Chapter Text
Art by me!
Inazuma is drowning.
The pain has always been there, present, like an ache in the chest that never goes away. It’s never bothered him as much as it should. In reality, he’s gotten used to it. It’s similar to how the human mind can ignore the nose, or perhaps a tickle in the back of the throat if it’s been there for a long time. Like fog, it sticks to the skin, making everything difficult to handle. Kazuha can feel it, but he doesn’t acknowledge it anymore.
Still, it burns through his body like wildfire.
It feels as if wisteria blooms have wrapped themselves around his ribs, vining the inside of his skin to solidness. He feels stiff all the time. His breaths are shallow, as if the roots have made place in his lungs, invading every crevice of his being. His bones are no longer made of marrow and vessels, but of thick, winding roots that curl out to his fingers and toes. When he moves, they tug, almost as if he’s half-buried in the very ground he’s standing on.
But he doesn’t understand why he feels this way. It’s just been there for as long as he can remember.
The ship sways under his feet, rain pelting down on his skin. The sky is as dark as the night, but it’s only half-past noon. Thunder roars somewhere far off in the distance, bursting Kazuha’s eardrums. He grips the rail tighter. White knuckled, all he can think of is to steady himself in the rushing storm and waves. Whether that be in his mind or the physical realm, he doesn’t know.
He closes his eyes. For a moment, it almost feels as if the sea is alive, its waves lashing at the hull with a pulse that matches his own. Each crash against wood reverberates in his bones, almost as if he is one with the ship. The rain soaks through his hair, skin, clothes, and he feels like he could melt into the floorboards creaking under his sopping sandals.
There are people around, crew members and the like, yelling out orders to withstand the strong current. Kazuha doesn’t pay mind to them. He just stands there in his own world, while everything else comes crashing down around him.
He used to enjoy the rain. Liked the way it felt on his skin, the scent of petrichor in the breeze, and how it was always there, drowning out the cacophony of noise constantly ringing out in his ears. But what Kazuha saw as a friend soon turned to foe. The rain is always there. It always has been. And Inazuma is drowning in it.
It seems the entire nation has vowed to ignore it. What was once a land of vast mountains and valleys has turned into islands—six, to be exact. Kazuha thinks that maybe the gods are angry. Maybe they needed to restart, so five hundred years ago, they sent rainfall as damning as this, until the world eventually suffocates in its sins. He misses his own, his land, the forests of maple trees he grew up under. The laugh of his friend as they pick berries from bushes. He thinks that he would have liked it when the rain was only an occasional sight, rather than a petrifying monster who would soon kill everything off, one family at a time.
The thought lingers in his mind long after it forms. Maybe the gods are cruel. Maybe they see human life as something insignificant—like a project they can throw out and start over whenever they’d like. Maybe they look down at this land and see weakness. And maybe they saw him, too, and decided to give him this unnerving pain that he doesn’t think will ever leave.
His grip on the rail slackens for a moment, then tightens again when the ship lurches forward. There are footsteps approaching—loud, rumbling ones that shake his core, but he doesn’t shy away when the person’s hand lands on his shoulder.
“How’re ya feeling?” Beidou asks as she lifts her umbrella to fit over the two of them. Her voice is strong, solid, and her scent is of grass and alcohol. Her hand isn’t there to make Kazuha cower in fear. Not once has he ever been afraid of the captain.
“I do not know,” he tells her, honestly. “It feels as though my entire world is shifting in such little time. I can’t help but wonder if this is the right thing to do.”
She hums at that, her dark hair falling to the side as she tilts her head. Kazuha looks at her from the corner of his eye, peering at the red eyepatch she has and the fluff of faux fur at the nape of her neck. She’s muscly, much more than Kazuha will ever be. And her skin is mauled from her fights. He doesn’t see them as flaws, however. He sees them as rewards for her wins.
“Aye, you’ll be fine,” she reassures, wrapping her free arm around his neck so he’s in a headlock. She nuzzles the top of his hair with the hand holding the umbrella, causing stray water droplets to fall on the two of them. “Just think of it as a fresh start. You never know what you’ll find out there.”
Kazuha looks out at the open sea. Their trip to Kannazuka is a long one from Narukami Island—approximately two to three weeks, depending on how harsh the weather is. He’d only visited once when he was very little, not even in the double digits of age.
