple. He at last turned away from the window. “You’re sure this is a vision?”
Hannah shrugged. “More sure than not.”
“And you think a Sukuna finger is hiding somewhere at the bottom of Hiroshima Bay?”
The seer frowned. She felt her confidence wane at his scrutiny. “It’s the only lead I have.”
Confined to his thoughts, Nanami walked back towards the coffee table, relinquishing his empty teacup and saucer, and plopped back down in the leather chair, hand in his chin. A disconcerted expression became him, though his eyes were fixed on the Royal Copenhagen. Hannah thought he looked far older than his real age said on paper. He was handsome, she decided, with golden blonde hair and mixed Scandinavian features, but in a battle-hardened, wise kind of way. Forever pensive and stoic, like he had crossed the river Styx and managed to survive the harrowing ordeal, but only just so. Even without the bloody cleaver knife in his hand from that night at the opera, she could tell he wasn’t much for taking days and nights off. Kento Nanami was certainly a man operating under a lot of stress.
“I can’t name anyone on the top of my head with a water curse technique,” he vexed tiredly, observing the porcelain tea set. “A diving team will have to be dispatched. Damn. It’s always a risk when we get non-sorcerers involved.”
“But maybe we won’t have to,” Hannah said, complexion brightening. “Because as it were, I know someone who might be able to help us. That is, if we can persuade her.”
Nanami’s hand fell to his lap, eyes raised. “Her?”
Hannah rested her teacup on the coffee table and hurriedly rummaged through her dress pocket for a folded piece of paper. She offered it to him.
“Her.”
Feeling pessimistic, Nanami took the paper and slowly opened it. His eyes landed on the contact’s name above, and thus the part-time jujutsu sorcerer’s face tensed into a shrewd scowl. He exhaled loudly through his nose.
A bowl of that rødgrød didn’t seem like such a bad fix all of a sudden.
Neither did some brandy.
Notes:
Please do not lose heart in light of Ch. 236. Satoru survives the Culling Game Arc and will have a happy ending in the GTAW universe.❤️
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Chapter 26: The Harp
Summary:
He made a harp of her breastbone whose sound would melt a heart of stone. Took the strands of her bright hair and with them strung his harp so rare — Méav Ní Mhaolchatha, The Wicked Sister
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you LarkspurDreamer for helping me write this.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 26: The Harp
Cressida Thames sat with her legs crossed in the velvet chair, dressed down in beige-colored chinos and a white blouse, several gold chain bracelets tumbling on her wrists.
“So, what should we call each other?” she tested, eying her host. “Cousins, I suppose.”
“We don’t have to call each other anything.”
The Thames heiress sensed her error and tried a different tactic. “Alright then, what about married life? How have you been treating our dear Hannah these last few months?”
“A hell of a lot better than your family ever did. Thanks for asking.”
The acidic bite in Satoru’s tone made it evident he wanted no part of Cressida’s company, despite inviting her into his home.
“Splendid. I’m so glad to hear it,” Cressida strained through gritted teeth. The heiress was not used to being un-welcomed by strangers. By now, she’d usually have them gobbling out of her well-manicured hands, but knowing she was treading on very thin ice, Cressida averted her focus away from the Six Eyes wielder and back to Nanami and Hannah, who were sitting side by side on the opposite couch. “Sorry, why have I been summoned here again?”
Nanami's patience was rapidly depleting. He wasn’t fluent in English like Satoru and Hannah, but even he knew when someone wasn’t getting the memo. The three of them - mostly Hannah - had spent the last hour and a half informing the Western sorceress of the Sukuna finger in the Gojo’s living room, or at least, they tried to. The proceedings had been less than stellar.
“And you want me to help?” Cressida asked after Hannah repeated their predicament for the millionth time.
“Will you?” she piped squeakily.
Cressida glanced at Nanami and then Satoru over by the door. “I don’t know, Duch,” she lamented with a sigh. “This seems like a tall order. Even for me.”
Hannah frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Yes, what do you mean?” Satoru rudely butted in. “Enlighten us.”
Cressida rolled her ocean blue eyes. “Do you really expect me to sit here and pretend jujutsu and Western sorcerers have always gotten along?”
“But surely that’s changed.” Hannah insisted. “The Association and the jujutsu higher-ups are cooperating with each other now. It’s a new age.”
Cressida shook her head. “That may be so, but I’m not part of the Association. Despite what people say, diplomats and aristocrats don’t mix, Duch. If word got around that I was helping and abating ‘jujutsu scum,’ I’d be the talk of the county. My image would be tarnished.”
Satoru shrugged. “Not that we’d care.”
“Satoru, please.” Hannah issued her husband a begging look. He was making things difficult.
“No, this is bullshit.” Still leaning on the doorframe, Satoru crossed his arms and eyed the Thames heiress shrewdly. “There’s a Sukuna finger hiding somewhere in the trenches of Itsukushima Shrine. Hannah says you have a curse technique able to fish it out.”
Cressida acted as though she hadn’t heard him and flopped her black and gold Chanel bag onto her lap. She opened the lambskin flap and pulled out a silver cigarette case and lighter.
“So what if I do?” she stipulated, slotting a clove cigarette between her teeth. She flicked the lighter.
“Then you’ll go fishing.”
She lit the end, pressed her lips to inhale, and blew out the first tobacco puff. “And if I refuse?”
“You won’t,” Satoru snorted. “A lot of people are gonna die if this thing isn’t apprehended in time and someone will have to take the blame. I don’t know about you, but being the ‘talk of the county’ for helping and abating ‘jujutsu scum’ sounds a lot better than being the ‘rich, whiny twat’ who couldn’t do the right thing if her life depended on it,” he shrugged, “but that’s just my opinion. I’ll let you make the call.”
He watched the Thames heiress curl her upper lip. “My, such a compelling argument,” she groused, exhaling another breath of smoke. “Tell me, are all you jujutsu sorcerers this irritating, or is it just you?”
Satoru’s mouth arched into a smirk, hands stuffed in his pockets. He said nothing.
The burning white hatred on Cressida’s face could’ve melted diamonds. She eased herself back into the velvet armchair, crossing her legs, cigarette in hand, and stared challengingly at the Six Eyes wielder, looking more like her father than she’d dare admit. “You know, if it wasn’t for that Infinity of yours, I’d have you kneeling at my feet.”
Satoru barked out a laugh. “Is that a proposition? Cause I’ll have you know I’m happily married.”
“Are you? Thank heavens. I was beginning to wonder.” The heiress took a long drag, and uncrossed her legs, slinking from her chair to coily saunter up to the Six Eyes wielder like an alley cat. Fearing a fight, Hannah made to get between them, but Satoru silently waved her off - it’s okay - and so she remained seated where she was on the couch. The two sorcerers, West and East, now stood nose to nose, Cressida’s height shorter than Satoru’s by no more than an inch thanks to her high stilettos (which she still hadn’t taken off). The heiress blew a puff of tobacco right in his face, voice dropping to a low whisper.
“I have it you like to get around, Mr. Gojo. Can’t say I’m surprised. After all, plucking the blooms off the rose tends to be your demographic’s idée fixe.”
Satoru’s eyes narrowed. “Watch it,” he warned.
Cressida didn’t hide the immense satisfaction from smiling up her lips. “But don’t be too discouraged, love,” she quipped. “I’d never betray Hannah like that and fortunately for us both,” she gave him a once over, “you're not exactly my type.”
The two sorcerers kept eyeing each other down like MMA fighters at a press conference, while Hannah and Nanami observed on the couch. Neither were able to catch what the other had said, only that it wasn’t friendly or polite. Hannah felt the knife in her heart twist. She was hoping the two of them would get along and might’ve voiced this wish had Nanami’s impatient Japanese not broken through the silence first.
“So is she helping us or not?”
The island of Itsukushima, or simply “Miyajima” (Shrine Island), was about an eleven hour drive from Tokyo, rooted in the prefecture of Hiroshima. Only accessible by ferry, visitors would depart from the Hatsukaichi harbor and arrive at the island where the famous 12th century shrine resided within an inlet. The sacred buildings encompassing the shrine were connected through a series of boardwalks, granting people safe passage without them needing to take a dip in the Seto Inland Sea. The shrine’s main attraction of course was the red “floating gate” facing the ocean. Visitors could walk up to the grand o-torii at low tide when the water drained out of the bay, which fluctuated day to day.
It smelled strongly of fresh fish, ocean, and salt. A colony of wailing seagulls ringed the cloudless blue sky. Fishing boats put-puttered down the island coastline and nosed their way into shipless wharfs, men yelling at each other to grab the nets under the eternal surveillance of Mt. Misen. Hannah, Cressida, and Nanami had departed Tokyo by plane and arrived in Hatsukaichi two hours later, 12:05PM on the dot. They took a taxi to board the quickest ferry, which then sailed them safely across to Mijajima, exactly as planned. There was just one problem, and Nanami wasn’t happy about it.
“I should’ve expected as much,” he lamented, glowering at all the people. “They were supposed to clear this place an hour ago.”
Hannah checked the time on her phone. “We are a tad early,” she pointed out and began searching for a familiar head of white hair and a moxie Indian woman. “Satoru and Kumari said to meet us at the entrance.”
The two sorcerers in question had already left for Miyajima before sunrise to secure the area, but there were surprisingly more tourists than anticipated; old ladies holding their umbrellas to shield from the sun; gobs of cheesy couples snapping selfies; a child throwing a major temper tantrum over his toppled ice-cream cone, now a melted chocolate puddle on the stoney hot ground. Tour guides hooked to microphones lead processions of people up and down the stone-blocked path bordering the sea, next to streets of gift shops, townhouses, and traditional ryokan where visitors could rest their heads for the night, as families of sika deer dozed peacefully under the pine trees, unperturbed by the throngs of camera-wielding humans passing them by. A small number of Fly Heads were buzzing around the vicinity, but all in all, the atmosphere was calm.
Nanami and Hannah kept a slower pace behind Cressida who was already four leagues ahead. It wasn’t lost on them how seemingly every grown male’s concentration would pivot away from their nagging wives and high-maintenance girlfriends towards the sensual foreign woman strutting up the boardwalk in a bright red sundress and floppy hat. Wearing impractical sandal-wedges and big rimmed Prada glasses, Cressida oozed sex appeal wherever she went. Anyone would’ve mistaken her for a supermodel. Except Nanami. His agitation was thick enough to spread on toast.
“She’s doing this on purpose,” he grumbled to Hannah under his breath. “We’re supposed to be blending in.”
Hannah looked over her shoulder at all the star-struck (male) tourists fawning behind them. She was also wearing a sun hat and shades, but sported a more mauve colored dress instead with white trainers.
“Actually, I don’t think she means to,” she said in her cousin’s defense. “It sorta just happens.”
Nanami huffed, rolling his eyes. “Of course.”
Hannah smiled at the quasi-businessman, himself donning a well-tailored grey suit, which wasn’t too eye-catching as many other men were wearing similar suits, though surely the sun and humidity made it uncomfortable. “You’re not much for excitement, are you Nanami-san?” she chimed.
The quarter Dane released a vexed sigh, dabbing his neck with a handkerchief and balancing the unique sunglasses on his nose, cleaver knife concealed in its holster. “I’m not much for spectacles, I’ll give you that.”
“Are you sure you need me here?” Hannah added. “I don’t want to get in the way.”
“Any clues to the finger’s whereabouts would be appreciated,” Nanami answered, coiffing back his wheat-blonde hair. His cleaver knife was in its sheath. “Being present might spruce up your memory, and as long as Satoru’s around you should be fine.” He spoke under his breath. “Might even keep that overpowered nitwit from doing something abnormally stupid.”
Cressida ushered them to get a move on. “Come along, you two. We’re almost there.”
They soon spotted Satoru and Kumari waiting for them at the entrance in front of the floating red gate. Sunglasses over his eyes, Satoru waved them over, and without thinking, Hannah raced for her husband’s open arms as fast as her legs could run like nothing else mattered. She could hear him chuckling the closer she got. For Satoru, there was no greater feeling in the world than her running to him.
“What’s cookin, good lookin’?” he teased cheesily in English, stretching his arms real wide. His little wife barreled right into him and he responded by lifting her up off the ground and swaying her side to side, legs swinging, prompting Hannah to laugh. Satoru grinned like a total sap, but soon frowned upon realizing the dress she had on. “Where’s the flowery one?”
Hannah peered up, face apologetic. In want of some late night entertainment, Satoru indulged himself yesterday evening by selecting her outfit, though apparently the plain mauve substitute wasn’t cutting it. Hannah tried reassuring him. “The flowery one was too bright and Nanami said we needed to blend in.”
Her husband couldn’t omit the whine from his voice. “No fair, I liked the flowery one.” He propped his chin on her soft auburn crown to hide his disappointment. “It was cute.” His turquoise blue eyes flicked over to Nanami fiddling with his phone while Cressida picked the dirt off her fingernails, both ignoring the other. He sighed. “So how was it flying with Miss Sassafras and the Danish curmudgeon?”
“Good,” Hannah replied, nuzzling into his navy colored shirt, glad to be reunited. She loved the smell of his morning coffee and his comforting solidness. “But I missed you.”
But I missed you.
Satoru felt his heart and soul quadruple in size. Could she repeat that? Someone actually missed him? The flowery dress forgotten, he squeezed her tighter. “Aw, I missed you too, Prin — ”
Kumari barged in. “Yes, yes, we all bloody missed each other - hugs and kisses - now can we please get this over with? I have a sick toddler who needs me.”
Quite so. Out of the five of them, Kumari’s reasoning to leave was the most justified. Abandoning her apron, the native Delhite opted for breathable palazzo’s and a peasant blouse, rapunzel raven hair braided down her back, but the makeup and glasses hid her exhaustion. Suffice it to say, the young mother was not happy to be woken in the middle of the night by her toddler son burning a 39°C fever and a cough. Ichiro kept sending her texts throughout the morning, sharing status updates, but little Kichiro’s condition showed no signs of worsening or improving. Her separation anxiety was through the roof. Kumari simply wanted to find this accursed finger, box it up, and take the quickest flight straight home to her baby. She didn’t care for much else, especially the English airhead standing beside them dressed in an offensive red frock that was reminiscent of a wannabe Flamenco dancer. (It was worth mentioning that the Indian arms-dealer also had a 98 cm, double-edged khanda strapped to her back, and was not afraid to use it if provoked).
Nanami exhaled tiredly through his nose and placed his phone in his pocket. “Satoru, what was the hold up? I thought you’d have this place cleared by the time we arrived.”
“Oi, don’t look at me,” Satoru moped, holding his wife. “It's not my fault the police are slow. We notified them two hours ago.” He buried his nose in Hannah’s hair, muttering to himself, “and I better be reimbursed for those plane tickets.” He heard his wife giggle, her small, dainty fingers massaging the taut muscles on his back. He felt sleepy all of a sudden.
“It was your idea we should fly,” she soothed.
“Yeah, I know,” he yawned, closing his eyes and relaxing to her touch. “My own damn fault.”
They didn’t wait too long for the police to arrive. The alibi was that the shrine was closing for religious purposes; a special ritual was to be performed and no tourists could be present. Within twenty minutes they had the area cleared of civilians. Satoru made a quick scan with his Six Eyes to check the place was deserted (police included). He gave a nod to Kumari and the arms dealer rolled up her sleeves and in a quick chant activated a curtain over the entire shrine and beach so the townspeople couldn’t see. The sorcerers were obstructed from view. Cressida stepped up to the plate.
“Right then,” she said, seeing no reason for delay, Latin flowing off her tongue like a river. “Mare benedicta, da mihi instrumentum tuum…”
In a twirl of magic, a bronzed lyre materialized in her hand, though it bore closer semblance to a miniature harp. The memory came quickly to Satoru like a light switch; him sitting in Wasserton House, waiting for Lord Thames and the elders to strike up a deal, surrounded by glittering jewels and hoarded treasures. One of which was a lyre mounted on a wall next to an old grandfather clock. Shiny black strings, too thin in diameter to be copper wires or horsehair. So his hunch had been correct. That lyre or harp, or whatever it was called, was no decorative instrument, but a cursed tool. A cursed tool with Cressida’s matching black hair tithed as strings.
Satoru was holding onto Hannah’s hand. She felt his arm tense and looked up, moss-brown eyes filled with concern. “Are you alright?”
Satoru assuaged her with a quick smile. “I’m fine.”
The four of them watched Cressida strum the first glissando, all twenty twined threads of ebony black provoked by their mistress, switching her thumb and forefinger in circles to create a continuous scale up and down the harp. Up and down. Back and forth. Give and take. Twenty. Forty. Sixty strings it sounded like, their musical notes steadily layering on top of each other, ringing all at once.
The waves along the dock seemed to sway around them, rising to ten-feet swells and then falling, responding to the harp’s melodic enchantment. When Cressida’s hand strummed back, the waves went back. When she strummed forwards, they beckoned closer, edging the shore, amassing to great height with each finished glissando. Cressida thus removed her fingers and soon the harp began playing alone. She soon broke into song, not with words, but with the musicianless harp, her aria accompanying the dancing sea like she were a snake charmer, a moon goddess controlling the tide. And it was something; Perhaps one of the most ethereal sounds they had ever heard, if “sound” was the definition for such a thing.
Satoru and the others watched the sloping waves, climbing higher and higher, though they did not crash into the shore like expected, but rather gently ebbed. Like the water had a mind of its own, choosing to forgo the laws of physics, building without spilling over. Waves only got that big when sailing miles out at sea amidst a powerful storm with no land to stop them from growing bigger. Satoru hadn’t witnessed a curse technique quite like this, or perhaps he had? Music was not new to jujutsu - Utahime and Gramps were proof of that - and yet despite its alieness, something about the sound was familiar. He could hardly feel his own two feet on the ground, song traversing through his ears and into his bones. His brain felt numb to the harp’s playing and Cressida’s hypnosis, drowning out his other senses. Strange. He only ever felt this way when Hannah —
Cressida stopped singing. Everything became calm. She splayed out her hand towards the sea. Water, music, humans, frozen in time.
“Recedo,” she commanded in a voice not solely hers.
Pleased by her song, the water showed its obeisance and began rolling back the direction it had come, back, back, back to the sea, more so than it did at low tide. Given how far the water receded, Satoru feared the locals would think a tsunami was underfoot, but the water only drained from a specific area in the bay, not the entire Miyajima coast, and there was no earthquake. With any luck, Kumari’s curtain would prevent people from thinking anything was amiss.
Nanami glanced over to Hannah to translate. “How long will the water hold?”
Hannah relayed the question in English for Cressida. “I’d say about an hour. An hour and a half. Not very long,” the heiress said with a shrug.
Hannah repeated her answer in Japanese. Nanami grunted. With a curt nod, he turned to face his other comrades. “Technically it rests on Satoru to retrieve the finger, but for the time being we’ll divide and conquer. If anyone finds something, text it in the group chat and wait for Satoru to give the ‘all clear.’ Once he has the finger, it’ll be handed over to Kumari for proper sealing. We’re following protocol. No exceptions. Is that understood?”
Nanami kept his tone neutral like he were reading percentages during a business meeting. Hannah paraphrased his speech as best she could to her cousin.
Done listening, Cressida offered her hand. “Shall we go together?”
“Sure,” Hannah obliged, but felt a gentle tug on her arm.
“Nope, I don’t think so.” Satoru snatched his wife and twirled her around, wiggling his snow-white eyebrows flirtatiously. “You’re comin’ with me.”
