Izumo, Awakened

Shion gasped loudly, a clear sound that was no longer ragged from the wound in her side. Her senses flared alive in that moment, catching the earthy scent of damp soil rising and the metallic scent of spilled blood from the ground around her. But then the tremor steadied. And then it held, and finally tightened. Like stitches drawn firm against a wound, sealing the realm's wound, the seal felt deeper and stronger than it had in centuries. The realm's wound had been a curse of perpetual darkness and desolation, inflicted long ago by a malevolent force seeking to extinguish all light and life. This healing would mean the end of an era of suffering and the beginning of a slow but meaningful restoration.

Shosei gasped as the scroll he had been working on since Shion’s arrival fluttered open on its own. His quill leapt from its resting place on his belt and scrawled furiously, pouring lines onto the parchment that even he could comprehend. He gasped and grazed his fingers delicately against the paper. Everything that he had not had time to record over the past few hours had been recorded right before his eyes. His thoughts, his feelings, everything was written in the way he had intended to write it when he had more time.‘My very soul is being recorded,’ he marveled to himself.

Chishan, tucked away in the shadows, lifted his eyes sharply as a sudden, resonant chime echoed through the air. His hand, longing to touch his loom after centuries, hovered with hesitation before pressing against it. The chime, as if unlocking the shackles of the mystical shroud known as the Silence, caused the threads of fate to thrummed warmly beneath his fingers. For the first time since the Silence had befallen them, he touched fate freely. If he wanted, he could now weave the future once more, but his focus at this moment was merely to observe.

Amayori felt a wave of warmth rushing over her bronze skin, an intense heat that banished the chill of centuries. Her heart raced as the sun's radiance broke over her, burning brighter with each breath. She pushed open the temple doors with great force, squinting against the sudden glare as the eclipse faded quickly and the full brilliance of the sun emerged. The golden light was overwhelming, both in its intensity and in the promise it held. Tears welled in her orange eyes, their warmth matching the joy swelling within her chest, as she whispered, "My light..."

Raikuro’s own eyes widened, his dark irises flashing, instinct shooting up his spine. He clapped his hands together with a sound that rattled the temple’s walls. With deep jubilation, thunder rolled and warm rain poured from the sky, some of it leaking through small cracks in the temple’s roof. And yet the sun remained; rain fell under sunlight, glimmering on stones like jewels. From the nearby villages, they heard shouts of disbelief and cries of joy. After two centuries of drought and darkness alike, warmth had returned to the land, and water fell freely.

Yuue stared down at her own hands in disbelief, her pale fingers trembling. “Does this mean..When night comes…” she whispered, her voice as soft as the tide’s foam, “I will be able to guide the mortals again?” She closed her eyes, silver tears slipping down her cheeks.

Still weak and weary, Shion sat halfway upright with Yahata’s help. All of this, the light, the rain, the distant hum of a loom, had all been born from her silence. The cult, in contrast, had long harbored a dark ambition. They believed in a false prophet who spoke of an era where silence would rise above the divine, dominating not just the gods but the natural world itself.

Their rituals, steeped in ancient rites, sought to harness the dormant power of silence within Hikari, and perhaps the other gods, to unleash chaos and devastation upon the realm. Their leaders preached that through control of silence, they could usher in a new dawn of power and supremacy over all existence. They were driven by a desire to control and corrupt. Yet, what they intended for ruin, Shion had transformed into renewal, using her strength to bring new life to the land.

She smiled a bit while slowly and painfully signing, “This is a gift.”

Shosei nodded, and with shining eyes, he pressed his quill to the scroll and inscribed a sentence that was both the end of a saga, as well as a beginning:
The hands of silence taught the gods to hear anew.​“Shion…” Yahata spoke low beside her. The words seemed more jagged than ever against his tongue, but he signed them clumsily as he spoke. “Your silence… is the voice… I have always longed to hear.”

Shion reached for him with wide eyes and trembling fingers. She brushed her fingers over his rough, battle-scarred hands as they gently closed around hers. And for an instant, something far deeper than any prophecy passed between the two of them: love, unspoken but undeniable. Hikari squished up against Shion’s side and placed her tiny hands atop theirs, smiling through teary eyes. Her small hands fit perfectly against theirs somehow, safe and untainted. Her future was no longer shadowed, of this Shion was certain. She had fought to keep Hikari safe, and she would continue to do so.

. . .

Shosei paused, feeling an unusual warmth emanate from his wrist, the threads responding to their rightful owner, the weaver of fate’s tapestry. Their glow intensified subtly, a glimmer hinting at a deeper transformation. As he pondered this change, one that he had seen before several centuries prior, Chishan emerged silently from another room down the hall. His presence was like a gentle breeze in tall grass, subtle and certain, confirming Shosei's suspicions. He lifted Shosei’s wrist where the two glowing strands gleamed faintly against the scribe’s skin.

“Chi,” Shosei looked at him with a steady gaze. “Tell me, did you see this vision and choose not to show it to the others?”

Chishan chuckled, a breathy sound, before he spoke. “I made you a god because I trust your knowledge and your decision-making.”

“You placed the fate of the world in my hands; the creation of a goddess or the destruction of us all,” Shosei hissed, allowing Chishan to see his pent-up aggravation and stress that he often hid behind a smile.

“Not at all,” the God of fate argued coolly, shaking his head. “I just find it poetic that you, of all deities, would lead her on her journey to awakening as a goddess. We will speak again, Shosei.” And then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving Shosei with the knowledge that he had already surmised—Shion was a goddess now, Shijima no Kami reawakened. The question was whether or not anyone else had realized it.

He watched as she exhaled softly, her body adjusting but spent beyond measure as it sagged at last. A tiny smile of relief lingered on her lips as her eyes closed. Yahata carefully caught her and laid her down gingerly before covering her once more in his haori. He turned to Hikari, his child, and held a finger to his lips to signal to the child that she needed to be quiet so that Shion could sleep peacefully.

 As Hikari nodded with understanding, a single raindrop landed on her small outstretched hand. The droplet shimmered, capturing and scattering the sunlight into a fragile kaleidoscope of colors —a tiny beacon of renewal and hope in the quiet aftermath of the storm of chaos created by the cult.