The Language of Silence

The world, scarred and fragile, had begun to breathe again, healing under the guidance of Shion. ​The sky was once hung with black, stagnant clouds, but now sunlight broke through with startling clarity, bathing Izumo in golden warmth. At night, the moon rose silver and gentle, casting long beams over riverbeds that were reawakened. The rain quenched the thirst of parched lands, washing over fields that had lain fallow for centuries. Control over the rain and storms had taken the longest, but the effort was well worth the early mornings Shion had spent at odds with the stubborn Storm God.

The people were beginning to experience hope and joy once more. Children leapt barefoot into streams, splashing one another and squealing excitedly. Elders relaxed in the sun, their faces skyward and their weathered cheeks illuminated. After two thousand years, life had returned to Izumo. As mortals staggered about in trepidatious wonder, some gods were thriving and others were struggling still. Amayori, fearing the intensity of her immense power, sought to understand and temper her radiant heat, her every step a reflection of her internal battle to balance warmth and gentle grace.

Raikuro cursed under his breath as a soaked meadow below began to flow. With a tight jaw, he concentrated harder, his eyes focused as he copied the signs Shion had taught him to calm the storm’s rage.

At times, Amayori’s radiance scorched the grass where she walked, and she withdrew in embarrassment and frustration when farmers muttered concerns about their crops. Amayori was still learning just how powerful she was; how powerful the sun was.

Yuue, the elegant Moon Goddess, and Mizuchi, the serene Guardian of the Waters, seemed untouched by the imbalance and had accepted Shion’s silence from the beginning much more readily. It was the same for Chishan, the Weaver of Destinies, who only needed to learn a few signs from Shion. 

For the most part, the majority of his abilities lay in his profound talent to weave rather than just observe as fate’s tapestry was woven on its own. Shosei, the Scribe of the Gods, had his own powers begin to awaken as soon as Shion arrived; outside of her ability to help him restore his text, he did well without her aid. And now, he knew the signs needed to restore what was once lost.

And Yahata had not sought Shion’s help in reclaiming his powers, having no need to command anyone. Instead, he utilized the physical strength he already had and helped clear out the rubble of the Scriptorium. At night, he borrowed Shosei’s scrolls and studied the language Shion utilized.

From the steps of the Great Temple where she had taken up residency with Hikari, Yahata, and Shosei for the time being and the other gods gathered often.  Shion observed them all from a distance, a smile gracing her lips. Hikari sat beside Shion, her small hand tucked neatly in Shion’s. 

Occasionally, she would venture out to play with the other children, but she preferred being with Shion. There was no emptiness in the silence that hung between Shion and Hikari; instead, their silence was a thread that bound them together, humming a rhythm stronger than thunder.

—-

In the courtyard, as the sun reached its peak and filled them with energy, Shion guided Hikari through another lesson, with Shosei and Yahata sitting nearby. The other gods sat inside, talking quietly amongst themselves.

The little girl concentrated fiercely, her fingers moving clumsily through the sign while her lips shaped the word with great effort. “Pro…tect.”

Her tiny voice faltered with uncertainty, and she frowned, biting her lip in frustration as her hands wobbled through the gesture.

Shion knelt beside her, her touch gentle and motherly. She adjusted Hikari’s wrist and steadied her fingers. Hikari could do it before, but as she was learning to speak aloud, she was struggling a bit. Together, they shaped the motion again, and the sign bloomed in the air, creating a small shield around Hikari.

This time, her small voice was stronger, “Protect.”

Warmth filled Shion’s chest, sharp with memory of her grandmother teaching her sign language—but overflowing with a feeling that was far deeper.

She brushed a strand of hair from Hikari’s forehead and kissed it, signing slowly. “Great job. I’m proud of you. Always.”

Shosei repeated the words to Hikari, whose language comprehension was far better than her speaking abilities.

The girl giggled, a beautiful sound that carried like a bell across the courtyard as she threw her arms around Shion’s neck and clung tightly.

Shosei chuckled softly in amusement, “She is faster than I ever was.”

Shion raised an eyebrow and tilted her head curiously at him.

“I practically bled ink trying to learn and understand half as much as she does,” he admitted.

Shion rolled her eyes and, without hesitation, signed, “You still bleed ink for the pursuit of knowledge.”