“O-Okay.” Hannah's face grew warm, letting him weave their fingers together and pull her in the opposite direction. She didn’t see the triumphant smirk he shot Cressida’s way as they passed by. Nor the heiress’ blatant disgust. He had won this round.
The group split. Nanami to the east, Kumari to the west, and Cressida taking a route in between. Satoru continued walking north with Hannah along the bay, looking back over his shoulder every five seconds till the others were out of sight.
“Finally. Thought we’d never ditch ‘em.”
“Ditch ‘em?” Hannah tilted her head, not sure what he was getting at. “Why would we — ”
At once Satoru’s mouth was on hers, capturing it in an all-too-happy kiss. Hannah was startled by the impromptu lip-lock but soon found her eyes closing, kissing him back, body melting as his arm looped protectively around her waist to draw her inwards. He had left for Miyajima that morning before she’d woken up. They hadn't been separated for five hours, yet it felt much longer.
“Mmm, no reason,” he answered, as he broke from the kiss, lips smacking, and wove his fingers in hers again. Couldn’t keep the shit-eating grin off his face even if he tried. “Okay, now we can go.”
Hannah's profuse blush spread more to her neck and ears, all while not relinquishing his hand.
The underwater trenches of Itsukushima Shrine were deep. Not Mariana Trench-level deep, but deep. On the surface, their depth seemed to exceed no more than three meters before gradually marrying with the ocean; enough for an average person to plunge head first into the burnished saltwater and dive to the bottom. But the island shrine, with its rocky bluffs and pine covered shoals, actually stood atop a valley of gash marks embedded within the reef-beds like troughs, measured at about four fathoms. Once swimmers reached the very end of the bay, they were met with a steep twenty-four feet drop and risked being swept away by the heavy current, the Inland Sea punishing them for their hubris. A more experienced swimmer wouldn’t make it.
Hannah and Satoru stopped where the bay ended and the chasm began. Curious, the Six Eyes wielder lackadaisically kicked a pebble in the hollow trench and watched it disappear. Didn’t make a plop.
Drip, drip, drip.
The jagged rock was slick and slimy from being drained of its watery enclosure. They were high above the seabed. Satoru thought of helping his wife climb down the slippery rock on foot till they reached the bottom, but then hatched an idea. Without warning, he got behind Hannah and bent his knees. “Alley-oop,” he hollered and hoisted his little wife in his arms, bridal-style. She let out a gasp. Much like the kiss, the auburnette wasn’t given time to prepare and nearly had a mini-heart attack when Satoru spun on his heels, grinned real wide, and jumped off the edge like he was at the local pool and not a thirty-foot long chasm.
So they fell.
Hannah managed to eek out a yelp, burying her face in his shirt, clinging onto him like a frazzled squirrel. In seconds they were floating to the ground for a soft landing, Satoru’s Blue and Red manipulating gravity to slow their descent. Falling no more, he set Hannah back on the ground.
“That wasn't funny,” she chided, freckled cheeks glowing red, this time for an entirely different reason. The reprimand hid the fact her knees were buckling.
“To you, maybe.” Amusement twinkled in Satoru’s turquoise blue eyes. “I thought it was hilarious.”
His wife pouted adorably at being laughed at and the Six Eyes wielder couldn’t resist leaning his tall, masculine frame over to plant an “I’m sorry” smooch on her blushing cheek. All forgiven, they webbed their hands together again and continued on.
The carpet of dark green seaweed spurted beneath their shoes, shells and fish bones crunching and cracking. Located in the epipelagic zone, the trench was deep, but not nearly so deep as to prevent sunlight from shining below. This particular kelp forest had thrived under Itsukushima for millennia, nourished by the warm sun and years of “marine snow,” teeming with an ecosystem of diverse wildlife, but Satoru found it weird that there were no flopping fish on the sediment-covered ground, frantically puffing their gills for breath, or other aquatic animals, or cursed spirits for that matter. Had they been swept away with the water?
Those that could exist on oxygen remained. A cast of Chinese mitten crabs skittered across the exposed mudflat, pinching their claws at the trespassing humans, ambling to get away. Hannah thought they were cute and gave them a wide berth, sidestepping the exposed coral, the anemones, the seaweed, the shards of glass and plastic that had drifted because humanity didn’t care. Thank goodness she’d worn trainers, who knew how well Cressida was fairing in those awful sandal wedges?
Hannah wasn’t aware she had voiced this aloud for her husband to hear, receiving an earful about what he thought of the Thames heiress.
“I don’t understand why you feel the need to be nice to her,” he groaned bitterly. “After how her family treated you.”
Hannah squeezed his hand as she narrowly avoided crushing another mitten crab. “She’s your family too.”
“Yuck, no thanks. Tell ‘em family is overrated.”
“People can change, Satoru.”
“Which I’m not disputing, but you said you hadn’t seen her in years and then suddenly she shows up on our doorstep to hand you tiaras? As wedding presents?”
“Cressida’s going through a rough phase right now,” Hannah disputed. “She’s suffered a terrible loss.”
Satoru’s snort conveyed his doubt. “Whatever. I still don’t buy it.” He scanned the ground for clues. “Anything look familiar?”
Hannah sighed and shook her head. They were luckier than when they’d been stuck inside the curse’s Domain at the opera. Here, they could see where they were going courtesy of it being in the middle of the day, making the excursion less foreboding, less unpredictable.
Thames.
Hannah became alert. “What’d you say?”
Satoru turned to face her. His brow framed into an arch. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh, sorry. Nevermind then.”
But it called out again. Raspy and ominous. A whisper.
Thames.
Hannah looked to her right. At the base of an inner wall was a postern, slim and narrow, chiseled out of the rock.
Satoru felt a pull on his arm, his little wife leading him towards the wall. “Princess? You okay?” She kept mum, not saying a peep as she walked him down the narrow path, assuming the lead. Her grasp was firm for someone so small. He didn’t fight and allowed himself to be conducted by her guiding hand. The chasm split in two like a cleft palate. She chose the left fork and pressed onward, past the small seamounts amassed from centuries of seismic activity and magma, past the forests of teeming seaweed and coral. Another left turn. Made a right. Walked through the mouth of a cave, dark and sinister, stalagmite-like protrusion jutting downwards like rows of carnivorous fangs. They became swallowed by the dimness where sunlight couldn’t penetrate.
And there it was.
You could’ve read it straight from the page of a movie script; the third Sukuna finger, shriveled and spindly, lying flat atop a sediment slab like a tribute, a film of skeletal-white sealing wax gauzed around it, perfectly intact. Staying submerged in the saline water seemed not to have altered its appearance whatsoever.
That was all there was inside. No cursed womb. No eighteen missing bodies, their flesh splitting open from being under thirty feet of saltwater like soft-boiled eggs. No hoard of hungry ghouls or freakish beings lurking behind, waiting to pounce. Just the cursed object. Just an index belonging to the strongest sorcerer-turned-curse who ever lived.
Satoru huffed out a laugh. “Well, that was easy.”
Way too easy. Gojo paused a minute for something to jump out at them, block their exit, or both, but neither happened. The finger stayed put on the slab. He leaned over to pick it up.
THAMES.
Hannah also reached out, and Satoru, half spooked, immediately seized her hand.
“Woah there, Hoss, leave that to me.” Hannah wasn't listening and reached out again. With more force, Satoru pulled her back from the undisturbed finger. “Oi, what’s gotten into you?” She looked out of it almost, hazel eyes listless and vacant, reaching for the cursed object the more he tried pulling her away. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Hannah?” Started shaking. “I said enough.” He could see perfectly in the dark. Her pupils were fully dilated, indicating the lights were on, but nobody was home. She wasn’t paying attention and hadn’t spoken a word the whole time, hand grappling for the finger. “Hannah!”
“Huh? Wha?” Hannah came to, snapping out of whatever stupor befell her. She rattled her head and blinked confusedly. “Oh, um, sorry. I'm not sure…I thought I heard…” She swung around.
Perplexed, Satoru also spun himself around, but saw only the cave. “Heard what?”
“Nothing,” Hannah said, hand on her forehead, perhaps feeling a tad dizzy. “I can’t remember.”
Satoru cupped a palm over her cheek and took a moment to study his young wife. Her pupils were back to normal and she appeared unharmed, but her recent behavior left a bad taste in his mouth. A constrict of worry tightened around his chest. He couldn’t relay what just happened, but he knew the sooner he got Hannah out of there, the better.
“C’mon, let’s leave. This place gives me the creeps.”
Hurriedly, Satoru took the finger and stuffed it in his jean pocket, and encouraged Hannah to grasp his hand.
She did.
Kumari painstakingly examined the newly found Sukuna finger, flipping it over at every angle, searching for any indication it wasn’t the real thing or a fluke; decoys weren’t outside the realm of possibility. However, the sealing wax encased around it would’ve been near impossible for non-humans to replicate. No signs of crackage. No tearing. Oh yes, this finger belonged to Sukuna alright. She could practically smell the evil on it like raw sewage.
The cursed object specialist showed her displeasure, glaring daggers at the infernal thing. Kumari didn’t want a repeat episode the last time she brought a Sukuna finger inside her house, and had raised hell in getting the higher-ups to approve her research at Jujutsu High. “This isn’t your grandpa’s grade-4 level sorcery. What’s wrong with you people?” Good news was she didn’t have to take them home with her anymore. Bad news was she’d have to drive down to Jujutsu High to study the damn object at the risk of bumping into her in-laws. Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Her family’s safety was most important. All there was left to do now was box the finger up and pray no surprises trickled in.
Kumari placed the digit inside and closed the lid of her sealing box, clasping the latches, utilizing her cursed technique to “lock” the compartment, only for Satoru to intervene.
“Actually, give it to me.”
She blinked, holding the box. “You sure? This doesn’t exactly make a good table centerpiece.”
“There’s a room in my house meant for keeping cursed objects like this under wraps. The sealing wax hasn’t peeled off yet, so it shouldn’t cause issues. I’ll give it to the higher-ups first thing in the morning.”
The arms-dealer eyed him coolly but nodded. Satoru showed no signs of concern. He was right, of course, the Gojo estate was imbued with powerful protective charms and spells, capabilities far exceeding those in her modern, three bedroom townhouse. It was designed for housing dangerous artifacts. Plus, he was the strongest. Though that didn’t explain what Satoru planned on doing with it.
“Why not give it to them as soon as we land?” she inquired.
The strongest took the box from her hands. “I want to check something,” he answered, tucking it under his arm like it wasn’t a problem.
Kumari didn’t question further. When Satoru had an agenda, there was no sense in arguing. His eyes were fixated on Hannah standing beside her cousin, both their backs to them, staring out into the wide, endless sea, chatting as Nanami maintained distance. Hannah’s long auburn hair shone like shimmering waves of amber silk in the pretty sun.
“It'll be fine,” Kumari heard the Six Eyes wielder whisper.
He’d regret those words for the rest of his life.
Notes:
Dun, dun, dunnnnn.😱
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Chapter 27: Hiding In Plain Sight
Summary:
“Touch the spindle. Touch it, I say.” — Maleficent, Disney’s Sleeping Beauty
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you MsButter and LarkspurDreamer for helping me write this.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 27: Hiding In Plain Sight
A predator knows how to hide in plain sight; A lion will camouflage with the Saharan grass next to a herd of grazing zebra; A bolas spider will emit chemicals akin to female moth pheromones to lure prospective male moths towards its web; A thousand year old cursed spirit will split his essence into twenty fingers and scatter himself to places forgotten by man, ready to be made whole. Predators understand that to hunt their prey, you must first lower their defenses. Give them a false sense of security. Dupe the fools into believing they are safe and sound and the danger has passed when it lies waiting on their doorstep. Hungry.
Satoru didn’t trust the finger outright. He wasn’t so naive as to think it could ever be that simple. His plan was to monitor. Cursed objects had to be monitored for twenty-four hours when found. Kumari was strong, but if anything were to go wrong she wouldn’t stand a chance, and his wife’s behavior only made him more suspicious, hence why he took the finger home (and maybe also to appease his inquisitive nature). Hannah thought nothing of it when they returned. It’ll be gone in the morning, she thought and cozied up beside her husband on the futon later that night. Satoru would take care of everything. He always did.
So she thought.
From the time she was small, since the tender age of five or six, Hannah had been hearing voices. One hears many voices when inheriting The Sight. Mostly last breaths and dying screams. A curse cackling by the carnage of torn bodies. All of them disturbing and violent and horrible. So why would this be any different?
It rasped somewhere far in the distance. Thames. Over the pine crested peaks of Mt. Takao, the mokoshi penthouse roofs, and the torii gates. Thames. It blew across the school yard, rustling passed the trees, billowing near their house, sighing through the eaves, through the walls, just outside Hannah’s bedroom. Rattling her eardrums.
She heard claws scrape across the floor, repeating a name no longer hers.
Thames.
Satoru’s arm was wrapped snugly around her torso, holding her dear, yet she had no trouble breaking free and rising from the floor, leaving him sound asleep on the futon. “Mmph,” he grunted and stirred at the feel of something missing, but then switched positions and grew still once more, snoring contently on their shared pillow.
Somnolent, Hannah stood and walked towards the entrance, a thin nightgown strap hanging loosely off her shoulder. The door slid open by its own accord, but she did not return to the only person who could grant her safety. Out to the beyond she wandered.
Each step felt lighter than air down the tatami woven corridors, the shoji panels. Door after door after door, adjarring without interruption, her silhouette a mere shadow across the many lantern-lit halls. The voice beckoned louder. Thames. It wanted her. She would answer.
She came to a halt at the twelfth door, riddled in spell-tags. The incantation Satoru recited could be traced back to the earliest of jujutsu, some say since before the monolithic Jōmon began texturing their clay with bands of rope.1 Ancient jujutsu was the purest form of sorcery for good reason. Untainted. Indomitable. Satoru had mastered the secret incantation quicker than his predecessors. Nothing on heaven or earth should’ve been able to cross those barriers and remove those spell-tags.
Hannah did so without lifting a pinkie.
The barrier didn’t object to her presence, and the paper tags unglued themselves, one by one, scattering to the floor like a pile of white autumn leaves. The door slowly parted. Inside over by the corner was the sealed box. That’s it now, come here. Come to me. Five steps and she was hunkered down in front of it like a curious Pandora, nescient of the evil she was about to release upon the world. She flicked open the notches.
The floor beneath collapsed.
Hannah felt she was falling…
falling.
falling.
Her bare feet hardly made a splash in the blood water, wading just above her knees. Something ripe mushed between her toes. The air stank heavily of decay and iron. Though her eyes were transfixed by the large blackened ribs scaffolded above like an animal enclosure.
On a mound of bones, human and beast, buttressed and stacked high, was a notch arranged into a dais. The eery crimson light, emanating from God knows where, began building in strength, and the bone-filled graveyard started to unveil its secrets. She saw the outline of a figure seated atop the bones. Something like four monstrous arms, two sets of eyes, tattoos, and a mouth where a stomach should've been.
Regaining her wits, Hannah’s head began to throb. Her knees quaked. Blood ceased circulating to her legs from the cold water. She couldn’t feel the oxygen exit her lungs, nor her heart crumble and un-crumble like a reused plastic bottle.
“W-Where am I?” she croaked.
She saw one of its two mouths twist into a wry, sinister grin and suddenly felt she had unintentionally signed her death certificate. That’s not human, she thought. Not anymore.
“Woman.” the four-armed demon drawled above its mountain of skeletons, man and beast. “Did Uraume send you?”
Hannah stayed silent, struck paralyzed from the waist down.
“Are you a challenger?” it spoke again.
Tendrils of fear clamped around her throat. “A what?” she said dumbly.
The demon gave out a snorting laugh, “Guess not,” and rose to its feet. In a flash, it was standing in front of her, frame hulking and grotesque, roughly seizing her face between a mass of blackened claws, hooking a thumb to her lower lip. Hannah drew mute. The malevolence in its four vermillion eyes was a raw, insatiable sort.
“Weak,” the demon crooned, and stretched its mouth into that awful, predacious grin that conveyed unspeakable harm. Something knife-point sharp tapped her lower back.
The last thing Hannah heard were cruel peals of laughter before the world was swallowed inside a scarlet sea.
A goodnight’s sleep was a hardfought luxury for a jujutsu sorcerer. Not that it mattered much. Satoru sucked at sleeping anyways. Always had. Always will, so it didn’t take much for him to become gradually aware that the primal, gut-wrenching screams ringing in his subconscious were not a figment of his dreams, but real.
Oh so terrifyingly real.
When the estate was in the business of raising livestock, the Six Eyes wielder could recall a time he witnessed the late cauterization of a grown bull. Most dehornings are performed when the bull is a calf to reduce infection and long-term pain: chemical solutions, tubes, keystone dehorners, you name it. But the rancher they hired cared little for the well-being of their cattle, and thought axing their horns with an old splitting maul, then cauterizing the wound through the use of a hot iron was the preferable method; highly illegal. Young Satoru could only watch as the poor bull was tied down in a compromising position before the rancher started chopping away, mercilessly. The agonized lowing that left the animal with each forceful thwack of the maul. The blood. Satoru couldn’t remember what he did afterwards, other than running to Makoto in tears. He freed all the estate’s livestock the day he became clan-leader, suppressing childhood trauma he hadn’t told a single soul.
Now twenty years later, Hannah’s tormented screams reminded him of that one bull.
The sound stirred something in him.
Wide awake and panicked, he twisted himself over to see his wife thrashing wildly, her screams not of fear, but of pain; vocal chords cracking and clicking from too much exertion. She couldn’t catch her breath.
But what alarmed him most were her eyes. Hannah’s frightened eyes were like two dying stars, glowing a bright, ember red, inflamed and leaking a flood of tears, staring wide open.
He grabbed her by the arms, shaking, pleading for her to wake up, but every attempt failed. She only cried louder, wincing whenever his fingers came too close to touching her back.
This did not go unnoticed. Holding her at an angle, Satoru ever so gently slipped a hand underneath. His entire body grew cold at the sensation of something warm and sticky soaking her nightgown, the tang of rust. He began praying, Please be sweat, please be sweat, and slowly removed his hand.
The palm was coated so thickly in blood you’d think it was fresh paint, staining the once white bedding into a dark, sickly grenache that would never wash out. Trembling now, Satoru mustered the courage to flip her over and see what his heart earnestly wanted to deny.
It was worse than he could’ve imagined.
Gashes like jagged cuneiform were scrawled all over her back, phantom claws, plowing deep into the skin, digging for purchase.
Hannah sobbed more than ever. Her pallor was like stained glass left exposed to sunlight, faded and drained of color. Blood. Blood everywhere.
To his frustration, Satoru’s eyes detected nothing wrong. He saw no neon trail, no grimy residuals, an invisible enemy he could not see and could not fight; a true ghost. The band of gold on his finger started burning.
What is this?
Hannah’s cries soon grew weak, either from fatigue or something far more worrisome. Her lips took a bluish hue, eyes glassy. She wasn’t breathing properly. If he didn’t act now, she’d be gone forever.
“Stay with me, Hannah.”
Satoru scooped his wife in his arms, her cries faint and disoriented, and ran like hell out the door.
“Please, don’t die.”
Notes:
1. The Jōmon period (ca.10,500–ca. 300 B.C.) is the name of Japan’s Neolithic age. The word Jōmon literally translates to “straw rope pattern.” This is because the Jōmon people would decorate their pottery with rope. Some of the world’s oldest clay works stem from this era. You can read more about the Jōmon period in this article. Awesome read. However, if you're more of a listener, I’d highly recommend Justin Hebert’s podcast A History of Japan. Please, give it a try. You won’t be disappointed.
