The Weight of Silence

Shion did not remember falling; really, she did not remember much of anything. The world around her seemed blurred, yet she could sense the dim flicker of torchlight casting jittery shadows against rough stone walls. One moment, her hands were glowing, and her sign language was flowing with a power far greater than herself. There had been a harrowing battle within the confines of the cult's stronghold, aimed at preventing the Wordless One's summoning. 

Shion, Yahata, and Shosei had confronted the cultists, with Shion drawing upon her strength to interrupt their ritual. The distant echo of chanting reverberated in her brain, echoing with her heartbeat. The next thing she recalled was a stinging in her side, and then her body had given out. She had heard Hikari’s cries and the hushed but panicked voices of Yahata and Shosei, but she had not been capable of understanding them.

When she came to, the taste of iron was pungent in her mouth, the texture of rough stone was cool beneath her cheek, and Hikari was clinging to her arm now, sobbing. Her ribs screamed with each breath, each jagged and wheezing breath. The lash of Hikari’s corrupted powers earlier had left burns on her skin that sizzled even now, tracing thin red-black marks against her flesh. And her bones, already tender from the day prior, were even more painful after she had collided with the wall earlier. Her vision swam as she tried and failed to push herself upright.

It was not just the pain that stopped her, but Shosei’s hands pressed against her side as panic was painted across his features. A bloodied knife lay beside him.

“Don’t move.” Yahata’s voice was hoarse, jagged, and laced with an emotion she could not identify. The command was not barked. In fact, his voice trembled a bit.

She blinked up at him, at his shadowed face. His hands were clenching a roll of bandages tightly, so tightly that his knuckles were white. For the first time since she had met him, the God of War looked afraid. Petrified, in fact. He crouched on her other side, his massive body hunched over much like a child’s. One of his hands hovered with uncertainty before he finally pressed his palm against her shoulder. His warmth bled through her tattered robes.

“Do not,” he muttered again, his voice cracking some, “Do not move. Just stay put.”

Shion wanted to reassure him, to sign to him that she was okay but Shosei’s focus was entirely on the knife wound in her side and he could not serve as an interpreter. Other than that, her arms trembled too violently for her to hold them still and steady. She finally managed one word with weak fingers, “safe.”

The word was one that he recognized by now, and he bit his lip. He closed his eyes and saw flashes behind his eyelids of Miori—her serene smile, her gentle touch, how she moved with a grace that seemed almost divine despite her mortality. She had been the light in his life, a beacon of hope during dark times. But that memory was tainted with the image of her body, pale and frail, lying in his arms as she took her last, ragged breath, their child crying in her embrace. The memory of her death clawed at his chest, the scream that had torn away his voice for two centuries roared loudly in his ears. 

And now, Shion lay before him. Another mortal woman, burned and broken, clutching his child as if she were his own. The same terror began to rise inside of him, as if the past itself was repeating.

The War God, who had never faltered before the fiercest gods or armies of thousands, trembled softly. He looked her in the eyes and clumsily copied the sign, “Safe.”

He then leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers briefly, not caring about the blood or ash as it stained them both, and not caring about the knowing look from Shosei. Or the curiosity in Hikari’s eyes. “Please do not leave me,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not you too.”

Shion’s body shuddered as she drew in another breath, meeting his eyes as he sat upright once more. Her lips moved to silently form the word as she signed it, “Promise.” Her gray gaze remained steady, even through the pain.

As he signed it back, he felt somewhat anchored. Shion was not Miori; she was not the average human woman. She had shown that she was something stronger than that, and she was still here. Yet, as she lay there, a faint tremor in her hand betrayed a momentary glimpse of the immense toll this ordeal had taken on her. 

Shion felt an icy thread of fear creeping into her thoughts, the haunting uncertainty of just how much longer her strength might hold. It was a fleeting doubt, quickly buried beneath layers of her usual resolve, but it added weight to the silent promises they exchanged.

Yet, deep in his chest, he could not silence the dread that perhaps the loom of fate was weaving the same tragedy once more.

. . .

Shosei had remained silent through their moment, concentrating only on steadying her condition and bandaging her wound, only speaking to softly apologize for ripping away part of her top. When he did, Yahata looked away, looking a bit flustered. Shosei’s expression, however, was almost unreadable. His usually calm face was tight with concern, and his eyes were far away. “There,” he said at last before getting to his feet.