He remembers his grandfather sitting in a wide, wooden chair that rocked. He would crawl onto his lap, staring out at the cliff his family’s cottage sat upon. His father would be inside, arguing with Kazuha’s grandmother about things he was too young to understand. Their voices were booming. Kazuha didn’t like yelling.
“This will all be yours someday,” Kazuha’s grandfather told him, speaking louder than the argument and weaving the red streak in his hair into a braid. His fingers were thick and rough from years spent working, but they never tugged. He was a gentle man. “Once I’m gone, you will be able to call this place your own. Carry on the family legacy! You ain’t gotta have nowhere to go when you got this here.”
It’s a phrase his grandfather would say any chance he got. Kazuha never truly understood what it meant until he grew older. Until his father disappeared, his mother passed, and his grandparents became too old to go on. The cottage has been his destiny since the minute he was conceived. And so, being the only one left in his family, Kazuha is to take all of it over by himself.
The last time he was there was over twenty years ago. All he remembers from the time is the soft scent of florals before the rain drowned them out. The land was lush with greenery, purple flowers, and trees so tall they could touch the stars. But it was all muffled by the sharp tang of iron swords lining the walls. His grandfather kept them around as relics from previous generations—their lacquered scabbards untouched by time. Kazuha had only ever looked at them in fear that he would break one, had he even placed a finger on it.
It isn’t much land, but it’s enough to make Kazuha’s skin feel frigid. He knows next to nothing about that cottage, other than it being in the family for well over five centuries. Even his oldest ancestors knew nothing. They only wrote what they could in books, but half of the world keeps them hidden.
He never even wanted to take over the business. That was his grandfather’s dream. Kazuha’s dream, ever since he was a boy, has been to travel. He wants to see as many sights as he can while he’s still young. He wants to understand the ways of Teyvat, how people came to be, the way animals act in different regions. He wants to unearth all the secrets of the world—intertwine them into his life like puzzle pieces.
But as he grows closer to his destination, that dream feels distant. Almost as if it had been left on Narukami Island, fading with the grey sea and pouring rain.
He looks up at Beidou again. “Maybe,” he says to her. Her eyebrows furrow in contemplation before she nods, her strong hand squeezing his shoulder in silent comfort.
“We've gotta long journey ahead. Come inside, kid. The crew wants to drink!”
Kazuha lingers on the deck for a moment longer, staring past the waves at the bland horizon. His chest feels tighter with every breath, as though the roots inside are tugging him toward that cliffside cottage. He thinks of his grandfather’s words—You ain’t gotta have nowhere to go if you got this here!—and the weight of them falls heavier than the rain that rubs his skin raw.
Finally, he follows Beidou in. The warmth of the cabin greets him, voices and lantern light spilling like lightning bugs in the dark. While the storm outside has settled to a calm drizzle, the one inside his chest whirls with unease. It is only a matter of time until his current life is stripped away, replaced by a small, uninhabited cottage in the middle of nowhere.
And when that moment comes, he knows he won’t be able to ignore the ache in his chest.
When they arrive at Kannazuka seventeen days later, Kazuha is tired. His body feels dizzy from the constant rocking of the ship and alcohol still thrumming in his system. The crew is yelling out their goodbyes from behind him, setting off on their own duties for the next few months.
Kazuha looks around, his bag heavy over his shoulder. There isn’t much to see on Kannazuka Island. It’s a larger island compared to the rest, but it’s pretty much empty aside from the large facility located in the center called Tatarasuna. Kazuha doesn’t pay mind to that area. His cottage is far on the other side of the island, to the south of the remaining residents.
He can feel electricity pulse against his skin, singing the hairs on his arms. He shivers. Kazuha doesn’t feel welcomed—not a bit. He looks back at Beidou, who’s been studying him for quite some time. Water clings to her like a second skin, turning her hair into a dark mop of brunette and black. When she notices Kazuha’s gaze, she gives him a wonky grin and asks, “You ready?”
He doesn’t think he will ever be ready. He doesn’t voice this out loud, however. He just nods his head, tightens his bag over his shoulder, and says with as much bravery as he can muster, “Not really.” Beidou’s eyebrows furrow, and Kazuha gives her a weak smile. “But I’ll be okay.”