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NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE FRIDAY, NOV. 10th
Chapter 28: A Burden Shared Is A Burden Halved
Summary:
“He who loves his wife, loves himself.” — Ephesians 5:28
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.Alas, it is with heavy heart that I announce the retirement of my long time beta-reader, MsButter.🥲 MsButter has been the one checking my grammar mistakes and fickle plot ideas for almost two years now. I couldn’t have written GTAW the way it is without her guidance (we’re still friends, btw). I’m gonna miss her and wish her the best of luck AND am beyond thrilled she decided to pass the torch on to LarkspurDreamer, who will be our new, official beta-reader (wish her luck). This news is bittersweet, but exciting things are in the works. Can’t wait to show you.❤️
As always, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 28: A Burden Shared Is A Burden Halved
For the next forty-eight hours, Hannah spiraled in and out of consciousness, feeling both near and very far away. From what, she didn’t know. Oblivion perhaps.
Darkness gathered all around. Her arms would not work. Her lids would not open. A dull, aching sting pulsated up and down her spine and across her shoulders like a week old sunburn. Muffled voices dithered everywhere - faint enough to want them closer, but loud enough to make her wish they’d leave. They were speaking in unison.
“San…Michael…def nos…elio…insidias diaboli…”
Hannah recognized the Latin, their joined prayer building without end. She tried to move, the heaviness in her head starting to lift ever so slightly, but soon found it impossible. Her eyes were like lead.
Then came a separate voice, more somber and rueful, repeating something along the lines of “…my fault…my fault…”
Everything faded to black again.
The beeping monitors and the cold smell of antiseptic were what finally roused Hannah from sleep, the stark hospital walls shining a bright, superfluous white due to the harsh amounts of sun pouring in through the window. The light wetted her eyes and upon blinking to flush them out, she realized she was lying on a hospital bed flat on her stomach. Odd because Hannah never slept on her stomach.
Slow as a sloth, she maneuvered herself over to sit up, the skin of her back pulling in various directions. Hannah reached behind, expecting to feel scars or scab wounds but instead felt smooth, supple skin, fingers and toes tingling like pins and needles as though they hadn't moved in months. The hospital frock trapped little body heat and she shivered once the blankets fell past her shoulders. Weak and heavy lidded, Hannah tried rubbing the grogginess from her eyes, which hadn’t adjusted to the brightness of the room, but then heard the clicking of heels and two hurried knocks at the door. It creaked open.
“Ah, I thought you’d be awake,” a voice greeted merrily, bringing her more into awareness. “In case you’re wondering, it is now three o’clock in the afternoon. The cafeteria won’t be serving dinner for another hour or so, but we can get you something if you’d like.”
Hannah didn't need to see to know who the voice belonged to. “Shoko,” she grogged, throat raw and ragged like a toad’s. She continued rubbing her stiff eyes and face. “Did you and Utahime-san take me out drinking again? I feel awful.”1
“Before I answer that…” The jujutsu doctor dished out a small torch from her lab coat pocket and flashed it in Hannah’s eyes, switching left to right. The pupils shrank. She followed this up by pinching the sides of her patient’s wrists for a pulse, turning towards the wall where a ticking clock hung, and began counting. Vitals were normal. Shoko stepped back from the bed. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Uh…” Hannah squinted hard at the jujutsu doctor. “Four.”
“And what year is it?”
“2014.”
“And can you name for me the current prime minister?”
“Cameron,” she replied aptly.
Shoko laughed. “Of Japan.”
“Oh.” Hannah felt her cheeks burn. “Abe, I think.”
Shoko placed the small torch back inside her coat pocket, pleased by the result. Looks like the blood loss didn’t incur any serious brain damage. What a relief. She then crossed her arms. “Tell me the last thing you remember.”
“The last?” Hannah bit her lower lip and tried recalling the last thing she did before waking up in a cold hospital room. Images of a racetrack swerving on a television screen with upbeat music floated aimlessly in her head. “I want to say Satoru was beating me at Super Mario Kart,” she murmured. “It then got late and we went to bed. I suppose I fell asleep and…wait.” She looked at Shoko. “How long was I out for again?
Shoko nodded professionally the entire time, but on the inside was thinking, Aw, they play Mario Kart together, then glanced back at the clock. “Approximately two days, ten hours, and eight minutes,” she said without missing a beat.
Hannah’s hazel eyes grew wide. Goodness, that wasn’t what she expected her to say at all. “Do they know why?”
Shoko sighed. “To be honest, Hannah, we're still not sure. I’ll give you the details later, but from what we’ve gathered, it seems you experienced a delayed, hypersensitive reaction from the Sukuna finger being in such close proximity for an extended period of time. Kind of like when your voice glitches on a Zoom call from being too close to the other signal until it crashes.”
Hannah stared perplexed at the doctor. “What’s a Zoom call?”
The doctor waved a hand. “Er, nevermind. No more thousand year old cursed objects in the house. That’s the takeaway.”
“But what about the voices?”
Shoko halted. “Voices?”
“I thought I heard Latin,” Hannah clarified.
“Oh, that! Yeah, we had some Catholic priests come in and perform an exorcism on you. No biggie.”
“What?!!”
“Yeah, I was kinda disappointed. It was nothing like the movie.”
The movie wasn't the problem. Hannah’s face resembled the hospital walls. Her heart thudded so loudly in her chest she was surprised Shoko couldn’t hear it.
Where she came from, exorcisms were exceedingly rare and required an onslaught of paperwork and bureaucratic hoop jumping. For one, you couldn’t just go to your local parish priest and ask him to do an exorcism on the spot; only a select number of priests were trained in the ministry of exorcism. Mental illness and scientific explanations also had to be ruled out for fear of fakers and undiagnosed schizophrenics, as were most cases. If illness and science gave no answers and manifestations remained present in the afflicted, then the archbishop would have to be notified. And in especially severe cases, the matter would be left on The Association’s front desk in Rome for further deliberation. Even then it could take weeks, sometimes months, for the assembly to decide whether utilizing the solemn rite was really necessary.2
These decisions were not made in a vacuum, and yet a team of exorcist priests had prayed the solemn rite over Hannah without argument in lieu of nothing else. But why? She had just left the confessional last week. Never dabbled in the occult or touched a ouija board - couldn’t even tell you what a ouija board looked like - and prayed the rosary like it was a daily vitamin. Why had she required a high-level exorcism?
“Um, Shoko, “ she swallowed, “The priests. Did they find anything…amiss?”
The physician turned around and shrugged. “No. Whatever happened was over by the time they arrived. You’re not being possessed by a demon.” She looked down at the bed. “Might want to stop squeezing the life out of that pillow now.”
Hannah didn’t know how the pillow landed in her lap, but she was, indeed, “squeezing the life out” of it. She released the cushion from her death grip and exhaled a long sigh. Thank God.
“Satoru was a big, heaping mess,” Shoko went on, texting a message on her phone. “I forced him to go home for a while. He’ll be back soon.”
Hannah perked up. “Satoru? He was here?”
“Here?” The jujutsu doctor breathed out a chuckle. “The stubborn ass wouldn’t leave. I forced Nanami to do me the honors, though I can’t be too mad at him. The poor loser was worried sick about you. Heck, we all were.” She gestured to a diverse pile of gifts lying in the corner. ”GET WELL SOON, HANNAH-SAN” in bright red English was written neatly on a card; undoubtedly Tsumiki’s handwriting, both her and Megumi’s signatures visible at the bottom with smiley faces. Utahime had brought a 6-pack of her favorite craft beer from Niigata, while Nanami had prepared a tin of the oolong tea they shared at his apartment, signed simply “Kento.” Hannah spotted a re-joined Stinging Nettle made whole again, Kumari’s contribution, alongside a small mountain of lavish Boucheron boxes courtesy of Cressida. And finally Makoto had procured a single white lily, petalled without blemish, inside a glass bud vase.
Hannah’s heart felt both a mixture of gratitude and guilter's remorse at seeing the gifts, thinking of the people associated with them and their kindness. “Gosh, I didn’t mean to cause all this trouble,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Actually, Hannah,” Shoko stipulated. “I'd like to ask you some more questions, if you don’t mind. On the grounds of doctor-patient confidentiality.”
The auburnette smiled gladly. “Of course.”
The jujutsu doctor cleared her throat and put her phone away. “Have you noticed any fatigue as of late? I mean, prior to the fatigue you're feeling now.”
Hannah blinked, furrowing her brows. “No. I don’t think so.”
“I see,” Shoko hummed, placing her hands in her coat pockets. “What about memory loss?”
“Memory loss?”
“Just a question,” the physician assured, smiling.
Hannah peered down at her lap, touching her fingertips together to check they weren’t tingling. Images of claws and scarlet eyes flashed across her field of vision and faded like a dream. It was only a dream. “No, I haven’t noticed any memory loss,” she admitted truthfully.
“And what about the ‘light shows?’ I assume you’ve kept those to a minimum too.”
Her confusion reappeared. “Light shows?”
Shoko wiggled her fingers. “That weird healing trick you do.”
Hannah felt like a burglar with their facemask ripped off, Ah ha, there she is. Take her away, officer. She quickly feigned innocence. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Shoko rested a hand on her shoulder, a look of compassion softening her features. Hannah smelled the tobacco on her clothes. “Look, you don’t have to tell me. Your business is your own, but for what is worth, I am a physician and consider you my friend. You can tell me anything. Like my grandma always said; a burden shared is a burden halved.”
Or doubled, Hannah thought gravely, but kept that comment to herself. Cressida’s reminder from her visit to the Gojo estate rang in her memory like choir bells, but the cat was already out of the bag. What good was it to hide the truth any longer? She’d seen too much. “You promise not to tell?” Hannah whispered. “Not even Satoru?”
She saw a flicker of concern linger for a moment on the doctor’s face, but Shoko soon shot her a wink and crossed her heart. “Doctor-patient confidentiality, remember?”
Encouraged by her confidence, Hannah parted her mouth to speak, ready to tell the jujutsu doctor everything and relinquish the burden, but was stymied by a third voice entering the fray.
“Hannah?”
Both women turned.
It was none other than Satoru waiting over by the door, standing tall and handsome as ever. His hair was dripping wet, maybe from a rushed shower, and he looked fashionable sporting ripped jeans, camel boots, and a sleek, black leather jacket. Yet despite the clothes, Hannah could see the dark circles hanging under his eyes like curtain drapes, their turquoise color less vibrant and blue than usual. He’d been sent home to rest, but it was evident he hadn’t slept a wink and it showed. The Strongest looked positively exhausted.
“Satoru,” Hannah said weakly at seeing her husband standing there so silent.
Shoko decided now was a good time to make her getaway. “I’ll be outside,” she said and quietly exited the room, door clicking softly behind her.
The spell was broken.
With great expediency, Satoru was soon hovering over the hospital bed and lowering the guard rail to reach out and cradle her to him. Hannah didn’t reject the smell of his pine-scented body wash hitting her full-force, nor did she protest the feel of his lips peppering her neck and throat in short, desperate kisses. Safe, you are safe they seemed to say. Her eyes closed, giving in to his relief though she couldn’t understand what had happened to her. He swept her long unbraided hair to one side and buried his face between the crook of her shoulder and took in her scent. His wet hair dripped on her hospital gown but she hardly felt the drops. By instinct, her own arms circled around him, drawing his body as close to hers as possible.
“Satoru, I’m — ”
“Hannah.” He caressed her head. “Please, don’t talk right now, alright? Just…” He staggered a breath. “Just give me a sec.”
The vulnerability in his voice, the fear. This man holding her was nothing like the happy, fun-loving Satoru she knew, like an imposter had snuck in the middle of the night and mysteriously swapped places. Shoko said he’d been worried sick. His regret-ridden misery made her chest grow heavy and the tears well in her eyes, the hospital walls closing in on them.
“I want to go home,” she whimpered in his chest.
“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he hushed soothingly in her ear. “We are going home.”
“You promise?”
Satoru gave no reply and simply kissed her on the lips. Another promise made.
Notes:
Well, that was fun. Short and sweet. Just how I like 'em.
1. If you’d like to read the time Shoko and Utahime got Hannah roaring drunk and left her for Satoru to take care of all by himself, feel free to enjoy this memorable oneshot.
2. I’ve exaggerated much of the Vatican’s role in exorcisms for this story. Most cases remain in the individual diocese. Stay away from ouija boards, children.Follow me on Tumblr.
NEXT CHAPTER: Chapter 11, but reversed (*wiggles eyebrows).
Chapter 29: Resolution
Summary:
Hannah sees into Satoru’s past and makes a life changing decision.
Notes:
Happy New Year!!!! I wish you all the very best of luck in 2024, and thank you for supporting me in my writing endeavors. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to have such fine and brilliant readers. Although, my New Year’s resolution is to finish this blasted fic once and for all. 😂
Anyway, I wanted to give a short thank you. I don’t do it enough.
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.Also, you may have noticed I quote from various JJK manga chapters in this update. Please note these quotes are not mine, nor do I stake claim or make money off them. They belong to Akutami-sensei alone.
That is to say, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you LarkspurDreamer for helping me write this.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 29: Resolution
Sister Edith warned her the day she arrived at St. Horatia that The Sight was an unpredictable sort; It bends what nature should not permit; What magic alone cannot teach. “Memory is the foundation of our being, mon cherie,” she would say. “The anvil from which our reasoning is forged. Without it, we are nothing.”
Hannah could not explain how she knew these to be Satoru’s memories - or rather - Satoru’s memories from the perspective of a passerby. Some things you just know for certain.
Blinking, her eyes adjusted to the gloom. This was not her bedroom, and Satoru was not asleep beside her. She began looking around the place and discovered she was in a different house, although she spotted the Gojo family tree, painted by the great Jakuchū himself, big enough it canvassed the entire wall with songbirds and flowers. She startled at the sensation of a woman walking directly through her like a figment of imagination, followed closely by two others.
“Hurry, this way,” the leader said. “They’ll be in the reception hall.”
The three women made a right turn and bounded towards their destination like foxes on a hare. Hannah stood bewildered. She had never seen those people before. How had they not bumped into her? She was standing right there.
The little wife checked herself up and down, moving her ligaments, placing her hand on her chest to feel it was beating. She wasn’t cold. She wasn’t hot. Her feet did not sink to the ground.
The nuns warned her of this too; The memory must be experienced till its conclusion. You must stay the course.
“Well.” Hannah gulped. “When in Rome.”
She began walking down the hall for a spell or two before passing a small corridor which led inside the living room. Not the reception hall, so she continued onwards till she passed the dining room, and then the parlor, then a long L shaped engawa, passing fine storage cabinets, hand painted screens, and a whole plethora of ancient artifacts and treasures. Whenever Hannah walked by a mirror her reflection did not show.
She noticed a lot more people mulling about this house, mostly maids carrying water pitchers and cleaning supplies to and fro, stopping every so often to whisper excitedly in another’s ear. Hannah couldn’t catch their game of telephone, but something was definitely afoot.
She arrived just outside the reception hall. A convalescence of servants surrounded the entrance like hungry news reporters, listening through a slivered crack in the door. None of them made a peep, their eyes fixated on the people conversing in the formal room.
“Abandoned? By who?…”
“Precious little thing…”
“…400 years.”
Not wanting to barge an entry, Hannah thought of staying put with the house staff, but then remembered where she was and felt almost silly for thinking it. She sojourned on, walking through the servants and the door and into the grand reception hall with no pushback.
Her eyes settled on a huddle of seven women, including the three she encountered earlier, all of them dressed in elegant kimonos and fabrics. Now given a better look, none of them seemed a day over sixty, greying strands and scarecrow wrinkles. Whispering in concealed voices, they stood centered around a woman cradling a bundle of blankets.
Hannah stepped closer. Her eyes widened when she saw the small tuft of snow white hair. Tiny nose and tiny hands.
A baby, she marveled. And by the looks of it, not just any baby.
Hannah felt her lips tug into a smile. So this is where you were hiding, you sweet sod. Her husband was sound asleep in his swaddle of blankets, sucking on his tongue, barely a few hours old.
Unfortunately, not everyone was delighted by the prospect.
“Satsuma, that drunken dog,” cursed the woman holding the newborn. “After I told him to be careful. This is the last straw.”
“But is what they say true, Isako-chan?” said the woman nearest. “Does he really possess the…” She lowered the blankets from the sleeping child’s face, but before she could lift his tiny lids open, the woman named Isako rose from her seat and turned him away.
“Bolster our security and fetch a servant to alert Master Tengen at once,” she ordered, cradling the sleeping infant, her prognosis grim. “We must stay vigilant. The Star Plasma Vessel cannot be far behind.”
…
Three years old. Five years old. Eight and ten. The memories Hannah glimpsed were not linear.
In one instance, the boy was reading Chinese letters on a page, symbols he could not understand, and speaking them aloud in front of his tutors; sounds they told him to say. Most of it Confucian literature, supplemented with essays relaying the art of classical warfare like Tzūzoku sangokushi and San Lüeh. He seemed to be doing well, however, Hannah held her breath whenever a word was repeated wrongly and his palm would be met with the stinging end of a bamboo rod. Although, he never once shed a tear and would start over from the beginning again, moving on to algebra, and biology, and a few plucks on the shō. His teachers would then instruct him how to compose poetry and practice calligraphy and Hannah questioned whether any of these skills were necessary for a child to master, impressive as they were.
Not unlike her own childhood when she’d been forced to wake at the crack of dawn and feed the horses, the chickens, then milk the cows, and de-muck the barn stalls if needed. Then attend Mass. Go to Medieval History. Change clothes. Pray. Weed the vegetable garden. Go to Geometry. Pray some more. Scrub the floorboards. Hang dry the laundry. Do it all over again the next day. Childhood was a myth.
For him too, it seemed, she thought.
The boy was not given the smallest relaxation. During his afternoons, he would take up kendo and various other mixed martial arts, as well as learning to cast jujutsu. For Hannah, watching from the sidelines was like watching a cotton seed fight the wind. While the boy was tall and sturdy for his age, around seven or eight, he was by no means strong enough to take on a person thrice his size. He was shown no mercy. “You have poor form!” they would bark. “When he was your age, your father could take down two grown men.” This was a lie of course, but she saw something ignite in the boy at being talked down to like an all consuming fire. Every time he was knocked to the floor, bruised and hurting, he’d wipe the sweat off his chin with a grimace and stand back on his feet. Anger, Hannah thought. So much pent up anger.
This would be met with rebellion. By age nine, he stood 4’11 and could creep out of the house without getting caught. These excursions were beyond risky. There existed many who would pay a stiff price for the Six Eyes wielder’s head. When Hannah ventured with him on these clandestine escapades, she would be astounded at how cavalier he was; plotting his escape, walking alone to the bus stop, boarding said bus, then hopping on a random train from Kyoto that would segway them into Tokyo.
They’d walk around the city for hours, dawdling nowhere in particular, strutting about the streets venturing for candy shops and gaming stores; stereotypical boyhood pursuits.
If he was lucky, which he often was, he’d be back home before dawn. If he wasn’t, there'd be no supper for a week, possibly a month.
Still, he was spoiled. Every fortnight, the boy would be subjected to his elderly aunties, cooing and smothering him, pinching his chubby cheeks raw till they turned red. “Toru-kun has been a good boy, hasn’t he?” He had not, objectively speaking, been a good boy, but didn’t want to pass up a cookie when offered. Most of these relatives would be cremated before his eleventh birthday. He wouldn’t mourn them.
