Chapter Text
Later, Yakumo will often recall this moment…
…the cool early morning, the field of foxtails rustling in the wind, the timid sunlight filtering through the leaves like lace.
Kuya's wooden house is a small, quiet, isolated place in the Forest. Always solitary, and always given a wide berth by those who value their lives. Yakumo knows better than to ask aloud, but sometimes he can't help but wonder, "Doesn't Kuya ever feel lonely, living like this?"
The scent of medicinal herbs, fox magic, and the warm note of sandalwood fills the air. Yakumo works peacefully and methodically in the garden, while Kuya sits on the porch, smoking his pipe.
It is a good morning. He should have stayed there.
Yakumo sets the gardening tools aside. The work is done. The weeds are pulled, the withered, spent flowers neatly removed, the soil turned and fertilized. He pauses for a moment to contemplate the fruits of his labor with a sense of deep satisfaction. The lingering mist and dew in the air leave his skin feeling cool and covered in goosebumps. Crouched there among the bushes, the vibrant purple foxtail plumes tower over his head. It seems as if this is the entire world, with nothing beyond them.
Yakumo can't resist leaning forward for a moment—the flowers gently brush against his cheek.
"Lovely…"
The foxtail blooms throughout its life: not eternal, but not short for a plant either. Some seven or eight years. But it bears seeds much more rarely. To do so the first time, it must survive a harsh winter, and only then—by autumn—will it bear fruit. In subsequent years, seeds can be expected annually, but there are no guarantees, even if the preceding winter was equally merciless.
"Some yokai," Kuya brings the slender pipe to his lips and takes a slow drag, "use foxtails not to read the past, but the future. If they bear fruit, it means one should stock up especially well for winter." He lowers his hand, releasing the smoke in intricate swirls; they rise high until they dissolve into the foliage.
The old yokai is dressed rather lightly for the end of the first autumn month: in a light, casual yukata. His tail lies relaxed, draped over his thigh, only the very tip twitching occasionally. It looks fuller because of its winter fluff and darker—Yakumo remembers that winter is indeed coming. It is easy to forget when the recent days are so warm.
"And what do you say, Mr. Kuya?"
Those multicolored eyes shift from their contemplation of the Forest and meet Yakumo's gaze:
"Foxtails bear fruit whenever they please. They enjoy misleading little, foolish yokai."
Sounds like someone I know. Yakumo is also smart enough not to say that aloud. Fortunately, he can hide his smile by turning his head back to the foxtails. Tiny, shimmering dots among the plant's fluffy plumes catch his attention. Yakumo runs his fingers through one of the plumes, as if combing it, and a few pea-sized seeds come loose easily into his palm. They are pinker than the "flowers" themselves, shimmering like mother-of-pearl.
"Can they be used for anything?"
"Hmm, besides their direct purpose—perpetuating the foxtail population in the wild? Tea made from them is more of a soporific than an intoxicant; it grants very light, pleasant dreams." After another puff comes a short pause while rosehips and wormwood are being refilled into the pipe. "They also make good rouge, but the process is laborious. It's better to use saffron for that."
Yakumo examines the handful of seeds in his palm, selects three, and places them in empty spots among the foxtails, pressing them into the damp, soft earth with his finger. If they survive the winter, they will sprout next spring. The remaining seeds he tucks into his pocket.
Before standing up…
"Would you like to try? Be careful with the dosage, little snake. No more than five seeds per cup of hot water, and it's best to crush them." A snap of Kuya's fingers ignites a flame, and a bittersweet scent wafts from behind Yakumo, spreading through the area.
"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Mr. Kuya, you're very kind."
Yakumo feels a wave of gratitude and warmth as he turns to the master of the house, smiling, brushing off his hands, and gathering his tools. He stores them in a wooden box hidden in the empty space beneath the porch.
Looking back… Yakumo isn't sure where this story truly began. When did he receive the invitation to this house and the privilege of observing the old yokai who manages to instill fear in more than one beast, even while relaxed and nonchalant?
It seemed it had started with something like,
"If you find the time to fix my old friend's things, I'm sure you can find time for me as well. You're so eager to be useful, aren't you?"
Three years ago, a few months after the summer idol contest, when Yakumo was rehearsing in the Forest and Quincy was watching over him, Yakumo decided to show his gratitude and came to the forest warden's house for the first time with supplies and an extra pair of hands. Quincy didn't really need them, but he accepted them with gracious courtesy.
Then it happened again. And again. And it became a tradition.