She knocks against his back with a harsh palm. Her laugh bellows loud in the pouring rain, and she tells him, “Atta’ boy!”
They walk down the pier, shoes clacking against rotted wood. There are a few stragglers from the crew hanging back. Beidou spends her time telling them their tasks, before they all ultimately vanish into their separate duties. Kazuha watches with a pit in his gut. Once they reach Tatarasuna, Beidou will leave. And once Beidou leaves, Kazuha will be alone.
He swallows thickly as the ground morphs from wood to mud and grass. Beidou holds an umbrella above their heads to shield whatever rain they can from their eyes. Silence is all that’s heard, other than raindrops falling on the thick fabric protecting them.
Kazuha thinks that he will miss her and the fleet. They’re a rowdy bunch, with loud voices and burly faces, but he doesn’t think he has ever been as happy as he’s been with them. Drinking at noon, playing darts in the cabin when the rain is too strong to withstand, swaying on the sea at night, and listening to his older roommate snoring his lungs out.
He wonders what his life will be like now. All his time, until the end of his days, will be spent alone, excluding the spare customer or samurai needing their swords polished. Kazuha shivers thinking about it. From going out every night on an adventure, writing haikus, spending his days discovering new places, to sitting at the top of a mountain, withering away, and making swords for people. He thinks that his worst nightmare has come true.
Kazuha feels rooted to the ground when they reach Tatarasuna. He takes a deep breath and looks up at Beidou, who’s thinking of something to say, with her mouth falling open and closed. He shakes his head because he understands what she’s trying to say.
“This is where I leave you, kid,” she voices to him after a moment. Her large hands are on her hips, shoulders broad as always, and she sighs. She shakes her head. “Man, I can’t do this.” Kazuha yelps as he’s brought into those same arms, her crushing embrace pulling out whatever air he has left in his lungs.
“Captain Beidou?”
“I’mma miss you,” she says, voice muffled by Kazuha’s head.
He freezes in her grip, senses overloaded by salt, beer, and grass. Kazuha feels warm throughout his body, and he wonders if this is what it’s like to be hugged by family. It hits him after that, that he truly sees Beidou as his. Years spent with her, going on adventures to other nations, and Kazuha has come to the end of his journey.
He hears her voice tear up when she exclaims, “If you need anything—anything at all—you let me know. I don’t care if it’s two in the morning or Christmas Eve, you just let me know, okay? I’ll be here as soon as you know it.”
“I will,” he mutters, voice soft. Beidou pulls away, her hands placed on his shoulders, and she looks into his eyes. They watch each other for a moment—this is their last goodbye.
“You’re gonna be fine.” Kazuha nods. “Ain’t nothing happening to you.”
“I’m not dead, Captain.”
Beidou barks out a laugh. “I know, I know,” she cackles. “Now get going before I drag you back to the ship myself.”
Kazuha huffs out something between a sigh and a chuckle. Beidou hands him the umbrella—not that it does much, as the rain is heavier than earlier and beating into his eyes. He looks at her one last time, and at the droplets ricocheting off her form. Kazuha will miss her. He will miss his life. He will miss himself.
“Take care,” he says, then turns his back. If he looks at her one more time, he knows he won’t be able to leave. He knows he would willingly go back to the Crux, no matter how heavy his fate weighs on his shoulders.
His sandals sink into the mud as he steps away from everything he knows. Behind, he can hear Beidou receding as well.
Then, as she descends the mountain and to the ship, Kazuha feels alone. He pauses, turns his back, and looks. The sea is grey. There’s nothing but harsh quiet and coldness. All he has left is the sound of his own footsteps, that aching pull, and the silence to carry him home.
There’s a legend that only his family knows. One about a god and his creator, and the people who lived here before Inazuma became an ocean. It’s said that the god was worshipped by a village that sat at the bottom of the cliff, and was praised for over two hundred years before they all vanished without a trace.
The story came to be by a single woman. They say she was crazy—not right in the head. Her children were taken from her because of it. Many people didn’t believe her, so the legend was deemed a myth created by someone of unsound mind.