Yet for all his prodigious achievements, vast intellect, and tiny seeds of rebellion, Hannah could tell the boy suffered from loneliness. Loneliness. It draped over him like a heavy curtain, obstructing him from peering out into a happier, brighter world. Imperial princes had more freedom than he.
“You shouldn’t be so rough with them.” Hannah knelt on the floor, observing the boy aggressively assemble his legos together, a legion of abandoned toys piled in the corner. “They might break.”
Socializing was a struggle. The other children who visited for play dates sensed something wasn’t right about him, something abnormal; his albino white hair and alien blue eyes. They tried being nice with kind words and toys, but he knew what they were really thinking. He saw it in their stares. They only said those things because their parents told them to. None of them wanted to be his friend. Such sentiments added to the isolation he already harbored being surrounded by adults and strangers his whole life, and rather than cry or internalize it, the boy dealt with his loneliness through violence.
A busted lip for the boy who looked at him funny. A light shove in the pond to the girl who laughed at his hair. Jeers and taunts. He once slipped a small frog down a Kamo girl’s shirt and rolled in howling laughter as she scampered across the room like a decapitated chicken, squealing and crying for her mummy. Made no difference how prominent the children were or what family they hailed from. If they were cruel, he’d be cruel back; an eye for an eye. That’s the quintessential lesson the world taught him.
“Oh, Satoru,” Hannah sighed, crouching in front of the boy after another failed play date, alone again with his legos. Silent tears streamed down his face. He couldn’t hear her. Out of sympathy she lifted a lone hand to cradle his cheek. It coursed through him like mist. “My darling.”
Makoto was his only true companion. He was a royal pain to the other servants, spitting and yelling at them, but never her. It took Hannah a full minute to take in the future housekeeper, then a humble nanny to the Six Eyes wielder. She knew when he was having a good or bad day. Between breaks in his studies and spar sessions, she would sneak wrapped pieces of candy to the boy, shooting him a wink as she plopped it in his palm. He would grin and stuff the candy inside his mouth before anyone saw. Favoritism could’ve gotten the nanny sacked. Her break in protocol showed her tenacity, and perhaps her (not so) hidden affection for the young master.
Hannah would admit, it was quite entertaining watching the woman sprint down the halls to try and apprehend the boy, his little athletic body covered only by a foam of bubbles. Apparently, he took exception with bath time, leaving Makoto to go on a wild goose chase. The marathon was probably the most excitement he had that day. He laughed and laughed and laughed. You’d hardly believe this was the same boy who angrily punched two adult molars out of another kid.
However, much of the time the boy was confined to his bed. His brain was still developing as were the Six Eyes. Like growing bones, the older he got, the more excruciating the migraines. In due time, their technique would activate and there’d be no going back. Some days he could not find the strength to get up.
“I hate them, Koto-chan.”
“No, you mustn’t say such things, sir.”
“But I do. I wish they were gone.”
The beloved nanny pressed a damp cloth to his forehead. “It’ll be alright, sir. Now, shhh, get some rest.”
The boy wearily closed his eyes and Makoto departed. Hannah cozied herself beside him, his small chest breathing in and out. She grinned at watching his lids flicker. “What are you dreaming of?” she whispered, sweeping his hair gently to one side. It didn’t work of course. Like before, her hand disappeared through him.
The light evanesced.
…
The next memories Hannah saw were of teenagehood, Satoru roughly fifteen or sixteen years old, unscrewing the bolts of a school chair with a wrench. His Jujutsu High uniform looked non-dissimilar to the one he presently wore, darkened round frames shrouding his eyes.
Upon disassembling their bolts, Satoru would set the chairs upright like normal. One poor decision later and, whump, your posterior would be on the floor. Hannah supposed this was his idea of a prank.
“Sorry, is this Room 44B?”
Satoru’s eyes snapped up to inspect the newcomer, taking note of his overgrown raven bangs, inflated bontan pants, and two fingered shoes that looked more to him like socks.
Perhaps a tad nervous, the newcomer scrupulously re-examined the paper he was holding.
“Odd, the map they gave me says…” But he shook his head mid-sentence, bowed, and offered out his hand. “You know what, forget it. My name is Geto. Geto Suguru.”
The Six Eyes wielder glanced at the hand, but did not take it, and went back to disassembling the chair, answering only after a pause long enough to make the newcomer think he’d been ignored. “Gojo.”
Geto awkwardly cleared his throat and fidgeted. “I assume you’re a first year then?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“What is it you’re doing?
Satoru successfully unmoored another screw and glared. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
Geto cast a critical eye. “Won’t that get you in trouble?”
“Probably.” Satoru switched hands, wrenching another bolt free, further showcasing his disinterest. “So, what is it you do again, Yamapi-san?”
“Yamapi?” Apparently Geto did not take kindly to the comparison. “What do you mean?”1
Satoru rolled his eyes and sighed. “Your curse technique; the whole reason they locked you up inside this penitentiary. Unless, of course,” his glasses slid past his nose, “you don’t have one.”
Pleasantries gone cold, Geto pursed his lips and stuffed his fists in his pockets. This asshat. “Curse Manipulation.”
Like the twitching of a cat’s ear, the white-haired teen froze and turned from unbolting the chair to the look at the other freshman. “Prove it.”
Geto wordlessly pulled out what Hannah initially thought was a plum from his back pocket, but was actually a strange, blackened orb. He brought it to his mouth and began taking bites, two, three, till none of it remained.
Then an insect-like curse, a Fly Head, materialized out of thin air, the buzz of its sickly translucent wings making Hannah’s spine prickle. It had the body of a mosquito, but the face of a goggle-eyed dogū. Hannah let go a pathetic shriek when Suguru began waving his wrist about, the curse under his complete control, buzzing around and doing summersaults mid-flight, unable to shake off the technique. Like a zombie, Hannah thought. After a short while, the long banged sorcerer felt he’d gotten his message across and with the snap of his fingers the Fly Head became engulfed in a cloud of flames, disintegrating to smoke and ash.
“Woah-oh, freaky,” Satoru whistled and placed his hands behind his head, chortling a laugh. “I take it back then. Guess this year won't be so boring after all.”
Shoko entered through the door not a second later; shortened bobbed hair, mini skirt, and busy sucking on a lollipop. Her expression was one of close-eyed-smile discontent, looking less than pleased about the two idiots she’d been partnered with. She glanced at one, then the other. “I do RCT,” she said, and that was it. There wasn't any need to say more. Hannah hardly recognized the doctor without the heavy dark circles smudging her eyes. She was very pretty.
Their trinity now complete, Satoru’s memories began unfurling once more like the pages of a long forgotten almanac.
Hannah was handed a mental catalog of his many pranks conducted over his years at Jujutsu High; covering stairwells with pine tar; drawing penises on chalkboards; conspiratorially pouring tubes of micro glitter in the air vents (almost caused a fire). There was one incident when Satoru, for whatever reason, thought it a brilliant idea to unleash a hoard of mice inside the main lobby. The mice took umbrage at being ‘mice-napped’ from their homes and it wasn’t abundantly clear who was chasing whom; the petrified rodents, or the reluctant school staff in charge of rounding them up. There was also the enormous banner which hung in the school cafeteria during the newly minted Goodwill Event with the words “Tokyo rules, Kyoto drools. Satoru is the greatest.”
While most of the Six Eyes wielder’s pranks were harmless, others were downright mean. On more than one occasion Kiyotaka would return back from P.E. to discover his uniform shoes strung from the ceiling by their laces. He had to enlist the help of a teacher to get them down. A sticky note depicting a mediocre Gojo chibi would be found on one or both soles.
Or Utahime, who was a mere hair-length away from skinning the Six Eyes wielder alive for “accidentally” snipping one of her braids clean off with a pair of rusty scissors. Steam was practically billowing out her nostrils.
“She’s such a girl,” Satoru flouted. “What is she cryin’ about anyway? It’s not like hair doesn’t grow back.”
The red outline of Utahime’s double slap was visible on his cheeks for a solid week following the incident like a sunburn. “It’s senpai, asshole!!” That happened his second year.
A younger Nanami, known to Hannah now as Kento, also wasn’t spared the torment. He’d never forget waking up from a short-lived nap only to stand in front of the bathroom mirror and find a squiggly mustache and monocle edged in permanent marker on his face; his first week at Jujutsu High. Or the shaving gel in his shoes. Or the thousands of multicolored bouncy balls jammed inside his locker and spilling out onto the hallway. He would never call him senpai.
Throughout this myriad of stunts, Hannah would watch with Satoru, who was either directly involved amidst the chaos, or relishing his handiwork from afar like an evil mastermind.
Kento would say he was starved for attention.
Hannah would say it was something else, something attention seeking couldn’t rectify.
He wasn’t without his virtues however; fun being one of the few. When free, Satoru would encourage the small band of jujutsu sorcerers to hang out after school; usually him, Geto, and Shoko. The arcade was a popular joint to unwind and blow off steam. Here, Gojo and Geto were at their most competitive. Hashing it out over Ace Combat was a healthier alternative than coming to physical blows. It gave Hannah time to reflect.
The yin to Satoru’s yang, Suguru was an enigma to Hannah; opposite to him in both demeanor and mores. He always wore his overgrown hair in a topknot, bangs styled to one side, handsome. Fairly tall, but stood at least an inch shorter than his albino companion. She liked Suguru a great deal, but couldn’t recall what about him sounded familiar. She had heard his name before. But when? Where? It took a while for the bells to clang.
“Nobody. Just some guy I used to work with...”
Brilliant! Yes, that’s when; the movie night. Contrary to Satoru’s declaration, however, the two appeared quite close; like soldiers stuck in a platoon who didn’t get along, but would die keeping the other alive if necessary. Mates. Brothers. Rivals. Something more. The truth wasn’t hers to disclose, but “just some guy?” wasn’t cutting it.
Nanami would sometimes tag along, as well as another underclassman by the name of Haibara Yū. Hannah took note of how bright his eyes shone, bursting with ferocious passion and enthusiasm for life, like a perpetual ray of sun. A little cheeky, he spoke quick; rambling on about his sister and family like an auctioneer at an art show. It was difficult to catch everything he said. Hannah found herself smiling nonetheless. Why hadn’t they met yet?
Favorite eateries they frequented included raman shops and karaoke bars and various fast food restaurants where everyone was forced to guess how many cheeseburgers Satoru could gorge in one sitting without throwing up. He always added an extra large fry and chocolate shake. Another reason to avoid fast food all together. Hannah craved a salad.
But she enjoyed partaking in their fun adventures, despite the fact they couldn’t see or hear her. These privileges were unbidden to Hannah as a teen, as a child, as an adult. Reliving them with Satoru and his friends - who she now considered her friends - felt precious. She didn’t want to stop hearing the stories they shared, or how difficult exams were, or what they wanted to do after graduation.
The normalcy it brought. Thinking there could have been a life where Hannah had gone to school, and played rounds of Ace Combat, and ate ice cream in the summer with her friends. And then she was given a cruel reminder there was nothing normal about this. About them.
“It’s such a pain looking out for the weak.”
Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko were sitting in a classroom, waiting for Yaga-sensei to show up. Aggravation gnawed on Suguru’s features.
“Jujutsu exists to protect non-sorcerers, Satoru,” he argued. “It’s our job to safeguard the weak and keep the powerful in check.”
“Please,” Satoru snorted. “Don’t act all high and mighty for spouting that garbage. Applying reasoning and responsibility is what weak people do. Being righteous?” He stuck out his tongue as though to gag. “I hate that stuff.”
Suguru heatedly rose from his chair. He’d grown tired of repeating this conversation over and over. How many times would it take for the knucklehead to learn the errors of his ways? “Let’s take this outside,” he challenged, but Satoru arrogantly dismissed him.
“You lonely? Go by yourself.”
Meanwhile Shoko made like a ballerina and gracefully pirouetted from the classroom. Adios, amigos. It was just the two of them.
Now one on one, Suguru activated his technique, an ugly beast from the cursed void, at the same time Satoru transferred his glasses inside his pocket, aiming for a bruising. However, the looming brawl was short-lived.
The door thrusted open to unveil an irritated Mr. Yaga, no more than a regular teacher at the time. Thus, the two teenagers unanimously sat back in their chairs, pretending they weren’t about to pummel the ever-living shit out of each other. Hannah couldn’t say what followed. The memory fizzled out before she could exhale.
Her stomach felt tied into knots. Who was that nihilist mimicking her husband’s voice and face just now? Someone who hated protecting the vulnerable and weak, believing righteousness was bad, even garbage? The Satoru she knew would never say something so…heartless. Would he?
Hannah could spend eternity ruminating the haughty question, but she wasn’t given the chance. The memories came crashing into her awareness like pressing “fast forward” on a tape recording. Her mind could not keep up.
They were brought to her piecemeal; a young school girl gazing up at a fish tank full of humongous whale sharks; an undetectable assassin, his crooked spear gored through the side of her husband’s neck; the lake of blood; A blinding collision of ultraviolet.
“I alone am the Honored One.”
The shock paralyzed her in the moment. Suddenly she felt she couldn’t breathe. The confusion raging inside her head became awash in a myriad of faces and bright light. All she could think about was Satoru, his lifeless corpse lying on the ground, throat slashed, dead eyes flung wide open. She screamed, wanting to go back to him, but no sound came. The assorted memories kept changing, hurling at the speed of light, faster and faster, refusing to slow down and stop until she’d reached either the Elysian Plain or Hell.
The memories were unrelenting.
“Don’t make me say it again. Suguru has — ”
“She’s a political pawn. The higher-ups should’ve never brought her — ”
“Explain yourself!!”
Hannah saw her bathing through a hole in the wall, naked and singing an Irish lullaby of fairies and ancient worlds, unaware Satoru was also there watching, his desire on full display. If he hadn’t already admitted to his lechery, the unabashed stalking would’ve mortified her. But he had told her of this. He had asked for forgiveness. She had granted it.
They kept coming.
“I thought I had set aside such petty pride.”
“We don’t care if you’re scared — ”
“Are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest, or are you — ”
Satoru carried a dead Amanai across the room, her corpse shrouded in a blood-soaked sheet. Killed from the stray bullet yet to be extracted from her skull. People clapped in disturbing applause, smiling like they’d done him a service. His eyes drifted listlessly to Suguru.
“Do you want to kill them all?”
“There’s no point in attempting the impossible — ”
“Is that right? Maybe you’re right! You’re soooo right!!!”
This uneasiness.
Deranged. Utterly maddening. A high.
The vision of unmentionable power.
“Any last words?”
The air grew thinner as Hannah grew unsure. She wondered. Was the world spinning, or hurling on its axis in a straight line? Her heart felt it was beating a million miles, booming loudly in her ears. She thought she might faint. Make it stop, she wanted to cry, but there was no getting off this runaway memory train.
Until she was shown one last memory.
An adult Satoru, her Satoru, sitting in a chair, face buried in his hands. They were in the same hospital room he had brought her home from last night, leaving behind that nightmare of red eyes and shadow.
“This is all my fault. I fucked up.”
Shoko’s hand gripped his shoulder. “You didn’t know, Satoru. None of us did.”
“She could’ve died.”
“But she didn’t. She’s still here. You have to hold on to that.”
Satoru removed his hands and turned to see his unconscious wife lying on the hospital bed, hooked to an IV drip, cannula placed under her nose. They’d just finished her blood transfusion not long ago. The deep, claw-like wounds had been healed, yet her complexion remained pale. Hannah would concur. She looked like death. Satoru bowed his head, the image of a man vanquished with no more fight left to give. He was waving his white flag.
“I love her, Shoko.”
Hannah’s heart ceased all proper function.
Perhaps it was his pride talking, or his gross stubbornness which repelled him from speaking his native tongue. Hannah wasn’t sure if Shoko knew English, but judging by the tender emotion reflected in her soft brown eyes, she seemed to understand the weight of those three words well enough. A magnitude which Hannah had yet to feel.
A thousand images rushed to the forefront of her mind; A bouquet of red roses, two initials carved on a tree, spooning swans, St. Valentine, and Cupid’s golden arrow drawn to its bow. How strange to find herself on its receiving end; that pesky, fickle dart.
The feeling was foreign to her. Not love it’s entirety, per say. Hannah had given and received love from many nuns and teachers over the years, though not the kind Satoru had professed.
Since the day she was born, Hannah was told she was spoiled goods. That her worth was predicated upon her half-sorcerer blood, tainted by the man her mother was foolish enough to bed. A girl like her was meant to stay hidden inside the convents. She was not to leave. She was not to marry, or have a penny to her name, yet fate had intervened and destined her in the arms of a man who bestowed her all three. The guilt churned like a mortar, it’s weight crushing her full force.
Every time she’d been powerless to defend herself, knowing no spells or martial arts; the folly of her own human frailty, Satoru had been there to do what she could not. Companionship. Loyalty. Protection. Whatever it was, he had given it to her without ask. Her own contributions came up short by comparison. It embarrassed her then and embarrassed her still. How conceited she’d been. How childish.
“Ignore half of what he says, cailín ...”
No, she wouldn’t ignore this. She couldn’t. They had reached the long awaited bridge. He had dutifully crossed it, throwing his heart out on the line, waiting, while she remained dithering on the other side like a coward.
Hannah’s wedding ring felt it was searing her finger, spurning the skin. Go on, then, go on. Only one thing left to do.
The hospital room slowly faded like the closing of a finished book, but no matter.
Her resolution was clear.
There was no turning back the pages.
Notes:
1.) Tomohisa Yamashita, “Yamapi,” was a famous teen actor in the early 2000s. Satoru here is being facetious.
2.) Also, I’d you haven’t seen it already, Satoru and Hannah officially have a wedding portrait, courtesy of the amazing Saprophilous.Follow me on Tumblr. I live there too.
NEXT CHAPTER: The slow burn FINALLY comes to an end. (Rated E).
Chapter 30: One Flesh
Summary:
Satoru and Hannah consummate their marriage.
Notes:
🧠: So, you sure you want to do this?
ME: Yes.
🧠: You sure, you sure? No extra fluffy scenes? No other trials they have to face? This is where you want them to bang?
ME: Yes.
🧠: Hmm, I don’t know. Seems a little early.
ME: Oh, shut up. It’s been more than two years since we started this crazy thing. They’ve waited long enough. I say let them do it!!
🧠: Very well. Do it, they shall.Hehe.
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.That is to say, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you LarkspurDreamer for helping me write this.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 30: One Flesh
For the next few days Hannah was patient. She did not jump at the first opportunity, choosing to set her plan in motion when Makoto was away visiting family. The housekeeper would be gone a week, leaving her and Satoru alone in the house. Just the two of them. No one else.
The clock on her dresser struck six o’clock. They had just eaten dinner - leftovers from last night - and allotted themselves some free time before bed. Hannah made all the necessary preparations; bathed, brushed her teeth, shaved her legs. She wanted this evening to be perfect. Perfect for him.
Now cleaned and freshened up, she walked into her closet where her wedding attire hung and lifted the first notch off her ikō, mindful not to let the rest of the rack topple over as there was little else keeping it together. She tilted the notch to one side. The uchikake slid out with ease and tumbled to the floor. The October sun had already set. Only a small paper lantern burned in the closet, capturing the silver threads and lilac wisteria in its light. The little wife gathered the precious garment in her arms and prayed for guidance.
She would wait another hour, but no more.
…
The hour had passed. Hannah stood outside his bedroom in the hallway. She was accustomed to them sleeping in her room, but that was about to change.
Mustering the courage, her knuckles rapped twice on his door.
“Satoru?” she squeaked.