Kuya slipped into this slightly awkward, yet comfortable and undemanding dynamic somewhere between Yakumo's third and fifth pilgrimage.
"If you feel indebted to us," said Kuya, "then who are we to stop you?"—even though Yakumo's "helpfulness" hadn't originally been directed at him at all.
In a way, Yakumo is grateful.
He never thought he'd return to the Wood Territory of his own free will.
At first, Kuya often watched Yakumo work. There was curiosity in it, mixed with caution towards an unknown beast on his territory—something Yakumo sensed on an instinctual level. Now, he more often leaves Yakumo to work alone, seeming to derive some pleasure from imagining Yakumo as his personal servant.
He once said, "You could have been great, but you chose to be pitiful. Or should I take it as reverence for my magnificence?" The cool edge of his pipe hooking under Yakumo's chin and lifting his head.
Then again, it might just be that Kuya is bored. Or too lazy to leave his home and intrude into someone else's life.
Like today. That's why he lies on the porch like that since morning: either gazing into the distance and smoking his pipe, or exchanging rare, insignificant comments while Yakumo weeds, waters, and fertilizes his garden of foxtails.
Yakumo… doesn't mind. He finds the atmosphere soothing. Kuya is a difficult personality, but three years of interaction have smoothed the rough edges. If, of course, three years can be considered any significant length of time…
"Be careful, little snake," a soft whisper with mocking edges sounds very, very close, as if inside his head. "We wouldn't want you getting hooked on something unsavory because of me, would we? All your little protectors would bare their teeth and jump at me like bugs."
Kuya takes advantage of the fact that Yakumo, having swept the small blades of grass and dust from the path and porch steps, has gotten too close to him. He straightens up and almost whispers into his ear—the left one, with the obsidian gem—exhaling fragrant smoke into his face.
Yakumo coughs and waves a hand.
"M-Mr. Kuya…" He quickly moves away. "You're just teasing me… Protectors? I don't understand your jokes."
His ear feels slightly warm, and the cheerful laugh makes Yakumo rub his face and let out an exasperated sigh. He takes back his previous thought: Kuya is just as difficult and unbearably mocking as ever. Admiration, healthy wariness, respect, caution, jealousy, anger, a hint of understanding—Yakumo has felt all these towards Kuya at various points in their acquaintance, sometimes cycling through them. He still doesn't know what goes on in Kuya's head, or how to feel about him, except that at some point their connection became… closer.
"That's all thanks to Mr. Eiden. I doubt I had anything to do with it. He softened Mr. Kuya and made him regard the clan as family."
When Yakumo collects his few belongings from Kuya's house—a change of clothes, a hygiene kit, and a box of roasted chestnuts given to him by Quincy and Topper—and steps out onto the porch again, Kuya raises an eyebrow in feigned surprise:
"Where are you off to? The mansion is empty now, except for the familiars. There's no one there to serve, unless you're eager to feed those two with your own flesh. I have more rosehips and some herbs growing behind the house; they need tending too. And the windows need washing—winter is coming, after all. And there's a whole pile of laundry."
"You know what's happening at the mansion, even from this distance?" Yakumo is genuinely surprised and impressed; it doesn't even occur to him to doubt that Kuya truly knows everything about everyone. Nevertheless, he slings his bag over his shoulder and carefully steps around the reclining fox. It is difficult, as a certain purple tail lazily sweeps back and forth across the floorboards, precisely when Yakumo tries to step, as if deliberately provoking him to step on it.
"Magic makes the colors fade too quickly. It's better to wash them by hand."
"Mr. Eiden will be back soon. So I want to return to the mansion and prepare something for his arrival."
"Is that all you're capable of? Being a dutiful little housewife?" The snorting, unimpressed tones might have stung once. Yakumo once again thanks the elemental spirits and the heavens that the old yokai doesn't seem to want to be too cruel to him.
He bows slightly, showing respect, feeling a tiny bit guilty for refusing to help—more out of habit than from any real reason. The corners of his lips twitch involuntarily into a slight smile.
"I'm sure someone who has lived as long as you doesn't need my help, oh Mr. Kuya. And you're certainly capable of handling your own laundry. This isn't your first winter, after all."
"Bold," Kuya clicks his tongue. "And disrespectful. If you don't hurry, I might keep you here as punishment. Then would the young master come running here to rescue his little snake from captivity? What do you think?"
"You are always welcome to visit."
Before disappearing among the trees, Yakumo looks back.
It is beautiful. The way the sun, finally emerging from behind the clouds, streams through the leaves and, falling to the ground, ignites a sea of violet fire…
He should have stayed.
