Child Taken

Act III: The Black Sun's Return

The cold, blood-damp stone pressed against their knees, a chilling reminder of their ordeal. There was no denying it; they had nowhere to go, and even if they did, most of them were not in a state to travel just yet. The group remained huddled within the temple, trying desperately to piece themselves back together in the aftermath of the violent ambush. Their breaths were shallow and their movements sluggish.

Of the two people who could speak, neither of them spoke - neither Hikari nor Shosei. Exhaustion wrapped around each of them like a second skin, and for now, they had survived. They each knew, deep down in their hearts, that this was only the beginning of a sinister plot.

Shion had been in and out of sleep, feeling somewhat feverish. Her eyes cracked open after a couple of hours, and she took note of her surroundings. Hikari slept curled near her, one small hand resting on the red haori draped over them. This was no ordinary fabric; the haori connected them to battles of the past, an heirloom carrying the strength and warmth of the War God. It had once graced his shoulders in many skirmishes, absorbing the essence of his power.

Shion weakly opened her eyes and glanced across the room, and saw Yahata first. Sure enough, he lacked the red coat she had come to associate with him, confirming her suspicions that her makeshift blanket belonged to him.

Yahata lingered near the entrance to the temple, sword propped against his shoulder. His gaze, though exhausted as well, remained vigilant, but every now and then his eyes would wander to Shion as she absently traced protective signs against Hikari’s back, almost unconsciously.

His jaw clenched, as it often did when he was about to move his lips to be read. Instead, he raised his bandaged hand, haltingly copying one of the simpler signs she had made earlier: safe. His motions were stiff, clumsy, but they carried weight. Shion blinked for a moment and then weakly lifted her hand in response, correcting him gently with the shape of her own fingers.

Their eyes met. Red staring into gray, both equally exhausted. In that stillness, battle-born synchronicity lingered like an unspoken vow. A moment stretched between them, allowing the silence to breathe, before yielding to action once more.

She then turned her eyes to Shosei, who was restless and sitting further apart from the group than normal, his quill gripped in his hand once more, and his own gaze unfocused. His fingers shook softly, and for the first time, Shion thought that he looked his age–beyond age, in fact, worn down by centuries and grief alike. His usual calm, airy demeanor had cracked, and beneath it was something raw and almost frighteningly human.

Every so often, he would grip the quill so tightly that his knuckles turned white and he would gently stab the point against his knee, as though testing its ability to pierce flesh. He didn’t speak; it was as though he had joined the ranks of the voiceless. But he did turn his eyes up to Shion and the child occasionally. And when he did, his expression would soften, though the shadows did not vanish from his eyes.

One by one, exhaustion claimed them. Even Yahata fell victim to the pressing need for rest on his broad shoulders. Shion could not help but fall back asleep, her body surrendering to the strain of weaving her silence into shields over and over. Her hands dropped from Hikari limply.

It was only after they had each fallen into a deep slumber that the cultists began to move again, quieter than before.

The ambush itself began with whispered chants that crawled along the temple’s walls like the sigils Shion had awakened when she first arrived. Then came the clash of feet on stone floors and the shine of steel, glinting at the edges of blades. Shadows spilled through the broken back door of the temple.

One cry cut above the others, “Seize the vessel! Do not fail this time!”

Hikari’s scream tore through the temple. Shion tried to grab for Hikari, but her body was too heavy to move, no matter how hard she willed it. Yahata was on his feet in a matter of seconds, blade drawn, but even his body faltered from exhaustion – years of unused skills catching up with him at last.

Shosei launched himself forward to reach for the sobbing child, but was knocked back by a kick to his side. He cursed loudly and groaned in pain as he collided with one of the support beams of the temple. The cultists held the child’s arms down, ensuring she could not sign. Yahata’s blade cleaved one cultist down, but the others slipped into the shadows with Hikari, vanishing before he could follow.

Once silence fell over the Great Temple again, the suffocating hush of loss shut out any of the comfort of safety that had been felt before. There was something else in the air…oppressive and ominous. And powerful.

Wracked with exhaustion, pain, and grief, Shion closed her eyes and pulled her knees to her chest, tears streaking her cheeks as her body shook with silent sobs. For the first time since arriving, she felt truly useless.

Yahata sank down on one knee beside her, his chest heaving, his hands slick with fresh blood that was not his own.