Nothing at first.
Then the sound of shuffling footsteps.
The door slid open.
Satoru popped out, wearing matching grey sweatpants and tee, readers poised on the bridge of his nose. He must’ve been in the middle of reading something. His mouth stretched into a yawn.
“Hey you, I was just about to head over. Ready for bed?”
Hannah did not answer and looked down at the floor, blushing like mad. “N-not exactly.”
The confusion was apparent on his face. He didn’t understand. It was late. Why wasn’t she ready for bedtime? But it didn’t take long for him to realize what she was wearing. Or rather, what she wasn’t wearing. His Six Eyes saw right through the wedding kimono like crystal clear water.
Oh.
Oh.
Feeling there was no time to waste, Hannah started to unloop the kimono, freeing the double knots she so expertly tied and untied a million times from poor nerves. Her hands shook feverishly. But just as the second tie came undone, she felt callused fingertips covet her own, halting their ministrations. She looked up to see pools of turquoise blue boring into her.
“We don’t have to do this, Hannah?” One hand moved to cradle the small of her back, holding her close. “There’s no rush.”
Hannah felt the urge to cry, but tried suppressing it. “Oh, I think we’ve danced around the subject long enough.” She smiled despite the emotion threatening to spill over. “Because you see, my darling, I’ve been a fool. A bloody, stupid fool.”
“A fool?” He stepped in to gingerly cup her face. “What makes you say that?”
The tears came freely. Hannah stared directly into his eyes; hazel colliding with blue, and did not mince words, voice carrying a shred of vulnerability.
“I love you, Gojō Satoru,” she said. “I was a fool not to see it sooner, but I’m willing to make it up to you. If you’ll have me.”
The Six Eyes wilder pressed a thumb to her lips, holding her into silence. Like the striking of a match, the smoldering of a flame, something awakened in his eyes she could not pinpoint, a light that could not be extinguished. Saying nothing, he wiped away her tears and lowered his hands to the drawstring of her kimono, whispering in an almost childlike voice. “May I?”
Obedient, Hannah let her hands fall to her sides as he tugged the knot, unraveling the uchikake he had gifted her from its silken chrysalis.
The wedding kimono dropped to the floor.
Hannah stood before him, naked as the day she was born. Like a sculptor assessing his fine handiwork, Satoru gave himself a moment of pause, eyes sloping over her breasts, nipples puckering from the sudden chill, nice and pink, the ones he’d been lusting after since he first saw her singing in the bath. His hands lifted to cup the supple mounds for himself, but not before he glanced to his wife for silent permission. Hannah gave a singular nod and gasped as one warm palm slipped underneath, gently bouncing the flesh up and down repeatedly, circling the pink bud with a calloused thumb. She was the perfect size, not too big, not too small. Exactly how he liked it, and his training regimen had worked wonders; His wife wasn’t a scrawny twig anymore. There was meat on them bones.
A beating pulse began throbbing between his legs the more he weighed her, stared at her. “Holy shit, Hannah, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to…,” he lost his train of thought, coveting her other breast. “So beautiful.”
His fingers were positively electric, sending prickles down her spine, massaging both breasts in a manner she hadn’t considered. Whenever she happened to touch herself running a rag in the wash or dressing into a bra such touches elicited no effect, but the fact these were his hands made all the difference. She liked it. It felt good.
It felt right.
Finishing his assessment, Satoru relinquished his hold. Callused hands sought hers and gently pulled her towards his bed, turquoise blue eyes filled with insatiable desire. He sat her down along the edge and backed away.
He lifted his shirt.
Loosened the drawstring of his sweatpants.
Hooked the elastic of his boxers.
And as he removed the last article of clothing, Hannah turned to look away, retaining those last vestiges of innocence, but Satoru denied her.
“Hannah.” He said it softly like a reprimand. “Look at me.”
She drew a shaky breath and slowly inclined her head, forcing herself to see.
Her lips parted.
Hannah had studied the male anatomy in biology books, seen Michelangelo's David up close during a pilgrimage to Florence, but Satoru standing before her in all his glory stole her breath away. He was truly a sight. A living monument of corded muscle and chiseled abs and years of discipline combined with blood, sweat, and tears. Everything about him was a masterpiece. From the definition of his arms to the carved ridge of his v, prompting her gaze to wander to their joined axis.
Her eyes widened.
He’s big, she noted. Bigger than the average male, already red and very erect, muscles relaxing so blood could pour into the corpora and harden the spongy tissue inside. Hannah knew at this stage his heart rate had elevated significantly nor could he feel the sticky precum oozing out his penis. His balls had swelled to twice their normal size, brewing millions of tiny sperm preparing to travel through the ejaculatory duct, whereby they would mix with seminal fluids from the prostate and exit out his urethra in search of an egg during climax. (That was the clinical side of it, anyway). Where things got tricky depended on what followed afterwards because —
“We can’t use condoms,” she blurted, clasping her mouth, swallowing as she watched a dribble of precum drip to the floor.
If Satoru’s cock wasn’t throbbing so badly like a stallion cooped in a barn full of mares, he would've voiced his opposition. It’s not that they “can’t” use condoms. No, no, no. It’s that they “wouldn’t.”
Vaguely curious on what to expect, Satoru had skimmed the Church’s stance on marriage and sex, Pope John Paul II’s Theology of the Body, and why most forms of contraception were frowned upon, excluding NFP. While he saw the logic, he vehemently opposed the conclusions. Contraception and birth control had lifted millions out of poverty, gave women the freedom to work and make their own choices. To think otherwise was outdated as it was regressive. Perhaps a small, minute part of him believed Hannah would rebel against her religious views, but alas. They were going oh naturale whether he liked it or not, and if she fell pregnant, so be it. He was in no position to argue.
Satoru steadied himself.
“I’m gonna open you up first, alright?”
Hannah gave a nervous nod. “O-Okay.”
“If you want me to stop for any reason, let me know.”
She nodded again.
Satoru cradled her chin, eyes serious. “I mean it, Hannah,” he said, smoothing her cheeks with his thumbs. “I can get a little carried away sometimes. If there’s anything I do wrong, tell me.”
She held his steady gaze and folded her hands over his. “I trust you.”
Satoru pressed his forehead to hers and splayed his hand over her stomach. She shivered as he gently pushed her down on the bed, taking ownership of her hips, and settling himself between her thighs.
At once, his touch went from languid to worshipful, breath hovering over her chest like warm vapor, encouraging the shy nipple to respond accordingly and relax. With lustful ardor, his mouth overtook it, sucking and pulling on the pink bud, while using his left hand to fondle the other breast. She could feel his hardness rub against her stomach, hearing him moan in pleasure. Hannah was beyond starstruck. Never had she experienced anything like this before. The swirling of his tongue combined with his thumb tracing around her nipple had her pressing her head to the mattress.
In time, his hand gravitated towards the warm cove of her thighs, slowly prying the legs open more to untangle the dark web of curls, gently combing the hair. Hannah felt the need to hide her face, embarrassed that he wanted to touch her there; the one area she hadn’t shaved. A dark chuckle roiled from him.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he teased, wringing the curls. “You know how much I like playing with your hair,” his hand started to dip further inwards, “Unless…there’s something else you think I should play with.” A violent shudder became her as his fingers teetered closer and closer to the tender swell underneath. “Let’s have a feel, shall we?”
Before she could think, two of Satoru’s fingers slipped inside, curling ever so slightly to imitate what he was about to do with a different body part. Hannah shut her eyes, struggling to find breath as Satoru toyed and teased and smarted. He added a third finger and soon Hannah could feel his entire hand caressing her arousal, thumb and pinkie stroking the folds in slow, deliberate circles, while his three remaining fingers plunged in and out of her continually, pleasuring her as best he could till the flesh grew achingly sensitive. Hannah let out a pitiful whimper, rocking her hips to match his “come hither” rhythm in the hopes it would help alleviate the budding tension collecting at her navel.
Her teeth sank into her bottom lip. Small trembles ran through her as he went deeper, her little moaning pants mingling with the slick sounds of him stroking for her most sensitive spot.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he purred, feeling her clamp tighter and tighter around his fingers. He dipped his head in the crook of her neck, pressing soft kisses to the skin just below her ear. “Don’t fight it now…Ah, you’re going to cum any second…Yes, I can feel you cumming…my Hannah…my Hannah…my Hannah...”
An all consuming heat suddenly surged through Hannah’s body; her head, her breasts, her stomach, pooling down between her hips until she felt her entrance hold and release around his fingers like a heartbeat. A rush of moisture came to the forefront, coating the invasive digits in fresh wetness. After digging a little more, Satoru withdrew the soiled fingers and eagerly brought them to his nose. He closed his eyes and inhaled, cock panging for her in earnest. He welcomed the flood of endorphins to invade his brain and he licked each finger dry. Her very first orgasm was his for the taking, and it smelled and tasted better than anything he could’ve imagined. He wanted, no, needed more.
A feral look possessed him. Satoru knelt at the foot of the bed and propped her legs over his shoulders, leaving them to dangle like streamers, and before Hannah realized what was going on, his craven tongue was gliding along the wet folds of her pussy, licking the rims clean and stroking his way to the juicy center as though savoring a melted treat. Overwhelmed, Hannah’s soft whimpers turned to moans. “Satoru,” she called out and tried clamping her legs together when she started orgasming a second time. His wicked tongue plunged deeper. “Satoru!!” she cried louder, but Satoru had spread her hips wide apart, listening to his name being repeated over and over again as she came inside his mouth. So many wonderful, delicious sounds, envisioning her flushed cheeks, parted lips, and heavy-lidded eyes lashes. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to wring as many orgasms out of her like this as humanly possible.
Below, his cock was screaming for release. Satoru groped the hardened juncture below in an effort to appease it, stroking once, twice, feeling very tempted to throw in the towel and go all in. It ached like a motherfucker, but he had to pull away.
Although, he underestimated Hannah’s pleasure in this. Not wanting it to end, her hands clamored for his mouth to return, but Satoru quickly seized them. “No, sweetheart, no.” He kissed her knuckles. “If I keep doing that, I won’t last much longer.”
Her next words were dangerous.
“Then don’t,” she whimpered, practically begging. “I don’t want you to last.”
He tucked a trestle of auburn behind her ear. “Are you sure, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” came her delirious response. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life.”
Regaining his balance, Satoru lifted her hips and properly angled himself.
Thanks to their warm-up, he slid inside her without much resistance, cock warm and heavy, stretching the virgin skin to accommodate its larger girth, yet the sensation was so intense and unyielding Hannah clenched without giving it a second thought. No, this was nothing like his fingers, nor his tongue. She felt her privates were on fire, as though his hardness was made of fiberglass, penetrating deeper and deeper until her walls thinned out and split open. Something tore. She smelled blood.
“Satoru,” she cried, gritting her teeth as tears watered her eyes. “It’s…Oh, God.”
“Breathe, Hannah,” he panted the deeper he went. “I broke your hymen. You’re alright, just breathe for me, sweetheart.”
“It hurts.”
“I know, baby, but breathing helps. Breathe, Hannah.” He watched her choke on an inhale and release a long, staggered breath. “Good girl, just like that.” She didn’t tell him to stop, so he pushed in a little more, her wet pussy squeezing around him. Fuck, she was tight. By far the tightest he’d ever had and the feeling was indescribable, her walls hugging him in all the right places, hitting the bulbous gland at the tip of his penis at just the right — Oh yeah. There’s the spot. This was Satoru’s first time with a virgin and in a daze he almost forgot himself, swearing never to use condoms again. Nuh-uh, nope, not when she felt like this. Not when she made him feel bigger, fuller even.
Meanwhile, Hannah clutched onto him for dear life, nails digging into his shoulder blades like mountain hooks. “Move,” she begged the deeper he went. “Satoru, please move.”
“Give me a minute, baby,” he huffed, voice velvet soft. “I’m almost there,” and with one final nudge his penis went as far as it would go, kissing the entrance of her womb.
Hannah grabbed a fistful of sheets, her throat so clenched she could barely form the words, “Satoru…please.”
Knowing she was having a rough go, Satoru eased his hips and did a little shimmy, making the intrusion more bearable. Hannah’s breathing steadied. He reached up and cupped her teary-eyed face, wanting one final look at her before they took the plunge. Although, in many ways they already had. His knees quivered from restraint.
“I’ll start slow,” he hushed, stroking her burning cheeks lovingly.
Hannah managed another nod and hooked her arms around his neck.
“You ready?”
“Hmhm,” she grimaced.
And so it began.
As promised, he set a maddeningly slow pace for her at first, gently tilting to a new spot each time he entered, allowing his cock to explore every inch of her sex with undiluted pleasure. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he praised between thrusts. “Aah, so good.” Tears flowed freely down Hannah’s cheeks with every torturous roll of his hips, every sharp gasp, every languid moan and sweet encouragement pouring out his mouth; fiberglass, heat, fire. She felt she would melt. It was too much.
Somewhere amidst their rigor, she managed to recapture his lips in a needy kiss, holding down her muffled cries and wrapped her legs around his torso, smooshing their bellies together. It helped. The pain eased a little the more he gyrated. She forgot the stench of blood. Panting for breath, Hannah broke from the kiss and pressed her head to the mattress as his large calloused hands resumed fondling her now very sore and tender breasts, giving her focus to the sound of their bodies slapping hard against each other, growing louder and faster the more they went at it.
She felt the muscles hook around her navel once more. The peaks of her nipples tightened and her core began pounding harder than ever before. A thousand tiny dots obscured her vision, along with a faint ringing developing in her ears. Her mouth went slack. Sensing she was close, Satoru grunted and took the opportunity to lower his hand, using his thumb and index to stroke the wings of her clit, causing the edges of her vision to turn stark-white. Then he rammed upwards as far as he could and somewhere in the back of her mind Hannah knew she was belting his name, screaming it loud for all to hear, but she didn’t care and neither did he. Their bodies were functioning on autopilot, grinding aggressively back and forth in fine, strobic movements. Lost to both pain and pleasure.
Their lovemaking reached its acme when a resounding groan, deep and guttural, coursed through Satoru’s throat like a low keening. Hannah felt his groin expand within her, the surmounting pressure bringing him past the point of no return, fully opening him up. There was no stopping it now. Faster and faster he bucked, spinal reflexes working full throttle, and within seconds Hannah felt something warm and sticky gush between her thighs. Six months worth of abstinence and desperate longing came channeling out in heavy intervals; one, two, three, four…her insides were like liquid. No longer thrusting by that point, Satoru closed his eyes and snapped back his head, moaning loudly with every newfound release. Hannah’s own eyes lulled as yet a new orgasm engulfed her senses, his warm seed spilling into her like rainwater to the parched ground. Their fingers found each other, weaving into place. So this was what it was like when a man came inside you, she thought. It was the most incredible she felt in ages, if not, ever. Her toes and fingers tingled. Was she floating?
It was over as soon as it began. Satoru needed a good minute to expel himself, humping a few extra times to make sure he had finished, wanting her to have every last drop. He raised his head to catch his breath, ignoring how sensitive everything felt inside her.
Caught in a state of peace, turquoise blue and moss brown stared into each other for a blissful moment, both disoriented. Satoru watched new tears stream down his wife’s cheeks as she began to sob, overcome with joy and euphoria. They’d done it. They’d really done it. The amber glow of the lights made her skin look radiant. She was his sun, his obsession, his hana. They’re would be no one else.
He wiped away her happy tears and sought her hand, wedding rings glistening from an oath fulfilled, skin-warmed and gold.
“Daisuki, Satoru,” he heard her sigh contentedly in the lantern glow.
Having yet to pull out, he hunched himself over so their foreheads could touch. “Not as much as I love you,” he replied in English and sealed her lips in a final kiss, cradling her in his arms as he positioned their bodies to lay beside each other on the bed, still conjoined.
If only they could remain like that forever. Never to be parted.
His wife.
Her husband.
One flesh.
At long last.
Notes:
Cute and sexy. Just how I like ‘em.
Can you believe this isn’t even the climax of the story? (No pun intended)
(*ahem) But just so y'all know. If your partner is ejaculating too much semen that’s actually a sign of infertility and possibly testicular cancer later down the road, so you should probably get that checked, but this is a fantasy, so…yeah.🫠
🌈✨The more you know✨🌈
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NEXT CHAPTER: Satoru is a naughty influence.
Chapter 31: Honeymoon Phase
Summary:
Be careful what you wish for, Satoru.
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.That is to say, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you LarkspurDreamer for helping me.
Sorry for the wait this time.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 31: Honeymoon Phase
Satoru wasn’t aware of the hour, nor the duration he’d been watching her dream, only that he wished the sun wouldn’t rise and spoil the moment. This angel, who could quote Italian operas in French and mourned the death of spiders. Like the sound of her name, Hannah was a flower in full bloom. He was practically drunk off her scent; The trappings of their lovemaking growing more potent by the second, an intoxicating mixture of lilies after a fresh spring rain and first-time sex. He would give anything for her.
Precious, he held her close and continued watching her chest rise and fall, tracing the softness of her breasts, soft and pliant; the curvature of her hips, the tiny freckles dusting her cheeks, the spot of morning sun making her hair glisten in hues of autumn. She looked lovely. Absolutely lovely.
And she’s all mine.
Crazy what time could do. Six months ago, Satoru was cornering her in a Starbucks, scorning the idea of marriage. He thought the institution outdated, and in the business of producing heirs, wholly unnecessary. Love was for sissies.
They were married in mid-April. It was now October. Outside, the cypress and pines would retain their veridian colouring, but come November the maples and ginkgo would set Mt. Takao ablaze in fire. He’d have to take Hannah up to Yakuo-in temple for the best sight-seeing spot, maybe take a cable car, go to a maple tree festival. She’d love that.
Satoru felt a sudden giddy boyishness at the mere thought.
Love; Being in love; That love being reciprocated. No one told him it would be like this. It made him want to dance. It made him want to sing. It made him want to shoot off like a rocket into outer space to the tune of Buddy’s, “I’m in love! I’m in love, and I don’t care who knows it!!” And to think his pride was the one thing standing in the way.
He watched her eyelashes flutter. Hannah inhaled deeply and stretched, arching her back, and slowly parted her eyes.
“Mmm,” she moaned.
Satoru grinned despite himself.
“Mornin.’”
“Good morning,” she mewed, gracing him with a sleepy smile.
“Sleep well?”
Hannah snuggled closer to his chest, “Mmhm.”
He chuckled and planted a gentle kiss on her crown. “How’re you feeling?”
Ah, good question.
Hannah very slowly made to sit up, but a dull ache reminiscent of menstrual cramps pulled at her insides. It felt as though her organs had been stirred and twisted, which wasn’t far from the truth. Quickly, she clamped her stomach and plopped her weary head back on his chest, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Her voice came out soft.
“A little sore.”
Satoru was not deterred and very delicately turned her faceup to begin kneading her abdominals, gently working his fingers between her pelvis in sharp little circles. To say it felt good would've been an understatement. Whether inside or out, his touch was like heaven.
“It’ll be easier next time,” he purred between strokes. “I promise.”
Hannah shivered but became fully relaxed, enjoying the feel of his hands, massaging around her aching core and hips.
Amidst his delicate ministrations, her eyes drowsily made note of his room. It had been a while since she’d last been in it. She noticed the poster boards of bikini-clad models were nowhere to be seen and the shelves of video games had been reorganised to give the room more space. Other than that, it looked relatively the same. They were high above, lost in the mountains surrounded by pines and Buddhist temples.
Her eyes found the clock on his nightstand, blinking a sound 8:03 AM on the screen. Usually, they’d be out jogging at this hour.
