The Crepuscule Lethe - 2

Author's Note*: From here on the chapters will be longer as I release them twice a week in contrast to releasing them every 2 days before, this is to put more content and lengthen the story so I hope you enjoy as I try my best to keep your attention span!

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It was a week after the ceremony.

Snow still clung to the steep thatched roofs like thick white shoulders. The village had only just begun to settle after Shōgatsu—the New Year lanterns dimmed, paper decorations fluttering weakly in the cold wind. Smoke curled lazily from each farmhouse, carrying the scent of mochi and cedar ash.

Tenmichi’s breath puffed in tiny clouds as she trotted ahead of her friend Jinko, her red winter haori almost glowing against the pale snow. She stopped every few steps to scoop up icy powder and toss it skyward, giggling when it sparkled in the dusk light.

"Jinko! Look at this. I can make a perfect ball of snow with my hands!"

"Huuuhh? That ain't perfect, ye gotta try harder." Jinko says, unamused.

"How about you try huh?!"

"Sure," Jinko accepts the challenge, before grabbing snow and patting all sides to form a ball, "Ta-da! Now this is a perfect sphere."

"HUH YOU ACTUALLY GOT IT!"

"I know right I'm awesome."

"Man I'm jealous of you.."

A moment goes by as Tenmichi audibly remembers something.

"Aha! I forgot to tell you, I brought you some more mochi that we had leftover at home!" Tenmichi recalls.

"HUH?! YOU DO?! BRING IT TO ME. BRING IT." Jinko was excited.

"Right! Gimme a minute Choir Boy eheh!"

Tenmichi ran to get the mochi that she kept a bit further from where she was playing with Jinko, in order to not get snow onto it.

“Oi Ten! Don't run too far, I tell ye!” Jinko called.

But his voice was swallowed by the soft roar of the river and the creaking winter forests surrounding Shirakawa-go. The narrow path behind the gasshō-zukuri houses dipped into a little hollow, where the world seemed quieter—too quiet.

Tenmichi slowed, tilting her head and grabbing the wrapped mochi. But then,

She heard the sound of footsteps that weren’t Jinko's.

A gentle voice—too gentle.
“You dropped this, little one.”

A man stepped out from behind a stacked pile of firewood, holding a small cloth doll. Tenmichi blinked. It wasn’t hers, but she stepped forward instinctively. Children in the village were taught to obey adults, and his tone was warm, familiar—even though his face was wrapped in a travel scarf, only his eyes showing.

Another set of footsteps approached from behind her.

Before she could turn, a broad hand covered her mouth. A strong arm coiled around her small frame, lifting her off the ground so swiftly her geta scraped against the snow. Her muffled gasp vanished into the sleeve pressed against her lips.

“Quiet,” the man hissed. Not cruel—just urgent.

The first bandit checked the path, breath steaming in the cold. “No shouting. Move. Their men will be back from the shrine soon.”

They passed between the houses like shadows. The bandits wore farmer-like garb—nothing suspicious from afar—but their feet were wrapped in straw cloth to muffle steps. Tenmichi squirmed, a small, trembling bundle, but the winter layers she wore only made it easier to hold her firmly.

"These people.. they're bandits!" She thought to herself, unable to open her mouth, "No no no! This is bad.. I need my mom, I need.." Her thoughts were swallowed by the tensing situation as she slowly started to get more and more scared.

Her mochi fell into the snow, half-buried, the only sign she’d passed through.

They slipped behind a storehouse and into the thin stand of bamboo that bordered the village. Snow still fell lightly, tapping the leaves like tiny beads on a drum. The man carrying her adjusted his grip, whispering in frustration: “She’s heavier than she looks…”

“She’s six,” the other muttered. “Just keep moving. We need her father to come to us, not the other way.”

Tenmichi whimpered at the mention of her father, the sound muffled against the cloth.

"Dad?! These people are after my dad..?!"

The bandit tightened his hold, not cruelly, but with the cold efficiency of someone who had done this before.

Then—
The distant thud of a shishi-odoshi echoed across the valley.

Clack.
The sound startled Jinko, who finally realized Tenmichi was gone.

“Tenmichi?”
A louder call.
“Tenmichi!”

The bandits froze for half a heartbeat.

The bamboo trembled. They pressed deeper into the forest path, moving quickly now, leaving only faint depressions in the snow—snow already beginning to fall over them, swallowing their tracks.

The forest had already taken Tenmichi.
And the snow was erasing everything.

--

The forest swallowed their footsteps as they trudged through the snow, Tenmichi slung over the leader’s shoulder like a tiny bundle of winter cloth. She whimpered once, but a large, calloused hand muted the sound.

