Epilogue - Home At Last

The seasons had shifted, and two years had already passed by. Not abruptly, not like the breaking of a heavy storm, but as if the world had taken a deep breath for the first time in 2000 years. Grass covered the hills, where once there had only been brittle, cracked dirt. A single charred tree, a relic of the past devastation, stood amidst the blooming landscape, a silent guardian of memories. The air smelled of rain and sun-warmed soil as well as fresh flowers. Children laughed freely, their voices not muffled by dread and the echoes of despair that had once lain over the village.

The village at the foot of the hills was no longer in complete ruins. Timber frames rose one by one, and mortals sang as they laid thatch and stone. Leading the effort to restore the Village of Silence was Yahata, clad in a sleeveless top, lifting beams onto strong shoulders with a grunt. As he did, a fleeting echo of past battles tugged at his mind—a memory of war cries and clashing steel. The War God no longer carried an army into battle; he carried houses, baskets of building supplies, and children who begged to be swung into the air. This new effort was both a relief and a shadow, a constant reminder of what once was, and who he had become. The mortals adored him, even now. But it was not for conquest, nor for fear; they adored him for staying.

Shion watched from the garden, her hand warm around Hikari’s small fingers. Hikari had grown so much in two years. The little girl tugged Shion’s sleeve softly and pointed toward the newly finished home that stood just beyond the rebuilt shrine. It was a simple wooden house with paper shutters and a broad porch.

“Papa says that’s our home,” Hikari said cutely, signing each word. “Can we go check it out?” Shion smiled as she looked at it and nodded. It was the place Yahata had maintained with Miori, the place where Hikari had been born.

Now, it was theirs. . . .

Inside, the tatami mats smelled faintly of new straw, a scent that Shion found comforting. Light poured across the floors in wide golden bars. The house was not grand or befitting of gods, according to Raikuro, but it was whole. And when Shion laid down the small basket of herbs on the low table, her chest filled with something she had not felt in a long time: belonging.

Hikari darted around the room excitedly, her hair swinging. “Mama,” she called as she lifted her hands to sign the same word, perfectly formed. It had been two years, but still, it made Shion feel emotional. She knelt and opened her arms, catching Hikari as she barreled forward. The little girl’s laughter spilled against her shoulder, warm and lively.

Yahata returned just then, sweat still streaking his brow. He paused in the entryway, watching them with a quiet awe that softened each line in his battle-worn face. Shion rose, brushing dust from her sleeves as he crossed the room to wordlessly rest his forehead against hers. There were no warlike declarations, no grand vows—only presence. When he did speak, his voice was rough and low, but gentle. “I’m home.”

—

Not all bonds mended easily, yet each had begun to stitch itself together over time.

Whenever they visited the Moon Temple, Yuue fussed over Hikari, tucking ornate combs into her hair and murmuring gentle blessings under her breath to the little girl. For now, she had turned over the chronicle of the child’s life to Shosei, who would add onto what Miori, Yahata, and Yuue had written over the years. He would keep it safe for a few years longer while continuing to write the girl’s tale.

Amayori, once skeptical and scornful, had surprised Shion most of all when she swept into their home one morning uninvited. She sat down beside Shion, called her “little sister” as if it had always been so, and chatted about anything and everything. Now she hovered often, warming the hearth fire when it was cold at night, scolding Yahata when he refused to rest, and pinching Hikari’s cheeks until she giggled when the little girl was sad.

At the riverside, Mizuchi and Raikuro were learning to tolerate one another again, sharing tense but necessary work. Where rain threatened to drown new fields, Mizuchi’s calm hand steadied the waters; where storms swelled too fiercely, threatening to cause waters to rise too high, Raikuro reined them in with a clenched fist. 

They did not always speak kindly to one another, if at all, but there was no venom in their shared silence now. The land healed under their careful watch.

At the Scriptorium, scaffolds laced the sky, and among them, a carved phoenix emerged, wings spread as if poised to take flight. This symbol of rebirth elevated the reconstruction beyond mere architecture, imbuing the site with mythic significance. Shosei oversaw the careful replacement of new shelves and delicate scrolls in the once-beautiful courtyard as it found new life. 

His quill never stopped moving, ink pouring into books that would one day guide gods and mortals alike. Yet even in his diligent efforts, he stole quiet glances toward the shadows. There, almost always, Chishan lingered—sometimes as a shadowy figure, sometimes a man, his gray hair glinting faintly in the restored sunlight.

In the evenings, when Shosei returned to the Great Temple and they passed each other in the long halls, they rarely spoke. Instead, Shosei would bow his head ever-so-slightly, and Chishan would allow a rare, almost-smile to tug at his lips.

Once, when no one else lingered, Shion glimpsed the God of Fate’s hand gently brushing Shosei’s wrist in a gesture so subtle that it may have been a mistake. But the warmth on Shosei’s cheeks afterward told her it was not.