“Shouldn't we be getting up?” she yawned, wanting to rise, but her arms and legs were like Jello. Not to mention his fingers were busy.
“Nah, we can sleep in today,” Satoru purred. “I think you’ve more than earned it.”
Then he leaned over to bestow her a good morning kiss. Hannah closed her eyes and took in the sensation. A new heat flooded her belly, concentrating on his breathing, her heartbeat, the feel of his hands cradling her back. She sighed deeply, holding the kiss a moment longer before breaking away. She caught the pondering look in his eyes.
“What's wrong?”
He curled a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking.”
“About?”
Satoru felt the corners of his mouth twitch, finger lazily tracing around one of her breasts.
“How your uncle swindled me out of fourteen billion yen.”
That got her attention.
A part of him was reticent, a part of him wanted to forget it ever happened, but the truth began spilling out as it so often does. The Six Eyes wielder laid bare his visit to Wasserton all those months ago. About her potbellied uncle sitting opposite him, shortening his lifespan through the inhalation of a cigar. The group of elders in the siren’s den. The haggling and bartering and disregard for money or human life. “But the joke’s on them,” he continued. “Cause those geezers wouldn’t know someone’s worth if it was printed on a price tag. All things considering, I got you for a steal, Princess.” His voice grew somber. “Are you mad at me? For doing what I did?”
Hannah's reply was immediate. “No.”
He frowned.
“So, just like that? I’m forgiven?”
She tilted her head.
“Why wouldn’t you be? You did what you thought you had to. Surely, I can’t fault you for that.” It was her turn to bestow a morning kiss. “I mean, we’re together now, aren’t we?”
He was a monster. He wasn’t worth such kindness, but oh, how he loved her. He loved her so much he thought his chest would explode, realising then that she was the best thing to ever happen to him. Could you die of a heart this full, he wondered. He dared to explore the question as his tongue began trailing hot kisses down her neck, her sternum, stomach and hips, reaching the sweet pleasure center between her legs till all he could hear were her sighs.
Mmm, just in time for breakfast.
…
Didn’t take long before Hannah wanted to hop back on the saddle.
The next few days were filled with what could only be sex and debauchery the likes of which the Gojo estate hadn’t sustained in decades, as the couple took time exploring each other.
Satoru suggested they try in the onsen.
Best decision ever.
“Oh, Hannah,” he moaned, voice low and soothing as his hands wandered, spreading open her thighs. “Baby.” She looked like a fucking vision; lips supplicant and parted, hazel eyes half-lidded, breasts floating from the water. The cute face of someone lost in direction, nervous at what to do next, and it was entirely his doing.
Straddling him, Hannah glanced down for reassurance, blushing profusely. Satoru only smiled, his breathing slightly more elevated than before.
“Go ahead, sweetheart.”
Carefully, cautiously, she angled her pelvis and slowly joined herself to him.
Hannah buried her face in the crook of his neck to eclipse her gasp, feeling his hardness fill and stretch her out all over again. The bath water loosened her up, helping to mitigate the pain. He had been right, of course. The sensation didn’t hurt like last time. She was still sore, but the muscular ache was bearable. She could enjoy him fully.
It didn’t take her long.
“L-Like this?” she said shakily, bracing his shoulders, using her knees to propel herself up and down.
“Yeah, babe, just like that,” he panted. “Yes, that’s good. That’s really good, Hannah. Keep going.”
Hannah obeyed.
She whimpered and whined, lifting in and out of him, hot, awkward, and needy, overcome by the small gush of warm bath water with each entrance of his cock. She could feel the flames smoldering over her wet skin, the constriction, something new and thrilling. Stars dappled her vision, but it was her husband’s pleasurable grunts and moans that sent her into ecstasy. A reaction caused not by anyone else but her. Perhaps she shouldn’t be proud of that, but with how good it felt she found it didn’t matter.
Not when she was the one pleasuring him.
Then he bucked without thinking, causing her to squeak out in surprise. They were half-way there. Up until that point, Satoru had let her assume control, giving her the reins, staying completely motionless, but his resolve was fraying. He couldn’t help it, she felt so wonderful. The friction, her weight, the very tips of her fingers cupping the base of his neck, weaving through his hair as she sank into him. Even with the bath water and the taking of her virginity, her sex was still so tight. He counted the breaths leaving her body as he held her hips, smooshing her ass to him, reminding himself of just how tiny she was and how tiny he wasn’t as he kept her moored, body dominated by his larger size.
His cock hunkered deeper for purchase, hips moving on instinct as he rammed upwards, focused solely on their lustful passion, how good it felt, how good she felt, and the sloshing of the bath water wading around them. Up, down, up, down. Shimmy here, shimmy there. How ardently she pressed her body down against him in return, repeating his name like a mantra, like a holy verse, each grinding aggressively against the other, slow and purposeful, building in momentum.
Re-joining them in a lazy-tongued kiss, Hannah panted his name onto his lips, but could not hold it, and once parted, his mouth claimed the tender mounds of her breasts, devouring each at a time like a starved animal, nibbling and sucking, running his tongue over the pink buds with reckless abandon. Mine, mine, mine.
They were both nearing the end.
“Satoru,” she keened, sinking down, muscles tightening. “I think I’m…I think I’m…”
“I know, sweetheart. I know,” he answered. “I am too. Almost there.”
Hannah’s face buried into his shoulder and cried out in blissful agony. Fuck.
Her legs grew weak, quivering from exertion, till she could lift herself no more and sank fully into him, crying out from the rush of her orgasm. Murmuring words of love like always, Satoru secured his hold on her, halting her hips from moving and began grinding up inside her to finish what she started.
He thrusted his hips up as far as they’d go, then snapped them back, breath ragged, nostrils flaring, reducing him to his most carnal form, and braced both elbows on the edge of the pool to stabilise himself. He could barely think straight. Hannah’s body went limp, hugging him to her as they vigorously bobbed up and down, riding the waves.
He came hard and fast, vision blurred from the sheer magnitude. He experienced colors in the form of sound, a sharp metal whir and flashing white light. That’s what it felt like when she made him cum, the Six Eyes dissolving through the ceiling to stare up at the vast Milky Way. Planets, nebulas, and the stars. Billions of light years from the earth. Warp speed.
They made love wherever they could. The couch. The kitchen countertop, the tatami, the shower, Hannah’s closet, Hannah’s futon, Satoru’s bed again; Missionary, cowgirl, sixty-nine, till the whole house became renewed in their insatiableness for one another.
Hannah soon wanted to sample other delicacies.
“So,” Satoru swallowed, “What’s the verdict?”
She pursed her lips and removed her finger from her mouth. “It’s kinda…sour.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She tilted her head as though trying to locate an easy starting point. “What is it I do again?”
Satoru was sitting comfortably in an armchair, pants and Calvin’s discarded on the floor. He was finding it difficult not to fidget under Hannah’s breathing, those little short puffs skittering over his hard pecker like a temptress. She had just sampled a taste of him, swiping her finger across his drivel. Having his wife kneeling between his legs, looking up at him, topless, already had him in such a state. Satoru had dreamed about this for months, and finally they were going to turn those dreams into reality.
He was trying his best to give instructions.
“You can start at the tip, then work your way down.”
“Right.” A delicious blush rippled all over her cheeks. “And I’m to take it in my whole mouth?”
“No, you’re not ready for deepthroating just yet.”
“Deepthroating?”
Satoru internally winced. Even to his ears, the word sounded all shades of cringe. Horrible, awful cringe. There was just no other way to say it.
“It’s when your partner takes,” his face felt hot, “the entire, uh, shaft in their mouth to imitate penetration.”
He seriously hated himself.
“Really?” Hannah blinked, ignoring his shame. “But how is that even possible when….” She gaped at his mammoth arousal, biting her bottom lip as though in conflict.
Satoru coughed. “I’d have to slide it down your throat,” he finally explained, eyeing the nervous way she was staring. He didn’t want her to feel discouraged, selfish as it was.
“Is it painful?”
He felt almost repentant. “Sometimes, but you’re more likely to risk throwing up than anything else, which is why we’re gonna take it easy. For all we know, you might not even like it.”
Hannah raised a tested brow. “But you would?”
Goddamnit.
Satoru cursed his silence following that question, inadvertently answering it for her.
The challenge was on.
Ever the cautious type, she heeded his initial advice, and tentatively gave the tip short little flicks, rounding her tongue to tease the sinew underneath where the hotbed of nerve endings ridged together. Satoru let her discover for herself.
Right off the bat, Hannah could tell this form of intimacy was the most different. She supposed there was a certain level of trust needed for a man to stick his genitals in a person’s mouth and not leave a eunuch, at least when it came to a consensual setting like this one. The taste of him was altogether strange; alkaline and sour, pungent, though not revolting. There was something oddly satisfying about it, though she couldn’t place the flavour. Virilité Masculine? Fellatio? But the look on her husband’s face; that was what she really noticed.
Hannah had never seen Satoru look so - what was it - content? High? Delirious? The whole time she was going down on him, her eyes never broke away. She saw his own eyes roll to the back of his head, mouth agape, arms slack. If it were any other situation, she would have mistaken him for being drunk. The man looked like an absolute, drooling trainwreck. Because of her.
And Hannah decided she enjoyed that.
Immensely.
“Hannah,” her husband groused, cupping the back of her head. “Lower.” She obliged willingly, her tongue becoming more emboldened with each flick and stroke.
Satoru brushed her hair and murmured how beautiful she was as her tongue glided up and down his hard length. He then proceeded to show her with his hands how to fondle his balls, how to gently lift them up and down, sometimes giving them a good squeeze and rub a slender finger between the seam.
Her tongue returned to licking, playing with the ringed underside again, till without warning she sucked. He eeped out a tiny yelp.
Hannah forfeited the erection with a clean pop, looking up worriedly, afraid she’d hurt him.
“No, no,” Satoru laughed, blushing as he stroked her hair. “It felt good, sweetheart, that’s all,” he tilted her head for more, “It’s alright.”
He could feel his cock thrumming the more she ravished him. Fuck, he hadn’t intended them to last this long. He knew they needed to stop. Fantasies were fun and all, but it technically wasn’t wise to ejaculate in your partner's mouth, and Hannah was inexperienced.
In hindsight.
“W-Wait, baby, slow down,” he said, breathing sporadic. “I think we s-should — Wait.”
But a brief edge of defiance shone in his wife’s eyes, something he hadn’t seen in her before. She did not relinquish him like last time. Instead her mouth stayed put, sucking harder and harder as though his cock were a giant pacifier, tongue flicking and swirling. Till finally she made her move and pushed inwards. Satoru’s breath staggered as her entire mouth overtook him, sliding his heavy penis to the very edge of her throat, till it touched a little fleck of uvula. Hannah’s head repeatedly jerked. He felt her swallowing, his heart roaring between his ears. The pressure was building up in his groin, accumulating like a geyser. Any second and it would erupt. He could feel his release finding its way, little by little.
…3…2…1…
“Hannah,” Satoru strained, but he couldn't hold it any longer. One of his hands stabilized her head, while the other gripped the base of his shaft.
Blast off!
His cock thrummed and pulsed as the release overcame him, tingling every hair follicle, from his head to his ankles, heat flooding his entire body. “Mmmmm,” Hannah moaned, her mouth clamped firmly as she savoured each morsel, swallowing him whole. Tears welled in the corners of Satoru’s eyes. “Holy fuck, holy fuck,” he kept stammering, keeping his feet rooted to the floor, holding himself steady so he wouldn’t accidentally buck his hips and choke her. His ass was practically super-glued to that infernal chair.
She finished without struggle, using her tongue to clean the spoils. Overall, it was a relatively unmessy affair. He hadn’t choked her, or given her whiplash. For a first-timer, she handled it like a champ.
“Ya liked that, huh?” Satoru panted as he collected himself.
Hannah looked up shyly. “Can we do it again?” She wiped the saliva and dribble off her mouth, her cheeks darkly flushed. “Please?”
“Don’t see why not.” Satoru mused, dragging a calloused thumb over her lips. “Except I’m a tad indisposed at the moment. No thanks to you.”
His wife pouted like she’d been put in timeout, eyeing the limp phallus between his legs as though it had stolen her favourite toy.
“Hurry up.”
The next day, Megumi had to check himself when he walked through the door, sensing a disturbance in the Force. To the trained eye nothing seemed off kilter. Makoto-san kept the Gojo estate in tip-top shape, even when away, and yet a disquieting feeling pricked at the corners of his mind like a clawing itch.
Whatever the inkling was, it told him to avoid sitting on the furniture.
Or touch the tabletops.
Now that it was transitioning day by day into fall, helping Hannah de-weed and prep her garden had become a bi-weekly occurrence. Megumi was appreciative of the work, a small kindness in return for her English tutoring, of which, he was fourth in his class. In a course of a few months he had fledged into a top student. Classmates were now trading favours for help with their homework.
Tsumiki would be busy with either swim practice or hanging out at a friend’s, and therefore didn’t always come. Megumi had few friends and few extracurricular hobbies outside of school. He wasn’t much of a “people person,” but with Hannah that wasn’t the case.
“Now, Megumi, I want you to pull the tall weeds out like so, alright?” She gestured to a tall stalk of common ragwort, an invasive species he newly learned, and grabbed it by the bottom before carefully ripping it from the earth. “Don’t worry if you uproot any good plants as you pull. We’ll be able to replant them. Just work slowly. Slow and steady wins the prize in gardening.”
She spoke with a level of certainty Megumi found grounding. The world was confusing, cruel, and unequal, but she was stability, she was warmth. Sometimes she’d name the flowers for him in English, though he had trouble pronouncing them; “Ranunculus,” “Amaranthus,” “Dahlias.” Combined, they brought colour to a grey, vapid world where a brother and sister were left abandoned by their parents. Those memories didn’t exist here. Hannah rooted them out like weeds.
Yet something was different about her that day, and every day henceforth.
The sun was shining up in the Takao mountains, breeze cool, though not too cold. The entire time they’d been weeding, watering, and extracting seeds from flower pods, Hannah hadn’t vented to him once. On any normal visit, she’d lament to him her fears on running the estate, the jujutsu elite, or the fraught condition of her marriage, which in that aspect Hannah was essentially a saint because who in their right mind could stand being married to that guy? But Hannah was pleasantly sanguine, humming a make-believe tune as she gathered newly extracted sweet pea seeds in a bucket.
It was Satoru, Megumi thought. He had to have done something. He just knew it.
The boy caught the way the couple glanced at each other passing down the halls, fingers brushing, cheeks flush, small innocent caresses. They did those on occasion, but never so openly. In fact, there were times the two would ignore him point blank, lost in their own separate world, talking nonsense, kissing (gross). He was clearly missing something.
What gives?
He asked Makoto about it upon her return, but all he got in reply was a knowing smile and a pat on the head.
“Never you mind, young sir.”
Notes:
Oh, Megumi. You sweet, sweet summer child.
Spoilers for Ch. 261 were…interesting to say the least. Things got seriously weird. They were weird before, but now… No one is in their respective bodies, people!! I’m probably going to stop following the manga and wait till the last chapter is published. Yeah, we’re definitely not going with Gege’s canon for this story. It’s interesting and different, but I’m not going there.😂 Officially SUPER canon divergent now.
Anway…
Come join our server on Discord. It’s a great way to read exclusive HannahxSatoru content you won’t find anywhere else (I might even take submissions). We talk about anything from JJK, to celebrity red carpets, to how crazy your week went. Seriously, we’d love to have ya.
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NEXT CHAPTER: A long awaited meeting...
Chapter 32: 夏油 傑
Summary:
袖振り合うも他生の縁
A chance meeting, too, is the karma of another life - Japanese proverb.
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.That is to say, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you LarkspurDreamer for helping me.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 32: 夏油 傑
Hannah waited patiently outside Sekiguchi Cathedral. Mass had just ended, but the sky was raining bullets.1
Cathedrals, being what they were, played an essential role in the functioning of a diocese. They were not under the same classification as a basilica, though many cathedrals were also basilicas. Rather, cathedrals were churches where the archbishop presided; Where he said Mass, Where his desk could be reached - and if reporting an exorcism - where the Vatican could be put on speed dial. Only one cathedral existed per dioceses. In Tokyo, this cathedral was Sekiguchi Cathedral, known affectionately as St. Mary’s.
As for The International Association of Exorcists, St. Mary’s operated as its chief headquarters in Japan. It was the heart and brain of the institution. The central hub.
Its Japanese congregants drew mostly a senior crowd, many of whom still wore formal attire and veiled despite the casualization of Vatican II. This bunch always attended the earliest mass times, waking at the crack of dawn to attain a spot in the front pew. Then there was the majority; tourists and foreign exchange students; international employees and the curious. In summary, the church wasn’t crammed shoulder-to-shoulder come Sunday morning, but nor was it empty.
Fr. O’Malley was one of the priests who lived at St. Mary’s rectory. He was a man of many hats, conducting his normal priestly obligations by day, then undertaking his exorcist duties by night, with exception to the lectures he gave at Sophia University on Tuesdays and Thursdays evenings. Being so busy corresponding between East and West, and being no strapping young lad, when he proposed to Hannah that he might be in need of an assistant, “Could ya help a old, Irish priest out, lass,” she volunteered her services immediately.
Every Sunday after Mass, Hannah would help Fr. O’Malley write letters - formal correspondence was still done by hand - and check for grammar mistakes. This was a task Hannah was uniquely qualified for, being fluent in several languages, not counting Japanese. Then once the letters were stamped and neatly shuffled, she’d commence to sweeping the cathedral entrances, count the week’s donations, and search underneath pews for wads of chewed gum. Her last task of the day was less tedious; replacing the flower arrangements scattered around the church. A florist would arrive with the orders, and Hannah, along with a few other church volunteers, would cut and prep the delivered florals, before walking around and switching them out with their dying brethren. Hannah could accomplish these tasks within the span of an hour or two.
Letters stamped, pew gum scraped off, and dead flowers replaced, Hannah was her own woman again. All there was left to do now was wait to be picked up, and then she could finally relax with a hot cup of chamomile tea.
The October rain was an unexpected surprise. The little wife stood still, shivering slightly underneath the church pavilion with her tiny umbrella and dress. Satoru would arrive any minute. He was planning to take her down to Aoyama for the farmer’s market. However, with the grey skies and pouring rain, it looked as if another movie night would be in order.
Hannah watched random people pass by, dashing to their taxis, and crossing streets to seek refuge in the underground station, some leading their children by the hand. Hannah couldn’t help but wonder if that would be her and Satoru someday, ushering their children from the rain. Maybe they’d stop at a 7-Eleven on the way home for a Sunday treat, or fancy a tour to the art museum. And then the thought occurred to her; Did she want that life? Was such a possibility in her future? With recent developments, it felt more plausible than first conceived. Only a matter of time.
“Sheesh, it’s a monsoon out there.”
Hannah jumped. She hadn’t seen him approach. Although by his stature, he shouldn’t have been impossible to miss. He was measurably tall, at least as tall as Satoru, maybe an inch taller, yet his face remained hidden under an oversized black hoodie.
Understandably, the mystery man made the young wife a tad nervous. Japanese weren’t known for being openly conversational towards strangers, especially not foreigners. Still, she didn’t want to appear rude and turned to indulge in his small talk.
“I-I’m sure it’ll clear up soon,” she replied.
“One can pray.” He seemed to take more of her appearance. “Sorry, are you waiting for someone?”
“Um, yes, my husband,” Hannah coughed, keeping her guard up. “You?”