Shosei barked a laugh and adjusted his glasses. “And you, Shion,” he replied, “you carry a silence that is louder than any god I’ve known.”

His observation lingered between them. His words were like an older sibling’s hands steadying another after a long day.

—

Not long after, the temple grounds stirred once more as a procession of villagers arrived. They carried baskets of grain, the rustling of the woven fibers a faint backdrop to their steps, flowers intricately woven into crowns, and small fruits and vegetables that had ripened thanks to the sudden return of the sun, rivers, and rain. As they entered the Great Temple's main hall, their feet shuffled hesitantly on the ancient stone floor, the subtle echo amplifying their trepidation. 

Murmurs of awe and anxiety mingled with the temple’s ambience; their reverence was at war with unease. In their eyes, Shion could see that they were scared—scared that the deities might abandon them once more.

“We have…come to pay our respects to you all,” a man said, though his voice sounded uncertain. Raikuro was the first to move; the air seemed to bristle as his broad figure loomed above the humans, causing a child to whimper and hide behind her mother. The Storm God stiffened and his scowl deepened, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

Yuue glided forward, her presence a calm radiance that eased the tension. She bent gracefully, accepting a crown of flowers from the trembling little girl and placing it upon her silver hair. Her smile was steady and quiet. “It’ll be alright, he means no harm,” she said, soothing mother and child alike.

Amayori watched with folded arms, her lips pressed thin. But her posture wavered as a boy with a handful of berries approached her. She crouched, trepidation causing her warmth to radiate too strongly. The boy flinched a bit when the berries warmed against his palms.

Amayori recoiled sadly, muttering, “I should not…” She shook her head a bit, her eyes watering a bit.

Shion stood and walked over to Amayori, gently touching her shoulder. Once she had Amayori’s attention, she began to sign, her movements fluid and graceful like a whispering breeze. Her fingers danced in the air with deliberate, gentle curves, illustrating the message, "Share gently with him. It's okay."

The motion left a shimmering trail of light, a luminescence that lingered briefly in the air, enchanting the eyes and leaving an impression as delicate as a promise. There were soft gasps throughout the room as they watched Shion utilize a language they believed to be long since forgotten, one that they had heard stories about but had never seen in their lives.

“Could she be?” Someone whispered reverently.

“So the rumors were true. Shijima no Kami has come again,” a woman gasped.

The boy watched Shion with a smile on his face. Though he did not understand her signs, he felt his confidence soar. He stepped forward again and pressed the berries into Amayori’s hands, showing her how to cradle them carefully. She blinked slowly, allowing herself to be touched for the first time. Her shoulders eased as she exhaled a silent sigh.

With a grumble, Raikuro lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged beside the villagers. When a farmer complained of the flooded fields, his dark eyes narrowed, but instead of summoning thunder, he shoved aside his pride and made a promise. “I will try…No. I am trying to be more careful.”

A smile tugged on the corner of Shion’s lips as she watched them. Children began pulling Hikari along to run in the courtyard and play with them, while some of the human men sat with Yahata, who listened carefully to their restoration plans and offered insight where he could.

A few elders sat near Shosei and listened to his tales of what had happened since Shion’s arrival.

As she watched, Shion’s chest tightened. This was not triumph, not yet. It was, however, the beginning. The silence between mortals and the gods was breaking down, not just with voices, but with acts of intention, gestures, and promises to do better. . . .

The Great Temple’s main hall still felt abuzz long after the mortals had departed. Conversation and laughter lingered in the air like incense. Shion moved to sit on the temple’s steps with Hikari, showing her how to steady her fingers into deliberate signs while Shosei gently corrected her speaking mistakes.

Amayori, radiant even in her restrained pride, lingered with her sister by the entryway, murmuring about how wondrous and bizarre it felt to see mortals once again lift their faces to the sun and moon. Her excited chatter made Shion’s heart soar with pride.

Raikuro, however, did not linger. He drifted outward, past the lantern light and ruins of the Scriptorium, into the quiet edges of the temple grounds. Yahata was already there, standing with his back turned, his form stiff. The stillness around him was a stark contrast to the energy he had once carried through battles. ​Raikuro did not linger. He drifted outward, past the lantern light and into the quieter edges of the temple grounds. Yahata was already there, standing with his back turned, the stillness around him in stark contrast to the energy he had carried through battle.