Shosei sat up, trembling, as he held his bruised ribs. He stared long at the spot where the child had been torn away from them. He stared at the hand not clutching his side, feeling a sense of helplessness.

—

Per usual, dawn broke with no warmth, but it felt even colder than usual. Shion curled in on herself further, wrapping tightly in the red coat that rested atop her body. ‘I should have protected her,’ she thought to herself, staring at the cracks in the floor.

After a few minutes, she felt a hand resting on her shoulder. She looked up to see Shosei, who was still looking quite ragged. He took her hand and tucked the scrap of prophecy into her hand. “Shion. Hope is not lost. This is just a minor setback. Shijima’s prophecy says that your hands will shape our salvation,” he said gently but sadly. But Shion wasn’t sure she believed him – not anymore. Her body could barely handle the power.

As he spoke, however, shadows stirred outside the ruins, and the air seemed to surge. Shion felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle. She watched as Yahata tensed but did not raise his sword. And then they filed in, several gods, summoned by the desecration of part of their sacred temple and by a shift in fate’s threads.

Amayori stepped through the doors first, her golden hair aflame in the dim light and her eyes narrow. “How convenient,” she said coldly, pressing her lips together.

“A prophecy that has emerged in the hands of a lowly scribe,” she scoffed, "probably your own work."

Behind her came the Moon Goddess, Yuue, carrying herself like a mother approaching grieving children. Her silver hair shone softly, and her star-flecked, dark eyes evoked a sense of calm. She gently touched Shion’s shoulder and helped the young woman to her feet.

“Worry not, dear,” Yuue murmured, her voice steady and smooth, “She has been sheltered for a long time, and she continues to breathe because she is meant to; she must be protected, and she will be.”

Behind Yuue came Raikuro, the very embodiment of a storm. The air charged as his towering form entered the temple, his wild hair bristling like the lightning he once commanded. His dark, stormy eyes swept over the gods before stopping on Shion with sharp disdain.

“That child will become their vessel for the Wordless One,” he boomed, voice rolling like thunder, “She will be consumed, and you,” he pointed at Shion, “you are no different. Your entire presence has brought more misfortune. It’s better to end it now than to wait for silence to destroy what remains of our world.”

The air thickened as the debate unfurled, first between the three siblings – though it was primarily Raikuro and Yuue, whilst Amayori stood on, keeping her remarks to herself for now. She leaned against the wall, crossing one arm over the other, and watched.

“This girl, Shion, and that child, Hikari, alike are proof,” Yuue pressed firmly, “They are proof that silence can be shared. It can be wielded to create and restore rather than destroy.”

“She is dangerous,” Raikuro countered, his voice rattling the walls, “What will you do when the Wordless One takes over that child? Will you wait for the silence to swallow us whole?”

Yuue tightened her delicate features. Shion swayed beside her but remained upright, unyielding. She had to communicate her own feelings, though she was not sure all of the gods would understand her.

“I will not abandon Hikari,” she signed to them.

Shion's sign language was not mere gestures but a conduit for her power, each movement imbued with a profound magic that transcended simple communication. Her signing resonated with an innate energy that echoed in the souls of those who witnessed it, amplifying her resolve and making her intent inescapably clear. With trembling hands, she signed, her determination louder in her face and body language than even Raikuro's voice. "She is my child now."

Yahata stepped forward and stood on the other side of Shion, his eyes burning with the same fire that once toppled kingdoms to dust. His presence alone spoke volumes: he would stand at her side.

Across the room, Amayori scoffed, muttering that he was a fool. Yuue gave him a knowing look.Shosei finally spoke again, his own voice laced with exhaustion, though it did not waver, “The prophecy’s verse was very clear. The hands of silence will not destroy. If you let your fear dictate your judgment, then you would make liars of the prophecies themselves.”

“Phony gods should be quiet!” Raikuro roared, slamming his hand into a wall when Shosei spoke. Dust rained down on all of them.

“How do you expect us to believe that you have not rewritten fate to protect her?” Amayori chimed in sharply.

The grouping of gods was splintered, their voices raised in sharp debate, as silence and storm collided in the hallowed temple. Its walls had known many councils of the gods, but none quite so tumultuous as this.

In the eye of it all was Shion, who stood unmoving, her hands clenched into tight fists at her side, as if holding tightly to her resolve itself. If the gods would not accompany her, she would go get Hikari back on her own – or die trying. She would not yield to fear.

The loom of destiny was tightening, and for the first time in her short life, she was choosing her own thread.