He shook his head. “Just passing through. The rain held me up during my run. Ugh, I can’t stand it.”
“The rain?” Hannah pondered.
Though it was hard to tell, the man’s lips seemed to curl. “Hated it ever since I was a kid,” he rebutted, looking out at the throngs of bustling people. “Rain ruins the day. Makes everything wet and miserable. Blocks out the sun. I’d love nothing more than to rid the world of torrential downpours like this,” the timbre in his voice grew darker, “these monkeys.”
Monkeys?
He said it so maliciously, Hannah wondered if it was really the rain he despised, though she couldn’t disagree more.
“You can’t possibly mean that, can you? Rain is wonderful.” She watched the hooded stranger cock his head to the side, perhaps conveying skepticism. She stumbled. “I-I mean, we’d have no life without rain. No food. No flowers. Sure, it may be grey and dreary now, but the storm will pass in due course. Rain simply means sunnier and brighter days tomorrow. It’s a good thing.”
The little wife heard the mystery man hum in deliberation, as though weighing the preponderance of her logic, before giving an amused snort. “Well, aren’t you a romantic.”
Hannah couldn’t discern whether this was good or bad, so she kept herself neutral.
“If you say so.”
“You attend this church?” The man further inquired, jabbing a lazy thumb in the vicinity of the church doors behind them. “Apologies for all the questions. I’m a bit of a chatterbox.”
“No, not at all,” she said. “Yes, I attend this church.”
“Interesting.” Hannah could feel his hidden eyes locked on her. “Then I take it you're not a tourist. You can’t be, judging by how advanced your Japanese is. I’m impressed. How long have you been here again?”
She hadn’t said.
“Six months.”
“Nooooo, you’re kidding?!!”
“It’s true,” Hannah let out a shy laugh, “I’m originally from England, but I moved here permanently once I got married.”
“Then in that case, allow me to bestow my sincere congratulations in welcoming you to Japan,” the hooded figure bent into a short bow, ensuring his hood wouldn’t slip. “Speaking of which, your husband must be a forgetful person. Is he always this late? Shame on him to keep his pretty wife waiting here by herself. Tsk, tsk.”
“He'll be here soon,” Hannah insisted. “He’s just held up at work, that’s all.”
“Ah, the age old excuse,” the man demurred. “Work. Sounds like a cop.”
He was encroaching on a sensitive topic Hannah knew best to keep under wraps. He was a civilian. “Suppose you could say that.”
The figure grunted. “You must really love him, if this is what you have to put up with.”
“Oh, yes,” the wife replied fondly. She didn’t have to think twice. “I adore him.”
A substantial pause ensued. Very odd. Hannah felt her palms sweat as she gripped her umbrella. Her heart fluttered. The figure wasn’t threatening per say, his voice was friendly, yet something about him made her feel like she was being circled. Perhaps that was just her paranoia talking. Yeah, best to ignore that.
“I see,” the man said, breaking his long-thought silence. “And would he say the same about you?
“Pardon?”
She hadn’t expected such a question. Afterall, why would a stranger feel the need to ask a topic so personal? A stranger.
“I mean, do you feel ‘supported’ in your marriage?” he reiterated.
“Of…course,” she replied warily. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Another deliberate pause. For a second, Hannah saw what she thought was a fringe of long black hair, and the outline of a broad jawline cracking into a grin, but the hooded stranger stepped aside before she could get a better look.
“Good,” he said, sounding pleased. “I’m relieved to hear it. Ya know, marriage is in such disrepair these days. If he’s anything like you say he is, your husband sure is one lucky bastard, in more ways than one.”
Hannah gulped for reasons unclear. “Um, thanks?” I think.
If ever proof there was a God, the rain began to lose its stronghold. Rays of piercing sunshine ate away at the clouds, and the pelting rhythm of drops eased into a calming pitter-patter. The parking lot smelled strongly of macadam and ozone. For early October, the air felt humid, or maybe it was something else.
“Well, I won’t take more of your day,” sighed the hooded man. “It was nice chatting. Perhaps we’ll see each other again sometime and catch up.” He offered a wave and turned the other direction. “Ja neh.”
Not knowing what to do, Hannah naively waved back.
“Ja neh.”
She thought nothing more of the strange man after their brief encounter, nor the star-marked calluses spotting his fingers. In a matter of minutes, he had jogged down Chome St. and that was the end of it.
A false comfort.
Notes:
I’m sure you have questions after reading this. Please do.
1.) In case you’ve forgotten, this is the same cathedral from Chapter 5.
Come join our server on Discord. It’s a great way to read exclusive HannahxSatoru content you won’t find anywhere else (I might even take submissions). We talk about anything from JJK, to celebrity red carpets, to how crazy your week went. Seriously, we’d love to have ya.
AND follow me on Tumblr. I live there too.
NEXT CHAPTER: The honeymoon is over. The hunt for the fourth Sukuna finger begins...now.
Chapter 33: One Trouble Departed, Again Trouble
Summary:
一難去って又
Ichinan satte mata
“One trouble departed, again trouble.” At the moment we think we’re in the clear, another problem soon arises.
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.That is to say, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you LarkspurDreamer for helping me.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 33: One Trouble Departed, Again Trouble
One could equate the ambiance and feel of a Japanese shokudō between a New York styled bar and an izakaya. Family friendly and cheap, these quaint-looking nooks and crannies tended to be independently run, smaller, and prioritized their menu on fully prepared entrees, rather than finger food and saké.
With its retro red and white signage, Rangmang was a cozy little shokudō, located an easy three minute walk from Ebisu station in Roppongi. The establishment was best known for their lightly breaded fried chicken (karaage) and Lemon Sours, where exclusively on Fridays and Saturdays you, and your party, could enjoy a 90 minute all-you-can-eat special, alongside rounds of bottomless beer.1
The air was warm and thick for October. Looking out, Satoru thought this Wednesday night felt a tad busier than most, then again, this part of Roppongi was almost always busy; Tokyoites partaking in a few hours of freedom before work the next day (and the flood of tourists). Jujutsu sorcerers weren’t given such luxuries. There was no such thing as “time off,” evident by the quarter-Dane’s insistence they get together for another debrief. As usual, Utahime and Shoko were invited. Judging from Nanami’s stalwart expression, his intel was not encouraging.
“The streets are starting to talk,” he began, once they were settled at their table and placed their orders. “They know about Hannah.”
“Not surprising.” Satoru shrugged. “We knew they’d catch on eventually.”
“Doesn’t negate the fact she could be at greater risk, doofus,” Utahime bristled. “You should be taking this seriously.”
Satoru turned to issue her a cold stare. “Who said I wasn’t?”
Best to knock on a stone bridge before crossing it.
While they were friends, that didn’t make Utahime untouchable in any way, and it wasn’t any wonder as to why. They weren’t blind. Any person with a pair of eyes and an average-sized brain could see Satoru and Hannah had gotten physical. Afterall, no couple made “bedroom” eyes like that unless they were fucking the ever-loving tartersauce out of each other. There was also the fact he genuinely cared for her, and talked about her nonstop. Utahime found Satoru boorish and immature and too powerful for his own good, but Hannah was undoubtedly a central figure in his life now. Accost her, cross that stone bridge before knocking, and there’d be hell to pay.
Speaking of which, she should ask Hannah to get tested.
A waitress shortly came with their fried chicken and beer (Satoru substituted for Pepsi). Shoko quietly sipped her drink, watching her blue-eyed friend with shrewd prudence. She wasn’t much for joining the conversation, merely reading the room, guessing what card he had played. Despite knowing him longer than most, Shoko always found it tricky to gauge which Satoru they were dealing with; the Joker or the Ace. He switched hands on a dime. Made her nervous.
Kento hadn’t finished.
“That’s not all,” he added. “There’s been some development in the Time Vessel Association’s reemergence. We’ve finally confirmed its new leader. Our hunch was correct.” He paused. “It’s him.”
They didn’t say a word. They didn’t have to. At this point, the evidence could drown an entire village. It practically had; The manipulated curse that attacked Hannah back in April; The two armed thugs Nanami detained at the opera (and brutally interrogated); The weird disappearances and murders.
Obscure religious groups were no strangers to Japan. The country had been plagued by NRMs (New Religious Movements) in recent decades. Most were quirky and innocuous. Others were downright dangerous and at times posed sizable threats to the public. Happy Science, a more modern group, had its own political party and proclaimed fervently, without evidence, that China and North Korea were plotting Japan’s nuclear demise and the country should prepare for invasion. Kaeda Juku did not believe in modern medicine and taught how only special prayers recited by their leader could heal an ailing person, which came asunder when two mummified children were found in their headquarters, having died of medical negligence. Then there was Aum Shinri Kyo, a terrorist organization most infamous for the Subway Sarin Attacks, killing fourteen people and injuring over a thousand.2
Like deadly viruses, these movements preyed on the vulnerable and oftentimes disbanded, before circumventing and reforming into something far worse. The Toki no Utsuwa no Kai, or Time Vessel Association, had slipped off the police’s radar for years, only to rise back from the grave like a dark twisted phoenix, this time with a new Messianic figurehead, a new “vision.”
For months now, jujutsu’s leading investigators had worked around the clock to uncover the new leader’s name. The residuals, disappearances, and suspicious murders pointed to just one.
“So, the rumors are true,” Shoko drawled, setting her beer on the table. “The crazy dude got himself a cult. What’s the prize for joining, I wonder, a lollipop?”
“Shoko,” The Six Eyes wielder sighed, uninterested in her sarcasm. “Stop.”
Though he’d been craving some decent fried chicken, Satoru found he wasn’t hungry anymore. He knew he was supposed to do his job, that a number of people were counting on him. He was the Six Eyes wielder, the strongest sorcerer on earth, however the truth of the whole prospect made him sick to his stomach, and there was nothing he could do. The higher-ups had made their choice.
It wasn’t an accident he’d chosen Suguru’s favorite restaurant tonight. Rangmang used to be their hang out. They’d stumbled upon it one evening after a grueling mission. It was just the two of them then, laughing at something stupid a curse user had said, ordering karaage, talking the proverbial shit. Teenage boys were good at that sort of thing; causing a ruckus. A lot of fond memories here.
There are few friends you make in life, even fewer worthy enough to be your equal; The whole “he’s got your back, you’ve got his” dynamic. Someone who knows you better than you dare know yourself, someone you might open up to. The first person who made you feel like you weren’t alone in the universe, like you weren’t the only one born different. Born crazy.
A best friend. A partner. A soulmate.
And then they leave you, crush your heart into a million shattered pieces until it’s only a fragment of what it once was, knowing it’ll never be made whole again, that it’ll never trust.
You’ll just get left behind.
Satoru stifled a breath. Suguru was like an oil stain you couldn’t wash out. Fate seemed insistent on stringing them together - and damn - did it piss him off. He just wanted this pernicious cycle to end. His heart had endured enough beatings, his upbringing notwithstanding. How much more would it take? How many more times must he go through this long, tortured dance? He hadn’t told Hannah the full story yet either. He perished the thought.
“You could do it, Satoru…The impossible…”
“Satoru,” Kento said. “You can’t take any - and I mean any chances now. If you see him, he’s to be killed on sight. No more fooling around. That goes for the rest of you.”
“Got it,” Utahime chimed.
“Mmhm,” grunted Shoko.
Satoru peered down at his Pepsi.
“And another thing, Satoru.”
The Six Eyes wielder looked up at his blond colleague.
Nanami’s steel grey eyes were piercing. “When in public, Hannah is to stay with you at all times. Given what we know, we already suspect there’s a bounty on her head.” He gave his friend a rare, pitying look. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you twice.”
Satoru closed his fists. He could still feel his wife’s blood bleeding on his fingers, her horrid screams, scenes of the last time he’d failed to keep her safe.
“No,” he answered stoically. “You don’t.”
His eyes returned to his half-empty can. A part of him wished his old man hadn’t abused alcohol. Maybe then he could go home and muster the wherewithal to drink away his sorrows.
What an absolute, shit-tastic day.
Hannah was home at her library desk, lost in the sentences of a thickly paged book, writing carefully curated notes as she left stickered tabs on the page numbers. The more she read, the more aggravated she became. She hadn’t known what secrets she’d discover upon opening the book, but this? This was unforgivable, a crime to all things sacred. How had it gone on like this without anyone knowing?
The Gojo library was no Wiblingen Monastery. It was no bigger than her bedroom and the architecture was far more quaint in design, walled with elegantly painted shoji and illuminated solely by sun or lamplight. It conserved a few manuscripts believed to be early writings of Lady Murasaki (though this couldn’t be verified), as well as Buddhist sutras, poems, and diary entries written by Gojo ancestors long before. There also existed ancient incantations handed down from progeny to progeny, but those were kept under strict spell and key. However, none of those fascinations mattered to Hannah. The part she loved most about the Gojo library was its serene solitude, a place one could think alone in peace and quiet.
“What-cha got there?”
Or not.
Hannah peered up to see the most vivid pair of turquoise blue beaming down at her, the look of complete adoration. She recently noticed he had dimples the other day - but nevermind that. She could admire them later, preferably when they were tangled in his bed with no clothes on.
“You said you tested out of high school English, correct?” she asked candidly.
“Sure did.” Satoru quirked a snowy brow. “Why do you ask?”
Hannah closed her notebook and flipped the bigger book to an earlier page, holding it up to him.
“Read this for me; the first paragraph. Anything look off to you?”
Satoru was reticent in taking the book, but nonetheless followed her instructions. He found her reasoning almost immediately. The book was laden with spelling and grammar mistakes. “Nancy was exciting to go to the parke.”…“Thomas wants to glow up to be a polizman.”…“English is like a magic.” He couldn’t help laughing. There were so many. But that wasn’t all.
“What the heck?! Even the Japanese segments have errors.” He was outright cackling.
“This,” Hannah pointed to the book, forcing herself not to smile, “is the English textbook Jujutsu High gives their first years. Shoko found me hers. I guess it explains why the school’s English scores have stayed below average for so long.”
“Unreal.” Satoru flipped another page in total bemusement. “Nobody said anything, so I never thought to... “ He gave the subject more thought and felt his grin widen. “This is kinda sad.” The sheer irony.
Although, he had to correct himself. Satoru quickly recalled the many times he stood listening to Shoko complain about her English classes. “Adachi-sensei can go jump off a bridge,” she would whine. The future physician wasn’t the greatest at explaining things. Looking back, he simply assumed she was being dramatic - that “time of the month” and what not - but nope. Turns out he’d been wrong.
“Seems Mr. Adachi was rather inept,” Hannah went on. “Must’ve been exaggerating when he said he graduated from Brown.”
Hannah was still sitting in the chair. Satoru came awfully close, bending low to her ear, “Soooooo, does this mean you’re taking his place? Cause if yes, that would make me very,” and looped his arms around her, “very happy.”
She warmly accepted his embrace, resting her head along his chest. “Oh, would it now?”
Having changed from her dress earlier, she felt his hands snake behind and tug on her obi, loosening the ornate drum knot; a pretty burgundy and pomegranate combination. The kimono parted to unveil milk smooth skin, allowing him the satisfaction of trailing butter-soft kisses down her neck.
“Definitely,” he lavished between kisses. “You’d be…a great…teacher.”
Hannah wished she shared even a fraction of his confidence.
“There’s still a lot I don’t know.”
Satoru halted his kisses, voice tender. “You can’t know everything.” He squeezed her tight. “No one does.”
Hannah closed her eyes as he continued peppering her neck, slightly moving her head a fraction to give him access of the other side. “How was Rangmang?”
Satoru went still, a subtle yet prevalent tension in his hold.
“It was…okay,” he said, breath tickling her skin. “We talked about work.”
“Just work?” she prompted, hearing a somber tone to his voice.
Satoru hummed in affirmation. “Yeah. I won’t bore you on the subject. It’s nothing you have to deal with.” He inhaled her scent and sighed deeply, relaxing his shoulders. “Mmm, feels good to be home.”
That seemed to be the only answer she’d get. Hannah too gave a sigh as he held her close. It had been a productive yet tiring evening.
“Suppose I’ll have to find a proper textbook now, won’t I?” she said.
Satoru hummed his agreement again, burying his nose in the crook of her neck. He glanced back down at the page she had opened.
“Polizzzzzman.”
They both laughed.
Notes:
Woohoo! NOTES!!!
1.) As detailed in the chapter, shokudō are restaurants/bars catered to more family-friendly customers. I’m not sure if the classification between an izakaya and shokudō matters much to everyday Japanese, but regardless, the classification exists.
- Rangmang is a real shokudō you can visit in Tokyo, as shown in this video.🍗
WEBSITE: www.rangmag.com (use translator)
ADDRESS: Uchino Building 1F, 1-4-1 Ebisu-nishi, Shibuya-ku, Tokyo
HRS: 11:30am-2:30pm & 6pm-Midnight MON-FRI, Noon-2:30pm & 5-9:00pm SAT
$£¥: ¥1,000-3,000
2.) I’m sure by now you may be familiar with some of these infamous Japanese cults. You can watch this interesting video on Youtube about Aum Shinri Kyo. Also, Hiroshi Okawa, the son of Happy Science’s founder and current leader, left the cult and has spent much of his time criticizing the new religion and his father. He also makes fun videos on YouTube, although if you don’t know Japanese, you’re shit out of luck.🙃
Come join our server on Discord. It’s a great way to read exclusive HannahxSatoru content you won’t find anywhere else. We talk about anything from JJK, to celebrity red carpets, to how crazy your week went. Seriously, we’d love to have ya.
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NEXT CHAPTER: Ever been to the Hirosaki Castle Chrysanthemum Festival?
Chapter 34: Sanity
Summary:
Okay, maybe I lied.
You get one more cute, honeymoon-ish chapter.
Notes:
WARNING and DISCLAIMER:
This chapter incorporates some historical and modern facts, including real people and places in Tokyo/Japan, though some things are entirely fictional. I’ve listed my sources at the bottom.That is to say, I do not own any of Gege Akutami’s work, except my OCs.
Thank you LarkspurDreamer for helping me.
Enjoy.❤️
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 34: Sanity
Before the Warring States and Tokugawa shogunate, archeologists estimated there were once 30,000 palaces and fortresses scattered throughout Japan. When Tokugawa Ieyasu’s power waned and the Meiji era rose to prominence, that figure dwindled to a gapping 200. And by the dawn of the 20th century, combined with the wake of World War II, and the quick, sudden death of the Japanese aristocracy, the loss of palatial infrastructure was so great that some palaces were either voluntarily dismantled or left for scrap.
The Cultural Property Preservation Law currently recognized 62 castle gates and 61 turrets dispersing across 27 estates as being Jūyō Bunkazai (重要文化財) or “Important Cultural Properties.” Of those 27 estates, seven “original” palaces held the designation, with five additional palaces bestowed the higher designation of “National Treasure.”
Like her seven proud sisters, Hirosaki Castle was one of the palaces designated an “Important Cultural Property,” and the most well-preserved castle in northern Japan. In the 400 years since her construction, she’d housed many a samurai and seen much of war. The beating heart of Hirosaki City, her plastered white walls, curved tiled roofs, and earthen ramparts had survived a devastating fire in 1627 from a stray lightning bolt striking the central tower, and went from having five Tenshu to three come 1810. Her property consisted of 124 acres, including a bailey containing five original yaguramon (tower gates), three towers, and a guardhouse, each with their own name and classification, which was now accessible to the public as a national park and museum. And, as with all major palaces, a large lake garden (originally moats) circumfretted the estate in Japanese maple, ginkgo, and other local fauna.