It was not until Yahata carefully took Shion into his arms, lifting her with the utmost care, that Shosei finally spoke again. “We need to leave immediately. Should the cult try to regroup, it is best that we do not remain here. And Shion needs rest.”

Yahata did not answer him. Instead, he held Shion closer, as though Shosei might try to take her from him. She stirred against his chest, opening her eyes with a weary expression. She reached her hand out weakly for Hikari, who clung to Shosei’s leg. The scribe knelt and scooped Hikari up, gathering her into his arms. She touched her hand to Shion’s, her tiny fingers flowing with Shion’s for a moment, sending warmth through them both.

“She’s right here,” Shosei promised softly.

Shion nodded weakly and closed her eyes once more, her hand falling to her side and her head resting on Yahata’s shoulder as she lost consciousness once more.

Together, the two gods carried the woman and child from the cult's stronghold, occasionally leaning on one another for strength. The barren lands they traversed echoed a silent plea for sun and rain, a landscape marred by neglect and shadow. Cold winds swept against their faces, carrying with them the sharp scents of untamed rivers, a stark contrast to the warmth of Hikari's small body pressed against Shosei's for reassurance.

For some time, there was only the soft sound of the river's flow as they followed its edge. Hikari's occasional hiccups broke the silence, and Shion's raspy breathing seemed to punctuate the rhythm of Yahata's heart, which hammered like a war drum beneath his ribs. As Shion lay unconscious in his arms, Yahata's thoughts were a turbulent sea of worry, memories clashing with the present in a painful reminder of past losses. Beside him, Shosei walked in a similar haze, his focus torn between the path ahead and the weight of what they carried alongside them.

As night descended, the path stretched onward, and the quiet hum of their internal thoughts entwined with the external stillness. Every step forward carried a promise of refuge, but also a haunting fear of what might lie behind. Shosei remained unusually quiet, a mirror of Yahata's inward struggles, as he eyed his wrist — the threads of fate that dictated their journey. Shion's thread, once vibrant red, gradually shifted to gold, reflecting a transformation that felt both promising and uncertain.

But with every breath, there lay an unseen bond that tied the four of them together — a fragile knot of survivors, tethered by hope and shadowed by an uncertain future.

The War God stepped carefully, but his pace remained steady. He continually looked at Shion’s sleeping face, worry creased across his forehead when he thought Shosei was not looking. Shosei knew he carried a lot of guilt for what had happened in the past to Shijima’s followers and, in turn, the fate that had befallen Izumo. He wanted to tell Yahata that Hikari would be okay, but he was unsure if the other god would believe him.

It was most certainly nighttime by the time they reached the Great Temple once more. The air had grown chillier, and Shosei swore he saw small pinpricks of light in the dark sky. Stars…there was no way, right?

They stepped into the once-proud halls carefully, only to find that most of the other gods had gathered once more in the main hall. Their debating voices hushed immediately as the group walked in, Yahata tightening his hold on Shion and glaring toward Raikuro, a warning burning in his eyes. He had no patience left for the gods’ bitching and bickering. His only thought was of the woman in his arms, the fragile rise and fall of her chest, and the child that Shosei clutched equally as tightly.

Yahata feared that should he let go, even for a second, he would lose them both.

Shosei’s own expression was sharpened with uncharacteristic anger, daring any of the gods to start in on him.

Amayori stood tall in the corner, her golden hair cascading like liquid fire, even in the dim candlelight of the temple. Her gaze, bright as twin suns, flicked immediately to the injured woman cradled against Yahata’s chest. She pressed her lips thin but said nothing more than a simple insult. “How foolish.”

Yuue remained seated with serenity in her calm eyes, running her fingers through her silvery hair. She watched with a softness that greatly contrasted her other two siblings as she looked upon Shion and Hikari, her loyalty already decided by the shift she had begun to feel in the air.

Raikuro’s presence dominated the center of the room, particularly the dais he sat on with his arms folded across his massive chest. He wore a deep scowl on his features as he spoke, "So. You bring back the child unharmed and the woman...well, she clings to life." He uncrossed his legs and got to his feet.