Kazuha doesn’t know what he believes. The gods are not kind to humanity—it can be seen in the Shogun, who is a tyrant and a fake. He knows she isn’t the real one. Her eyes are far too dead to be anything but a mere puppet. He knows they can do evil things and get away with it—a privilege the archons are blessed with as soon as they get their gnosis.
He’s seen it firsthand. Their anger. The power of lightning as it strikes through someone’s body. He’s seen it tear apart skin—burn through the chest cavity and singe hair to ashes. The way a jaw locks as an electric shock hits the brain, the heart, the veins. The eyes roll back to white, and then once it’s all over, the body falls limp.
Dead.
The gods are not good people.
Kazuha treks up the mountain with a ragged breath. His calves ache with every step, rocks scraping his feet, and stinging the soles of them. It’s evening now, and the rain has calmed, so he shoves the umbrella into his bag. The trees overhead spire up to the sky, trying to capture whatever glimpse of sun they can get. Their shadows loom over like hands reaching out to Kazuha’s ankles. They look sad—rotting with sodden bark and falling leaves. But he thinks that’s what it’s like being without the sun for so long. It’s the sort of gloom that only certain beings can have.
He feels out of place walking up this mountain and in this forest. It feels as if he’s disturbing the peace. He feels alone. His grandparents were brave, living up here despite the loneliness. But that’s what it must be like to spend your life with someone you love. The loneliness is only overshadowed by the intimacy of two people.
But Kazuha will be here alone until the end of his days.
He thinks of the woman in the legends. How lonely had it been when nobody listened? To have witnessed something as tragic as a god decimating an entire village, and being the only person to know. The trees know, but they can’t speak. And the ground remembers the shake of wrath, but it can’t scream out. The cottage remembers, but it sits still, slumped over like an old man in a rocking chair.
It’s overwhelming, the amount of grief this mountain holds. It brushes against his skin with every breeze, every breath, every raindrop. Kazuha may very well be the only one left who can figure out the truth.
When he breaks free from the pine, he sees the back of the cottage. Its walls are covered in wisteria—their vines climbing to the top of the roof and chimney peaking out. He stills at the sight. He remembers the florals differently—lively, fragrant waterfalls that dripped dew and swayed in the breeze. Now, they hang wilted and heavy, like they’re trying to cling to whatever life they have left. He watches as petals fall to the ground in a soggy, purple heap.
He lingers at the treeline, chest tight. The cottage seems smaller than he remembers, though perhaps it’s only because he’s grown. Moss coats the stone that rings the foundation of the building, dark and green, blending with the mud-filled grass. Brown brick walls crumble with sediment and soot. The smell of iron overwhelms the scent of decaying vegetation, and he winces as it fills his lungs. It reminds him of blood, of thunder cracking, and embodied memories he wants to bury.
As he rounds to the front of the cottage, he sees two rocking chairs—one for his grandfather and the other for his grandmother. Hers is decorated with diamond-shaped stars and vines, flowers that wrap around the arms and legs. His grandfather’s is more basic, with only a single sword placed in the center of the back. A breeze pulls through, and they rock, as though a pair of souls sit in their antique lacquer.
He looks at the door next, and though he’s only been a spare few times, the sight of it brings a feeling of nostalgia. He stops at the front, admiring the stained glass window placed in the center, before he gently creeps it open and steps inside.
It’s the same. All of it is the same. The swords lining the walls, furniture, the books in the far left corner spread out as if his grandmother had merely gotten up to take a break. However, there’s no noise but the sound of water dripping off the roof tiles outside. It’s not warm like it used to be, nor does it smell like baked pie or pastries. It's almost as if he’s walked into a stranger’s home with how unfamiliar it feels.
Kazuha slips his bag and sandals off at the threshold out of habit, his socks leaving prints of mud and rain as he walks through the home. The floorboards creak under his feet, dust coats every inch of space, and it hits him that it’s been months since anybody has lived here. The silence feels wrong—thick and suffocating—pressing at his ears until he wishes for the hum of cicadas, the whistle of a kettle, or his grandfather’s boisterous laugh. Something. Anything.
His hand brushes across the arm of the nearest chair, leaving a clean streak behind. The wood is cold under his fingers, but he wraps his palm around it and sighs. To his left, the books are cracked open, and he sees flowers spilling out of them. Pressed flowers—his grandmother’s doing. Maple leaves, lotus flowers, sakura blooms, anything she could get her hands on, she would press. Kazuha’s father called her a hoarder for it, but he always thought that it only made her who she was.