Autumn was the best time of year to visit the palace, especially during the Hirosaki Castle’s Annual Chrysanthemum and Autumn Foliage Festival.
Hannah was ecstatic.
Their weekend trip to Hirosaki Castle would mark her very first festival. Satoru planned to take her during Obon - as its festivals were quite popular - but work got in the way and he’d been forced to depart on a last-minute mission. He figured it was time for a change in scenery, and the suffusion of chrysanthemums and flower decor were sure to suit Hannah’s fancy.
She’d practically been buzzing in her seat the entire train ride. The journey from Tokyo to Hirosaki City took almost five hours by train, but granted onlookers the opportunity to capture Japan’s natural beauty. As a sweet little gift, Satoru had bought Hannah a brand new Nikon, which she quickly put to use. Every few minutes or so, he’d see her snapping a picture of the forested mountainscapes, tongue sticking out as she focused the lens, hazel eyes wide and innocently transfixed. “Pretty,” he’d hear her whisper. The sight made his tummy flutter. Ugh, adorable.
Her cute pink puffer jacket and pom-pom hat shaped like a polar bear made her all the more adorable. The weather was forecasted to be quite chilly. He stuffed her mittens inside his coat pockets in case she needed them.
“Say cheese,” she sang, facing the camera towards him.
Satoru was in the middle of slurping his hot cocoa, he hadn’t time to wipe his face before the Nikon went “click.”
Hannah couldn’t contain her giggle as she plopped back down to show him the result, gushing. Satoru leaned over her shoulder.
She’d got him good. The photo caught the Six Eyes wielder completely off guard, blinking in surprise with a mustache of whipped cream atop his upper lip. His oval sunglasses were sliding off his nose.
“Gotcha.”
Satoru scoffed and playfully rolled his eyes at her. “You just got lucky,” and hurriedly swiped the cream off his lips.
Hannah beamed in triumph, her freckled cheeks rosy as could be. She was really pretty when she smiled. It gave him an idea.
“Hey, I got a better one.” Satoru dished out his phone and waved his finger. “C’mere.”
Hannah tilted her head, curious at what he was planning, but scooted closer. Satoru took off his sunglasses and folded them in his lap. His arm draped over both her shoulders, embracing her to him. Waiting for her to get comfortable, he then angled the phone in front of them and switched the camera to “selfie mode.” He dutifully rested his chin atop her head, catching the faint whiff of lavender from her shampoo.
“Smile.”
Realizing now what he was up to, Hannah cuddled into him and smiled all the more up at the camera.
His thumb tapped the button.
Marital bliss frozen in time. The selfie had been their first taken as husband and wife. Their very first picture, on their way to Hannah’s very first autumn festival. Memories they’d look back on when they were old and grey, when life grew tough and the world a mess. But this. This was theirs to keep forever. A happiness no tragedy or disaster could upend. A marriage. A family.
“Not bad,” Satoru hummed.
“Yeah,” agreed Hannah, marveling at the Six Eyes, so nacreous and blue. Couldn’t replicate that color even if you tried. “We should have it framed when we get home. It can go on your nightstand.”
“Yeah.” This received her a loving peck on the cheek. “I’d like that. Good thinking. And Hannah?”
“Mmm?” she peered up at him.
He winked, showing her his camera screen again, this time with a picture of him having just kissed her cheek.
“Gotcha.”
One of the five go-sekku, Chrysanthemums festivals were first introduced to Japan via China, who venerated the autumn flower for its timeless beauty and medicinal properties. It was believed steeping the petals in a hot tea could elongate one's life and cure aches and pains. For that reason, it was popular for palaces and Buddhist shrines to plant mums in gardens. The Imperial Seal of Japan, stamped on every passport and royal document, also bore the bloom as its emblem, and many poets and artists used the herbaceous flora for inspiration. Some restaurants even utilized the petals as a garnish when serving sashimi.
Hannah knew mums belonged to the Asteraceae family, placing them in the same grouping as daisies, dahlias, and zinnias. In fact, a lesser known name for a chrysanthemum was a “florist’s daisy.” They came in a variety of cultivars and colours; mostly reds, yellows, and purples, some with long, spider-like petals that stretched outwards like sea anemones, others more compact with tightly-round layers reminiscent of cheery doll faces.
The Hirosaki Castle gardens were rife with them, exhibiting a magnanimous array of species and shapes. Atsumono. Kudamono. Ichimonji. Every variant one could think of. Hannah took her time admiring the beds, zooming her camera to capture the perfect photo.
They departed for Hirosaki Castle immediately after checking into the inn. Satoru didn’t want a place too far and optioned for a location within walking distance; a ryokan owned by a kind elderly couple 15 mins from the castle. They took their key, dropped their bags, and arrived at the castle by early afternoon, more than enough time to enjoy the festival and eat lunch.
“A lot of people here today,” Hannah said when they crossed the palace gates. She was right. There were a lot of people, but Satoru said it only elevated the experience. The more the merrier.
At least, that’s what he told her. In truth, this was no time to slack off. Hannah has to stay with you at all times, rang Nanami’s voice. The Six Eyes wielder scanned the area for any potential adversaries. It already bothered him that a pair of perverted young men, who were clearly from the countryside and had never seen a foreigner before, were taking random snapshots of his wife without her knowledge. He’d issued them the most menacing glare. The tourists would catch the flash of his eyes and immediately hightail it in the other direction. That’s right, dweebs, keep your dicks in your pants..
They toured the rows of chrysanthemum gardens. Horticulturists had incorporated storytelling into the year’s displays. Lifesize dolls, covered head to toe in real flowers, brought to life many of the folktales passed down by tradition, including historic figures like Lord Tsuguru walking amongst the flowers, he too partaking in the festivities like his subjects, katana strapped to his waist.
The most striking red maples Satoru had ever seen cloaked the surrounding forest in fire, made more intense by the brightness of the autumn sun. At night, spotlights would illuminate the maples so only the scarlet leaves were visible amongst the shadows, making the viewing more memorable for garden enthusiasts. They’d be sure to return come sunset to see for themselves.
For a low admission fee, Hirosaki Castle could also be seen up close and toured from the inside. Although the size of the castle bore little semblance to what they imagined.
“It’s so tiny,” Hannah squealed, pretending to squish the castle between her fingers. “How cute.”
“Kind of a let down, if you ask me,” Satoru muttered. He had yet to see the castle in person until now.
Hannah took his hand. “I wanna go in, c’mon.”
This was easier said than done. Standing 6’3 had its drawbacks. The door leading inside the castle was so squat and narrow, Satoru had to bow half-way to fit through, while his wife sauntered in like it was made for her. The castle’s interior was nothing special (in his opinion), just a gift shop and a video detailing the current renovations plans. However, there was an alarmingly steep flight of stairs with a red warning sign nailed to the wall. Satoru was close to having a mini heart attack watching his wife hobble up the creaking wooden boards. He kept a ready hand on her bum, following close behind. The way down was more perilous, him holding onto her hand afraid she’d slip and roll an ankle. By the time they’d finished roaming the small castle, Satoru felt he obtained a permanent crick in his back.
The boat ride was much more relaxing. He and Hannah boarded a little isobune, oarred by a retired fisherman, who glided them around the moat. The cascade of falling orange and gold leaves landing atop the water was breathtaking as they passed under a red bridge, and the unshaded sun felt good on their faces, despite the chilly weather. Hannah rested her head along Satoru’s arm and closed her eyes, listening to the water churn against the oar and a lark singing in the distance. The world at peace.
They ate rice balls and fish sticks and caramelized apples from a vendor parked along the garden path. Then finished their day with scouting the nursery where visitors could buy bushels of chrysanthemums and ornate bonsai. Hannah was tempted, but thought the chrysanthemums they had back home were better.
The sun eventually dipped behind the northern mountains. The Gojo couple stuck around to take pictures of the illuminated maple trees till the pathway became so dark it was difficult to see anything other than the red and gold leaves. Everything else was pitch black.
“Oh, Satoru. Look at these.” Hannah raced towards a group of maples she’d spotted.
There was a rustling noise. Unsettling laughter.
“You could do it, Satoru…The impossible.”
Satoru hurriedly whipped around.
“Even that has meaning…”
But saw nothing. No one was there. The wind. Perhaps it was the wind. Yes, it was only the wind.
“Satoru?” Hannah called concernedly from ahead.
Knock it off, Satoru. He was hearing things. It was all in his head. The Six Eyes would’ve seen him.
“Yeah, coming, sweetheart.”
...
That night they laid together in bed, skin to skin. It was smart of them to eat when they did. Most restaurants were closed by the time they arrived back at the inn. Hannah was busy massaging his hands, running her little fingers over the minuscule scars and toughened calluses, relieving the tension in his joints. Felt good.
“Have you always liked being a giant?” she mused, halting her massage to splay her palm over his, not even half its size.
He grinned at her hyperbole, giving off a meager shrug. “There’s advantages, I guess. Makes me faster, stronger, but it also attracts unwanted attention. I can’t hide for shit.”
“True,” Hannah stipulated. “You do tend to stand out in a crowd.”
“Mmhm.” He absentmindedly began twisting the gold wedding band on her finger. Part of him contemplated whether buying her a diamond ring to go with it.
“But I’d say you wear it rather well.”
He stopped twisting to huff tiredly. “Not much choice in that regard. For me, it’s either fear the spotlight or embrace it. There's really no third option.”
Hannah planted a reassuring kiss on his chest near his heart.
“What about you?” he countered. “How have you liked being a mouse?”
She took slight umbridge at that. “I’m not a mouse.”
“Fine, a very cute mouse.”
She swatted him lightly before returning her head to his chest. “I suppose it has its upsides.” Her voice held a somber note as she traced his pectorals.”I can fade into the background whenever I want. No one cares if I’m here or there…”
He sensed her hesitancy. “But?”
“But that’s just it. No one cares what happens to a nobody.”
He brought the dainty hand tracing his muscles to his lips, kissing its knuckles.
“Try convincing me of that.”
Hannah smiled, thinking he was too good to be true and any moment she’d wake up from this dream. After so many years living a barely-there existence, this sense of belonging, of being wanted, was more than her prayers could answer. What a blessing to have this man in her life, despite the political circumstances surrounding their union. He deserved everything for making her this happy. She would gladly give what little she had, be it words or her body.
A titillating warmth pooled inside her stomach, spreading between her thighs, desirous and hungry, not quite satiated by their earlier round of sex. Propping herself on her elbows, her lips sought the company of his own. He welcomed them greedily, tongue slipping inside her mouth to lean in deeper for a taste. A languid moan hovered on the edge of her throat as she rolled her body on top of him, begging to be nearer, closer.
Satoru’s hands cupped her ass, kneading the soft flesh like mounds of dough. He too stifled a groan as her lips broke away and began trailing hot, steamy kisses down his neck, sucking and licking his collarbone. The hands cupping her bare ass squeezed harder as she worked her way towards his nipple, giving it a few teasing flicks. She lowered her hands, letting them run over the contour of his abs, down, down, down. He felt the jolt of electricity percolate through his spine to the very tip of his penis, pulsing incessantly.
Damn, she was learning fast, he thought, having recently confessed his secret like for nippie action. He reckoned he was rock solid now.
“Saaa~tor~uuuu,” she sang.
Holy fuck, and that voice. She could trick him into committing mass murder with that angel-sweet voice. The sway it had over him. Seemed like only yesterday she was standing in her wedding kimono, stuttering, too nervous to make eye contact till he forcibly grabbed her chin. Her confidence had since skyrocketed. For lack of a better analogy, she was playing him like a finely-tuned fiddle and he was powerless to fight her.
“Hannah,” he moaned, once her hand reached under to cup his balls. He surrendered a sharp gasp. She weighed them in her palm, gyrating them slowly just as he instructed her, careful not to hurt him.
“Yes?” Her other hand reached over to grip the hard length of his cock, pressing loving circles into the base with her thumb. Then, gentle as a lamb, pulling it downwards, unfurling the delicate foreskin to reveal the slick head underneath.
For fuck’s sake.
“Is this alright, love?” she purred amorously. “Do you want me to stop?”
Only then did he realize he was short of breath.
“No,” he panted. “Never.”
Hannah held a serene, sated look on her face, not the kind born of selfish lust or sheer dominance, but of total adoration. “Okay then.” She pecked him on the lips for good luck and joined her thumb and index together just as he taught her, hovering them inches above his erection. “Ready?”
He gulped once and gave a swift nod. The hand came down.
His moans were immutable by that point, though, frankly, he didn’t give a shit. Because each second of his wife’s goddess-like touch, her magic fingers stroking his cock up and down, brought him closer to heaven.
“I know you’ve been stressed lately,” she soothed between strokes. “Just tell me when, alright?”
Boy, wasn’t that the truth. The threat of Suguru’s reemergence placed everyone on red alert. The higher-ups were relentless in their tyranny, working Satoru to the bone. He’d been dispatched on three high-level missions last week spanning across the country, when all he wanted to do was sleep, eat mochi ice cream, and make steamy love to his wife. On the surface he made it look easy, but on the inside he longed for a break.
That’s what he loved most about Hannah. She always knew. He didn’t have to lie and don the mask.
Her strokes grew faster.
Satoru thought his soul tore in two for a second. He was barely conscious of his surroundings. Earth? Where’s that? All that remained was his wife’s melodic voice and the orgasm preparing to take over and exit his body. He felt the tension surmount in his groin, funneling up his balls, waiting for its queue to go. His breathing quickened, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring.
Knowing he was close, Hannah sat up criss-cross on the bed and scooted herself in, wrapping his long legs around her waist to hold him steady, giving him perfect view of her breasts. Finding the position more comfortable, she continued stroking him in her lap like a clay potter, hands working and wringing him in. He couldn’t speak, or think straight. Soon his hips started to buck on their own accord.
“That's it, Satoru. Easy now.”
She didn’t have to do anything except keep her hands still. Nature would take care of the rest, the receptors in his brain telling his spine to “giddy up.”
His thrusts began to readily excelerate, going faster in conjunction with the volition of his climax, the back-and-forth friction causing Hannah’s hand to grow shockingly hot. She caught the sheen of sweat on his skin, the heat of his cock. He grunted hard with each snap of his pelvis.
At once, his thrusts slowed, and then on the count of three, his hips jilted upwards for a grand finish.
He bellowed out her name as the orgasm tore through him, streams gushing over his stomach in quick bursts. Hannah continued pumping, relishing the triumph of his release soiling her bare hands, keeping him going until he’d run on empty.
Considering how much they’d been making love, she was surprised he lasted as long as he did.
Hannah’s pumping lessened as his breathing gradually returned to normal, his senses coming to.
“Stay still,” she hushed, granting him a celebratory kiss. “I’ll go fetch you a towel.”
“Uh huh,” he groused, every muscle in his legs and groin feeling tingly and loose, brain lost in a fog. His tongue was like lead. He could barely form a sentence.
Brushing a stray lock of white hair from his face, Hannah left to go find him a clean towel.
Weakly, Satoru managed to glance down at the mess he had made on his thighs and stomach. He released a winded sigh as his head hit the pillow, then broke into a rich, hearty laugh. And to think this was now his new normal.
“Yare, yare.”
…
The couple decided to explore more of the city the next day. Satoru knew all the best spots in town, having frequented Hirosaki on countless missions. The city was small, a population of 180,000 or less, but held rich history regarding samurai and the Fujita family, making it notorious for curse incidents. Satoru couldn’t begin to recall how many strangers would come across a random cursed object; a sword, or an arrow head, stupidly get the idea to touch it, then wind up dead on the road somewhere for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Always sucked when the victims were children.
Anyway, no need to relive those memories. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts...
Hannah wanted to visit another garden - cause of course she did - and peruse the local shops. Great.
But first, breakfast.
Satoru discovered Cafe Buruman three summers ago while on the hunt for some shaved ice. He didn’t find the ice (sadly), but did sample a delicious raspberry tartlet and a frappuccino. And it was located right next to their ryokan, which may have not been accidental.
The cafe had a traditional charm to it, evident by its cypress furnishings and a rare selection of Okura Pottery bowls shelved behind the bar counter. Stored inside glass cabinets were other fine china pieces, some of which were available for purchase. Classical music played elegantly in the background. Hannah was smitten the moment they entered the door.
They placed their orders; Hannah, a fruit parfait and peach tea; Satoru, a chocolate tartlet and white mocha latte, and picked a table over by the window.
“I received an invitation the other day,” Hannah said once they were seated and their food arrived.
Satoru picked up his spoon. “Oh? From who?”
“Lady Kamo Hatsumomo.”
The spoonful of tartlet, having just reached his mouth, nearly rolled off his tongue in disgust.
Hannah took it as a bad sign. “I’m guessing you don’t like her?”
“Like her?” he said, chewing his tartlet. “The woman’s a psycho. I know her as the eldest sister of Lord Kamo. She thinks the jujutsu world’s main purpose in life is to uphold its most antediluvian precepts.”
“Antediluvian.” Hannah brightened. “There’s your word of the day.”
Satoru smirked. “I have my moments. The point is, she despises anyone who doesn’t conform to her narrow set of beliefs.”
“And me being a foreigner probably doesn’t help,” Hannah suspected.
Her husband frowned. “I doubt it.”
“Why would she invite me to her house then?”
Satoru too wondered this. On the one hand, it made perfect sense to invite Hannah as she was his wife and therefore carried great influence, but even so. Hatsumomo was no friend to non-sorcerers, especially when it came to foreigners. He remembered Ichiro’s banishment from the family for marrying Kumari.
But unable to find a satisfactory answer as to why, he reached across the table. “Remember, you don’t have to accept," and took Hannah’s hand. “It’s your call.”
Hannah sighed and stared down at their hands. “We’ll see."
That was good enough for Satoru. The Six Eyes wielder went back to sipping his latte then looked over, staring out through the glass window. His best friend stood on the sidewalk, waving candidly at him, same long jet-black hair, black shirt, black sweatpants...
Wait, what now?
Satoru squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, opening them back up to see an empty street.
Just his mind playing dirty tricks again.
“Everything alright?” Hannah’s eyes were slightly tainted with worry.
“I’m fine,” Satoru replied, offering her a curt smile, running his thumb over her knuckles.
It was all in his head. Nothing more.
Yup, he was perfectly fine.
Notes:
1.) All the facts and history mentioned in this chapter about Japanese palaces was courtesy of An Encyclopedia of Japanese Castles by William de Lange and Samurai Castles by Jennifer MitchellHill.
2.) All my facts about chrysanthemums are from Petal: The World of Flowers Through an Artist’s Eye by Adrianna Picker; one of my absolute favs. The illustrations are gorgeous.
3.) Have any of you seen Hirosaki Castle in person? She is a weee, itty-bitty thing, but charming and sweet (kind of like a certain English-born wifey we know😉). A chrysanthemum festival takes place there every year. And in case you're wondering, kimono is not mandatory for all festivals, hence why Hannah and Satoru are dressed "normally."
4.) You can also visit Cafe Buruman in Hirosaki City. Got it on my bucket list.
Come join our server on Discord. It’s a great way to read exclusive HannahxSatoru content you won’t find anywhere else. We talk about anything from JJK, to celebrity red carpets, to how crazy your week went. Seriously, we’d love to have ya.
AND follow me on Tumblr. I live there too.
NEXT CHAPTER: A meeting of the (female) minds.
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DarkCas on Chapter 2 Sat 11 Dec 2021 04:03PM UTC
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Dirtytae on Chapter 2 Sat 11 Dec 2021 07:56PM UTC
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