The tension in the room escalated with his next words, "This ends now," he said, voice rolling like distant thunder."You can see for yourselves. The cult calls the child the destroyer and the vessel for the Wordless One. And the woman has been a curse upon Izumo from the very moment she arrived.

Yahata’s jaw clenched and he carefully lowered Shion onto a slab of marble beside Yuue. Hikari immediately broke free of Shosei’s arms and climbed to Shion’s side.

Yahata’s posture straightened, and he glared at Raikuro with crimson eyes that burned hotter than the sun’s fires. For the first time since regaining his voice, he felt the need to truly raise it.

“Neither of them are curses.” His tone carried so much weight that even Raikuro blinked, startled by the sheer force crackling from Yahata’s throat. “She fought beside us. No. She fought for us, shielding the child and herself. And she interrupted the summoning ritual with her powers alone.”

Raikuro’s eyes darkened. “And yet, the woman bleeds. Her powers are tearing her apart. How many more times do you think she should burn herself for you, War God, before she somehow destroys us all in the process. Her control over her powers will not stay steady.”

“She will not destroy us,” Yahata snapped back. His voice did not falter, though it cracked once. “I will not allow that to happen.”

The temple’s great hall quivered with tension before Yuue spoke. The Moon Goddess stepped forward, her presence calm as she spoke in a low and steady voice. “The decision has not been, nor will it ever be, yours alone, dearest older brother. Look closer. Have you not felt the shift in the air? Silence has never been ruin. It has been the language of survival amongst many. It has carried her, and now it carries the child.”

Her words hung in the air like moonlight, a series of questions that was soft but undeniable. Amayori tightened her jaw and shifted her weight. She folded her arms across her chest, “Sister, there is no guarantee of that.”

“Amayori speaks the truth. You have always been far too patient, Yuue,” Raikuro rumbled. Yuue exhaled loudly, but still, her calm remained. “The lot of you continue to refer to her and the child as a destroyer, and yet the prophecy, if true, calls her a teacher. Perhaps it is we who must change.”

“The change has already begun,” Shosei chimed in. “She reawakened the ink in my tomes before most of them were burned. She has called forth the waters that slumbered beneath the earth. Yahata has found his voice once more and the sky–”

Raikuro’s snarl cracked through the temple hall and silenced him, “Do you really expect me to believe, scribe. You were once mortal, so of course, you would protect her and the halfling.”

The accusation was a blade between the two of them. Shosei ran a hand through his hair. “The change has already begun,” he said again, speaking with more conviction this time as he ran his thumb along the tiny threads wound around his wrist. His eyes darted reflexively toward the shadows where Chishan often lingered, seeking confirmation. But the God of Fate had not arrived. Not yet.

Instead, Shion’s hand, trembling and weak, rose from its resting place on her side. With halting clarity, she signed simply, “protect” in hopes of conveying her message once more. She had protected Hikari and would continue to do so. And she would protect their world as well. Hikari was still glued to her side as she lifted her tiny hand and perfectly mirrored Shion’s movements. Faint light shimmered through the air and circled them all like a fragile halo. Their bickering voices halted.

Though his scowl remained, even Raikuro faltered, doubt cracking through and showing in his eyes.

Yahata sat beside the slab where Shion lay, his hand covering hers in a gesture that was firm but calming. “She is not a curse,” he said again, softer than before, “she is our hope.”

A hush fell over the hall. There was a silent vow between Yahata and Shion, one that stole mistrust from even Raikuro. It was in that moment that silence was not a weapon of destruction. It was a definitive and binding promise.

The chamber stilled after Yahata spoke, his vow lingering in the fractured stones that lay about. Shion lay pale and trembling softly, but not broken. Hikari was nestled against the side of her body that was not injured, clutching Shion’s hand.

Shosei glanced at his wrist; the transformation of Shion’s thread was almost complete. He held his breath and simultaneously, a breath swept across the temple’s ancient walls. It was not air, but something far faster–an invisible shiver in the very fabric of Izumo.

As the thread on his wrist turned completely gold, Shion’s breath stilled completely for a beat too long. The Silent Veil trembled. For a heartbeat, no one moved, the majority of them fearing the worst, that somehow, the Wordless One would surge forth, answering the summons of the cult.