He lets go of the armchair and kneels before them, eyes scanning the titles. Most of them are storybooks, some cookbooks, and others in different languages. The spines of some are cracked in the middle, and Kazuha imagines his grandmother breaking them in, over time.
One catches his eye, and he looks over. It’s smaller than the others, thin, and caked with as much dust as the rest of the house. He brings it out from under the pile and blows off whatever grime he can. There’s no title, author name, and it looks a few centuries old. Kazuha wonders how it’s still bound together. When he opens the front page, there is only a date.
‘Day four hundred and eighty-seven after descension.’
Kazuha stares at the words. They are written in small, almost illegible handwriting, as if a child had written them. Some words are blurred from ink and age, but it’s not those that have Kazuha’s heart leaping to his throat.
It’s the name.
‘Kaedehara Sayo’
He recognizes it. Can feel the name pull something from his brain, but it doesn’t click. His eyes narrow at the wobbly symbols, then he flips to the next page. Again, more illiterate handwriting.
‘…descended from the mountain over a year ago. I have yet to meet him. The villagers speak of his beauty and kindness, but he only shows when the moon is full. I leave him fruit at the foot of the mountain, … takes them. I wonder if he is okay up there? The mountain top is cold.’
Kazuha’s eyes widen.
‘Brother lets him stay in the empty cottage with him. What do they do up there?’
He turns the page carefully, afraid it might crumble in his hands.
‘Day five hundred and forty-three after descension. I met…today! He is very kind. I understand why brother likes him. He smells like wisteria and rain! Brother says he smells like that all the time. He also says that his laugh sounds like wind chimes, but I have not heard…I want to. I think if I did, I would understand why brother…so much.'
Kazuha swallows, fingers sticking to the pages. He feels a sting in his lungs—not from dust, but from the familiarity bleeding within the ink.
Another page.
‘Day…after descension. Many people have made songs for him. The entire village worships him now. They leave fruits and flowers at the foot of the mountain, but he rarely comes down anymore. Brother says he sleeps a lot. Why does he sleep? Do gods require rest?’
The handwriting here strengthens, as if years have passed. Kazuha’s eyebrows furrow at the change of nature.
‘Day…after…I head off to Sumeru today. Kabukimono still has yet to awaken. It has been years. Brother doesn’t smile anymore. I hope that when I come back, everything will be okay. I hope that I can hear our god laugh, and that he will see me dance again. I hope that brother’s happiness will return.’
Kazuha lets the book fall slightly shut in his lap. His knees are numb from where they dig into the floorboards, but he doesn’t move. His thumb lingers on the pressed lotus at the corner of the page, its pigment dying the edge a pretty yellow.
Drawing in a sharp breath, he turns to the next page.
‘Everything is gone.’
Bang.
Kazuha’s head whips around. The front door swings open, the handle on the floor, wind blowing ungraciously through the entrance. It’s an almost chilling feeling when the wind hits his skin. From here, he can see the sky sobbing from the heavens.
Looking back at the journal, Kazuha sighs and slips a stray flower into the page, and tucks the lotus into his sleeve. He will read the rest later once he is done getting settled. His legs tingle as he stands upright, and he sets the journal on top of the shelving his grandmother used to use. For a moment, he only listens—the howl of the storm outside, the sharp patter of rain against the windowpanes, the low groan of unkept wood.
The door slams open again as the wind catches it. He hurries over, gripping the frame, and is about to force it shut when he hears it.
Windchimes.
Kazuha looks out at the cliffside. The end of the mountain is far, the cottage sitting at the top of a hill, but he can hear it. Barely there, almost muffled by the raging weather, is the sound of stars blinking in the night. He thinks his mind is playing tricks on him. But he hears it again, this time louder, as if the sound of it is calling to him.
His hand lingers on the doorframe, grip slackening. The storm lashes against the cliffside with an uncontrollable fury, the rain swallowing most sound, but still—the chimes persist. Soft, delicate, almost tender against the violence of the wind.
