Scriptures of Heresy, Threads of Possibility

The Great Temple shook softly, announcing the arrival of another god. Shosei was the first to turn his head, and Shion followed his gaze. The doors burst like a dam, giving way as if the rivers themselves had slammed them open. Mizuchi stood before them, his usual serenity nowhere to be found. His deep blue hair whipped around his shoulders, his pale eyes burned, clear but wild, as if all of the dry year of despair had erupted inside of him at once.

“You all sit here and bicker and moan,” Mizuchi said sharply, his voice cracking through all of theirs like waves on weathered stones, “while the little girl is stolen and while silence is twisted into fear! You would condemn a child and condemn Shion when you have not even sought answers from the only one who can view our potential fate!”

“Do not presume to command me, water-bearer,” Raikuro countered, his storm meeting Mizuchi’s torrent, “You rivers have been dry for centuries, and all you have done is weep. What wisdom do you really think you have to offer now?”

“And your storms, or lack thereof, have not brought any water to the people either,” Mizuchi replied coldly, unstrapping a flask from his belt and hurling it to the ground. When it struck stone, it broke open, and Shion, as well as the gods, watched as fresh water spilled out, cleaning and shining as bright as starlight. The gathered gods were stunned into silence that was broken when Yuue stepped closer.

“This,” Mizuchi said, pointing at the ground, “this was drawn from the earth itself, renewed by her hands.” He turned sharply and tipped his head towards Shion, who still stood weary but did not waver.

Shion pressed a hand against her chest, wanting to say something, anything, but she could not will her hands to shape her signs fast enough. Instead, Mizuchi’s voice carried enough fear for both of them.

“If even my rivers will respond to her, then her presence does not signal ruin; it signals renewal. And that child, who learns from her and responds, she is hope. She is our future. So, I ask again – why have you not called upon Chishan? He is always lurking.”

“What good is a God of Fate that can only watch and no longer has control?” Raikuro scoffed.

As if on cue, the air shifted once more, heavy as spun gold. Before Raikuro had a chance to press his argument further, threads shimmered into sight. They were faint at first, then glowing, stretching across the chamber and weaving into impossible patterns. Each strand that accompanied him pulsed with possibility – futures not yet lived or that may never come to be. Chishan had come, summoned by Mizuchi’s demand for a neutral party.

Chishan’s appearance was not one of grandeur but inevitability; he had always been nearby, just as Mizuchi said, choosing to remain unseen until his time came. His tall frame emerged from the haze of his threads, his dark eyes fixed first on Shosei, then on Yahata, and finally, they lingered the longest on Shion.

Shion felt a shiver run up her spine. Chishan’s presence was not as commanding as the other gods, but in a way, that made him all the more unsettling. She knew he meant no harm; she had read of the kindness within him. But right now, it did not show on his face.

“You called,” Chishan said, his voice akin to the shuttle of a loom. He raised one gaunt hand, and the threads that sprawled across the room bent to his will. Visions flared into being, projected in the air before them.

The first was Hikari, her tiny frame wreathed in shadows as her eyes, once red, had become blacked out. They were inky voids, and the cult bowed at her feet as her hands shaped into menacing signs, causing the remaining cities to fall and silence to consume all.

Amayori gasped, and Raikuro took a step forward, fist clenched. Yuue reached for Shion out of instinct, gripping the young woman’s hand rightly.

The next vision flickered before them. The world remained cold and stagnant but not destroyed. Hikari had been struck down by their divine hands, her light extinguished before it ever had the chance to shine.

Shion clasped her hand over her mouth, stifling a scream that had no chance of ever escaping her. Her eyes filled with tears; there was no way. She would never let Hikari be destroyed or destroy others.

Chishan flicked his wrist once more, the images changing shape once more. This time, Shion stood proud, dressed in the same deep purple garb once worn by Shijima no Kami. Hikari stood at her side, her small hands mirroring Shion’s signs as divine light poured from both of them. The sun broke over the horizon for the first time in centuries, rain fell, and leaves began to bud on branches. Laughter rang out from unseen mortals.