***
Help.
That is the first thought that comes to mind when Yakumo forces his heavy eyelids open (his vision swims) and finds himself locked… somewhere.
He is small. When he tries to lift his head or turn—it is a very smooth, fluid motion, completely unlike a human body. He has no arms, no legs. When he wants to coil up, his body moves weakly, reluctantly—the tip of his tail ends up under his head.
He is a snake.
For the first time in… how many years? What day is it? Where is he even?
He knows who he is, but the knowledge is vague. Just a name and the fact of his existence. Without connection to place or a sense of weight in his head.
He instinctively strives to coil even tighter. The place is very cramped; he is already coiled in rings. He feels… wrong. His sense of space is blurred, but something tells him that in his usual size he wouldn't fit here… In neither of his true forms—be it serpent or… human. He is not supposed to be a snake. Why is he so small? Where does this weakness come from? The tip of his tail twitches in response to the anxious thought and hits the walls—a distinct thud against wood.
Voices flare up. They are indistinct.
Something heavy and soft falls from above, as if they are covering him with cloth.
He is in a box.
It smells of wood and apples.
Yakumo tries to see again. He didn't close his eyes before—snakes don't have eyelids. But his consciousness seems to periodically sink into something vague and unconscious. It is like brumation, but in the worst possible way. No dreams, no sensation of rest. Something inside is screaming, but he can't tell what. Anxiety. Unease. Fear. Snakes don't cry. But he wants to cry.
Now, as he peers again, he thinks he can make out small, round holes, like in the crates farmers use to transport fruit.
His grandfather always transported plums and pears from their orchard in such crates. Yakumo used to sit in the cart among the boxes when he volunteered to go to town with him. He liked those trips; the town was too noisy, but traveling with his grandfather was always easy and fun.
His grandfather? He has a grandfather? But he is a snake. Snakes don't have such concepts.
The more Yakumo thinks, the clearer his mind becomes. A little more—and he will surely remember. Something. Something that happened recently. Why he ended up here…
The voices above become louder and more frantic.
…he remembers eating something. The taste of warm, spicy bread and the sweetness of fruit tea lingers in his mouth. Bread and tea? Snakes don't eat bread and drink tea. That slight tartness and the unmistakable scent of apples. Yes, he ate and drank something before blacking out. Someone treated him. The person who offered him the food was familiar and smiling. Yakumo knew him; he had bought from him many times…
That's it! He was at the market; he came with a shopping list and decided to stroll through the stalls to greet the familiar traders and see the new goods. Yakumo remembers it clearly as day. Heaviness still fills his body, but the numbness is receding. He begins to move in the box; the rings tighten, finally responding to commands; he raises his head, pressing it against the lid of the crate. He hadn't imagined it: there are indeed ventilation holes in the front wall. The cloth, thrown over the crate by his captors—whoever they are—hangs crookedly, and through the gap, a piece of the outside landscape is visible.
Yakumo strains to see, trying to focus his poor eyesight: below seems to be the bottom of a cart; it hits a bump, and Yakumo jolts inside the box, confirming his guess. Nearby, he seems to see someone's foot—someone is sitting.
Further. Even further.
Focus.
If you can at least roughly understand your surroundings, you can act. Try to knock the lid off with your head? Even in this small form, your body still possesses great strength. Or try to transform… and then run. As far as possible. Without looking back. Don't engage. Don't try to fight. Just run. To where they'd lose sight of you…
You survived like this so many times in childhood. You still remember how it's done.
…and then further still, to a town or village, anything as a landmark… You can find your way back to the mansion. Mr. Eiden might be back by now; you wanted to greet him…
Mr. Eiden is waiting for you…
Apples. The smell fills his nostrils again. His memories smell of apples. But in this smell, there is something too cloying, an artificial note—he caught it back when he drank the tea, but it was already too late.
And now this smell suddenly becomes unbearably strong, no longer in his memory, but here and now. The voices sound very loud; Yakumo seems to finally make out individual words:
"…he's awake… add another dose… better make it a double…"
"But what about…? He definitely won't be pleased…"
"To hell with…! …if he breaks out, we can't hold him!"
No, please, I want to go to Mr. Eiden!
An unknown gas quickly fills the box, light, it rises up and first hits Yakumo's head. The snake sinks to the bottom, its rings relaxing again. Cramped. Sweet. Dark? His consciousness drifts away into something vague and foggy.
Mr. Eiden… Who is that?
Please, someone, help him.