Kazuha steps outside. The wind is in his hair immediately, ripping out the tie keeping it together and plastering it to his face. He shields his eyes with his forearm, using his anemo to fight against the current as he trudges down the porch steps and towards the edge of the mountain.
The chimes are clearer now. It’s not the sound of cheap glass or seashells, but of the sky itself. Like the stars and planets became small, inanimate objects, and took the shape of a single wind chime. His chest tightens as he thinks of the words written in the journal. 'He also says that his laugh sounds like wind chimes.’
Kazuha swallows hard and follows the sound deeper into the storm. By now, the cottage is hidden over the hill and in the trees. Mud soaks through his socks, seeping between his toes, but he doesn’t stop. The ache, the pain in his chest, the call, everything feels different. But it doesn’t have him wanting to turn around. It makes him want to grow closer, to touch, to see.
And then—lightning cleaves across the sky. For a split second, the entire mountain glows white, and he sees it. Down, at the very edge of the cliff, stands a large stone. It’s shaped oddly, almost human-like, and he wonders if it’s a stone or a weather-work statue.
He circles around to the front of it, barely ten feet from the edge, and he blinks. It’s not a stone, nor is it weather-worn. It seems almost too life-like to be called anything but human. The rain streaks down its face like tears etched into stone, hair carved long and beautiful, falling across slim shoulders as if the sculptor had caught it mid-motion, swaying with the wind. Its eyes are wide, pupils small, jaw fallen as if yelling out in grief. He hears it again, and there, wrapped around a hand reaching out to the bottom of the mountain, hangs the wind chime. Fragments of broken glass flow loose from a thin thread, and it looks impossibly old, bronze turned green from time, and yet the crystal pieces falling from it seem like particles from the stars.
The wind pushes against him, and he staggers back, closer to the edge. He thinks he should head inside before the mountain ultimately swallows him, but he doesn’t think he can. He stares at the figure for a moment longer, admires the beauty the sculptor put into the features, and pulls out the single flower from inside his sleeve. A lotus his grandmother pressed in one of her broken-spined books. He slips the thin petals into the sculpture’s other hand, where it's tucked into the chest, gripping the fabric of its clothes.
He closes his eyes. That pain, the ache, the feeling of vines in his skin recedes. He thinks of the legend, of the crazed woman, and the journal reciting moments the world doesn’t know exist.
A name flashes in his mind—written in blotted out ink and illegible handwriting. He says it quietly and without hesitation.
“Kabukimono.”
The wind stills.
Kazuha blinks, the world around him suddenly going completely stagnant. The rain fades from sobs to tears and then to silence, leaving only the scent of pretrichor and iron. But then that’s overshadowed by the overpowering scent of wisteria. He feels warmth against his back, and when he opens his eyes, for the very first time, he sees it.
The sun.
His breath leaves him immediately. The sight before him is stunning, radiant as the evening gold shines onto the mountain with a shimmering beauty he thinks only Celestia would have. It highlights the ocean, the trees, the sand, and the beach just below. He never thought he’d be able to see something as beautiful as this. He never believed the sun would shine again.
Something shifts behind him, and he would jump if it weren’t for the calmness rushing through his blood. He turns, and just where the stone sculpture stood, is a boy. The wind chime clatters to the ground as he stares back at Kazuha with eyes reflecting his—surprise, shock, and an emotion he thinks can count as reminiscence.
Kazuha’s mouth falls open. The boy’s hair is dark, long, and almost to his waist. Rounded cheeks and a sharp jaw, with eyes as blue as the ocean at night. He has a single freckle just under his left eye, and Kazuha thinks that he has to have been crafted by the gods. They stare at each other for a moment, Kazuha feeling warm in his chest, and for the first time, the pain is gone. He looks at the boy’s expression. It’s soft, but his eyes hold a million stories. He looks angry, yet not at Kazuha. It’s the sort of anger that can only develop over time.
Kazuha opens his mouth. “Who are you?”
He doesn’t mean to say this. It just flows out of his lips before he can think.
The boy flinches at Kazuha’s voice, almost as if he doesn’t believe his words. His long, midnight hair scatters over his shoulders as he looks to the side, then firmly announces, “My name is Kunikuzushi, human child. And I am the god of this mountain.”
Kazuha sputters. ”Eh?”