When Shion glanced around the room, she saw Amayori blink away small tears before they could fall. The image of the sun’s return must have moved her.

Finally, the visions faded and the threads dimmed before disappearing out of sight once more. For a long moment, no one spoke. No one moved the smallest muscle except to breathe.

It was Raikuro who spoke up first, his voice like a thunderclap breaking through the silence. 
“Dreams and nothing more. How can we trust you after you disobeyed us and turned your pet scribe into one of us?”

Shosei flinched, and Shion clenched her hand at her side, anger rising in her body.

Shosei gently touched her arm before his voice cut clean through the doubt, sharper than anyone had ever heard it before now. “These are not dreams. You are well aware that they are prophecies. Chishan can no longer control the possibilities. But he can still see them.”

He stepped closer and touched a lingering thread, his eyes shining brightly without blinking. “Do you not see it, Raikuro? Amayori? Shion was not made; she was returned to us. To Izumo.”

Yuue looked at him with a curious arch of her eyebrow while Mizuchi nodded in understanding. Amayori looked at him in disbelief, whilst her elder brother rolled his eyes and scoffed at the very notion. Yahata crossed his arms, his expression remaining unreadable, similar to Chishan.

“When Shijima sealed the Wordless One,” Shosei continued, his voice trembling with conviction, “they may have vanished, but this does not mean they ended that night. What if they became a part of Shion?” He gestured to her slightly, his voice rising. “Shijima very well could have been sent to another world to heal, lying in wait until Izumo was ready for silence to bloom once more as a language. What if…what if she is the vessel of Shijima restored – brought here to save us all?”

A heavy hush fell over all the people in the room. Even Mizuchi, raging moments ago, went still. He shifted his weight a bit before nodding at the possibility.

“Absolute blasphemy!” Raikuro roared, eyes darkening, “Convenient words from a false god who scribbles what no one else remembers.”

Yuue moved from Shion’s side and placed a hand gently on her brother’s arm, steadying him. Amayori’s golden gaze flicked between them all, unreadable. She was the youngest of Raikuro, Yuue, and herself, so she could understand being doubted for her age. However, she also no longer had faith or trust left.

Shosei straightened up further, readjusting his glasses and clearing his throat. “You doubt me because I am the youngest,” Shosei replied with a calm but fiery tone. “You cannot imagine that Shijima no Kami entrusted me with the final prophecy. But tell me this, Reikuro, do you really not see the truth? Or are your eyes too clouded to see the rivers flowing once more? Do you not feel life returning to Izumo?”

As he spoke, Chishan’s gaze lingered on Shosei. “Be careful, little scribe,” he said so softly that only the God of Knowledge and Shion heard him, “The more you speak for fate, the more it will bind you.”

Shion watched as something flickered across Shosei's face, an old familiar ache, like a wound being pressed against. He lowered his eyes quickly and murmured, “Chi–” and then, catching himself, he corrected himself with a stiff voice, “Chishan…”

The God of Fate said nothing more.

It was Shion who now broke through the silence with trembling hands, her body propped up primarily by resolve and grief. “I will reclaim her,” she signed, “No matter what it takes. Hikari is mine to bring home and mine to protect. I will not fail you all.”

As her gestures blazed in the dim chamber, shadows danced against the ancient walls. Though few of them understood her language, they felt the meaning in the air. Even as Shosei translated aloud what she said, no one could deny him or say he was making up what she said.

And for the first time since Hikari was taken, Shion felt as though the swell of silence in the air was not emptiness. It was a vow to herself, to Hikari, to Izumo, and to the gods. It was a vow binding her to the threads that Chishan himself could no longer cut.

And though the gods still quarreled, though storms and water and moonlight clashed, that vow rang clearer than all their voices.