Their bond endured, woven in quiet threads. —

Evenings were Shion’s favorite by far.

She would sit on the front porch of their home with Hikari nestled against her side, Yahata at her other side, sharpening his blade more out of habit than need. The rasp of the whetstone provided a comforting rhythm, an undercurrent to their evening ritual. They would watch as the sky blazed gold, then softened into the pink and lavender hues of twilight. Crickets sang and fireflies flitted about.

Hikari often chatted in a mix of words and signs—telling them stories about what she had seen that day, how Amayori scolded Raikuro for knocking over a vase, how Mizuchi had made water dance to make her laugh.

Shion would listen carefully, her heart swelling with every syllable, every sign, and every effort. And Yahata, still learning even now, would watch Shion’s hands carefully as she signed back. Slowly, he signed as well when he spoke, his large fingers fumbling, but his eyes remained steady on hers.

Earlier that day, he had attempted to tell Hikari that the moon was beautiful, but his fingers stumbled, and he ended up signing something closer to 'the moon is cabbage.' Shion couldn't help but giggle, her eyes crinkling with affection, as Yahata allowed her to correct him, a sheepish grin on his face. She cherished these moments, for every movement proved his effort to share in her silence, her world, her language.. . .

One evening, as the moon rose, Yahata set aside his blade and took her hand. His voice was low but sure. “Shion…” He paused and shook his head before signing her name slowly.

“Thank you for staying,” he said softly. It wasn’t direct, but his declarations of love were always unique and authentic.

She learned into him, her forehead resting on his shoulder as her ears and cheeks burned and her heart hammered, tears burning soft trails down her cheeks. She nodded and looked at him, smiling beautifully before leaning up and planting a soft kiss on his cheek.

Since she had abandoned her own world, she no longer felt alone. Izumo lived and breathed again, and the gods had found their balance. . . . Even as the night deepened into expansive darkness and laughter faded into the gentle crackle of lantern light, the small family was not unwatched.

From the edge of the land, where the half-built Scriptorium overlooked the expansive fields, two figures lingered side-by-side, leaning against each other just enough. Shosei watched with his hand on his hip. Beside him, the God of Fate’s hair caught the moonlight, and his gaze fixed on the porch where Shion and Yahata sat with Hikari.

“Theirs are threads I cannot measure,” Chishan murmured, more to himself than to Shosei.

“Trust the process, Chi,” Shosei quipped, his lips curved faintly and his eyes soft. “Perhaps this time, they are meant to be left unwoven for now.”

Chishan turned to him, something akin to a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Wordlessly, he grazed Shosei’s wrist with two fingers—a promise and an anchor.

Shosei lowered his gaze, warmth flooding his chest. He leaned his weight against Chishan a bit more.

Together, they stood in complete silence, watching over the small home where firelight glowed in the darkness. The God of Fate and God of Knowledge were bearing witness, not as keepers of prophecy, but as companions who had chosen life, love, and belonging and who would guide the others as needed.

And in their silence, Izumo settled into the peace as well. . . .

From the porch, Shion’s gaze returned to the sky. The moon shone full and steady as Yuue’s light scattered silver across the rooftops, whilst Amayori’s warmth still lingered in the late-blooming flowers by their well.

Yahata sat beside Shion, one arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, while Hikari dozed against her lap, her delicate fingers curled tightly in Shion’s clothes.

For so long, Shion had believed silence to mean absence, abandonment, and emptiness. But here, surrounded by mortals and gods alike, she truly felt what her grandma had told her: silence could be a powerful presence too. The space where bonds deepened, where words were unnecessary, where she was heard most clearly—that was Izumo.

She lifted her hands, shaping the sign for home toward the heavens. Yahata wrapped his arm tighter, solidifying in her mind that this sign was an answer to the first she had made when she had first arrived in this world.

“Where am I?” she had signed.

The past two years had taught her that the question had not lingered for long. She knew the answer, but she had yet to admit it to anyone.

The night sky held her silence in solidarity.

Her hands rose once more, the faint glow of divine light tracing each curve of her pale fingers. She did not need to speak here to be understood; the world had already learned to listen.

"The hands of silence shall teach the gods to hear anew," she signed, more to herself than to anyone else. Her chest swelled with relaxing certainty.

The words belonged to Shijima no Kami once, but now… they were hers.

For a moment, Shion let her hands fall still atop her thighs. Her fingers curved gently as if cradling the weight of her power and all the newfound responsibilities. Her signs were no longer the timid gestures of the past; this quiet moment spoke volumes to her.

She remained there, enveloped Yahata's arms and in the silence that now symbolized strength and presence, rather than a void. Shion Takahashi was no longer a lost young woman; she was the reborn goddess of silence, finally belonging to Izumo.