“You observe like a sentry,” Raikuro said as he approached, voice low but steady. “Yet no enemy comes.”

Yahata did not move; he only shrugged his shoulders slightly. “That is how I prefer it.”

Raikuro studied him for a long moment in silence, arms folded over his chest. "You do not seek it, then? The place of the War God; your dominion over the field of battle. Even now, as our powers are stirring, you have not sought it."

"No," Yahata said plainly. As if to underscore his point, he unsheathed his sword. He examined it one last time, turning it over and letting moonlight glint on the blade, and then he deliberately sheathed it again, with quiet resolve rather than readiness. His hand settled on the hilt, no longer with the intent to wield it, but to keep it at peace. 

"There is no need for a War God when there is peace. I grew weary of drowning this land in blood long ago. I remember what I was; I know what I wish to be. And that is enough."

Raikuro arched his brow and scoffed softly. The storm in his veins stirred, but did not break. “You would really waste what the world once trembled to see?”

Yahata shook his head, closing his eyes. A rare smile, bordering on a smirk, played on his lips. He turned to face Raikuro at last, and when he spoke, it was with conviction, rather than anger. “It is not a waste. I am merely choosing to use it differently. Not to lead armies, but to shield what remains. To protect our future. And to guard her.”

His gaze flickered to the warm glow of Shion on the temple steps, Hikari seated in her lap as the two of them watched the stars. Shion glanced at him and smiled.

Yahata cleared his throat a bit, willing warmth to stay away from his cheeks. It gathered instead at the tips of his ears as he spoke again, “And through her, I will guard all that follows.”

The silence between the two most powerful gods stretched. The thunderhead in Raikuro’s gaze eased, replaced by something quieter and unsure.

“It is a shame,” he murmured at last. “But even storms have been known to turn. I will not press you further. So long as your strength guards the peace of this land, then it continues to serve its purpose.”

He turned toward the courtyard once more, where lanterns flickered against the dark sky. “See that it holds,” he said, striding back toward his own temple.

Yahata remained where he was, watching the sky before glancing at the temple once more. Shion had seen enough to understand, even if she was unable to hear from her distance away. She held up her hand and created a sign in the air that he knew well. “Thank you.”

The stern lines of Yahata’s features softened, and he inclined his head, just slightly, as though her gesture alone had anchored him far more firmly than Raikuro’s words ever could.

—Shosei had retreated to one of several rooms of the temple. He sat hunched over a low desk, his quill moving with feverish speed. When he paused to finally read, he frowned a bit. There were memories. For the first time in centuries, his quill had not written as an observer. 

Instead, the documents were written as a brother might—protective, fearful, quietly proud. There were no predictions, no calculations; there was nothing left for him to try to foretell. The future was far too unpredictable, after all.

A hand rested on Shosei’s shoulder, squeezing softly before brushing a strand of hair from Shosei’s eyes. His eyes lingered on the parchment before his gaze met Shosei’s. It was faint, but he smiled knowingly.

“Trust the process, Sho,” he murmured.

Shosei nodded a bit. The Loom of Fate was silent, but Shosei did not feel alone. —

That night, the temple fell silent. Hikari was curled in Shion’s bed, her small hand twitching while she slept, as though still signing in her dreams. Shion stroked her hair gently, wondering what Hikari’s origin story was. If she were a demigod child, then one of the gods had to be her parent. She closed her eyes and thought hard. Suddenly, Raikuro’s criticism of Yahata echoed in her mind.

“The great War God on his knees to a mortal woman.”

“First, your voice leads to the slaughter of Shijima’s followers, and now you reawaken it only to chain yourself to another mortal woman? You will doom us all again!”

She opened her eyes and glanced at Yahata, who lingered in the doorway to her room, his sword propped against the wall. His gaze softened significantly, revealing a rare tenderness. She gave him a small, understanding nod. He had asked the least of her and yet, in a way, he had changed the most of all the gods.

And in the center of it all sat Shion, who had never truly belonged in the 20 years of her short life. Yet now, she was neither a stranger nor an outsider. She had transformed into the heart and soul of this renewed world, embodying the bridge that connected gods and mortals. Her silence, once seen as an absence, was now a profound presence, echoing the harmony and promise of a united future.