The bandit group's co-leader—Kurogane—clicked his tongue quietly.
“Keep her quiet. We’re still close to the village.”

Behind him, the younger bandit shifted uneasily, breath fogging in the cold.
“She’s small… Are you sure this will work?”

Kurogane didn’t bother looking back.
“She’s not just any child. She's an important kid, don't you worry. Someone will pay. And desperation opens more purses than gold ever does.”

The third man, older, scarred, and trudging beside them, gave a short grunt.
“Takayama’s roads are watched this time of year. Snow brigades. Patrols. If they find us with her—”

“They won’t,” Kurogane cut sharply. His voice was low but iron-hard. “We take the river path. Two days. No patrol wants that frozen hell.”

The younger bandit still hesitated.
“But Kurogane-san what if they send samurai?”

Kurogane stopped running.

He turned, eyes dark beneath the shadow of his straw hat, and looked the younger bandit dead in the face.

“If they send samurai,” he said quietly, “we keep moving. If they catch us, we fight. If we die, we die. But until then, we get paid.”

He shifted Tenmichi higher on his shoulder. She let out a tiny, frightened breath. His tone softened just a fraction—not out of kindness, but calculation.

“No harm comes to the girl,” he warned the others. “A damaged vessel fetches nothing. She stays untouched, unfrozen, and breathing. Understood?”

The older bandit nodded once.
“Aye.”

The younger swallowed.
“Yes. Understood.”

Snow began falling again, thin and soft, dusting their shoulders. The forest creaked with cold. Somewhere distant, a crow cried and flew off into the white.

The older bandit murmured, almost to himself,
“Us bandits taking children... The world’s turning uglier by the year.”

"We haven't been making much profit selling those women to brothels for prostitution so what can we do?" The younger bandit questions the older.

"We still have a few of those women left don't we? Let's sell them quickly once we make it to Takayama."

Kurogane didn’t answer.
He only tightened his grip on Tenmichi, eyes fixed ahead.

“Quiet,” he said. “Keep running.”

And the three figures slipped deeper into the blizzard, leaving only a scattering of footprints and a muffled, trembling sob swallowed by the trees.

--

"So that's the case, huh." The Nanushi—village head of Shirakawa-go—closes his eyes in concern.

"This is... all I found Old Man... her dropped mochi." Jinko showed it to the Nanushi. Jinko looked like he was on the verge of crying, or more so, it seems like he already did. His face was red and his eyes were watery, the little boy was putting on a facade to act stronger.

"Hmm.." The old man Nanushi pondered for a minute.

"Takeshi!"

"Yes dad!" A young samurai formally walked forward, it seems to be the son of the Nanushi.

"Take two other samurais with you, see where Tenmichi was last spotted and search for her!"

"Yes dad!" He speaks with an aristocratic formal acceptance in respect of the order.

"Wait wait wait.. Old Man ye're only sendin' three samurais to find her?! What if she got abducted by really really strong bandits?!" Jinko is puzzled.

The Nanushi caressed his goatee and slowly opened his eyes keeping his eyelids dim, he explained, "We are a small village, we don't have many full-fledged samurais, we can't possibly deploy a whole set to find one little girl."

"Are ye serious?!" Jinko was now enraged, "This is all that we're capable of?! Old Man, that's my best friend!" He clenches his fists as his vision blurs from his eyes watering, "If they do something to her, who will I play with..?"

One drop.
Two drops.

The room is silent, letting Jinko's tears drop one after the other.

Takeshi walks up and sits on his knees in front of Jinko, he pats his shoulder and mutters "Say, Jin-kun, you always tell me you look up to me don't you? Don't you believe I will be able to find your best friend?"

Jinko's voice cracks from his emotions stirring in his head as he finds it hard to speak, "I.. I do. I really do. But Takeshi-san! 

She's not worth only three samurais! Even if all three are just like you Takeshi-san!"

"Takeshi-san has best friends too right?! Would you ever entrust just three people to find them?! You wouldn't right?!" Jinko tearfully complains before continuing, "Then why is this old fart sayin' to only send three?!"

The door slides open as Jinko's mom and Tenmichi's mom run in. "Jinko!" She hugs Jinko tightly, out of happiness that no harm befell him.

But a part of her haori gets wet from Jinko's tears, 

"Jinko, my boy, where do you think they took her?" Tenmichi's mom asks from behind, holding in her tears.

"I don't know. I really don't..

I.. I miss her."

Tenmichi's mom covers her mouth as she runs out the room, she can't bear the little boy's tears that reflects hers.

"Please, wait! Jinko, you stay here okay boy? I will go check up on her." Jinko's mom says before running out to console Tenmichi's mom.

Takeshi watches the scene unfold, before he turns his head to the Nanushi, "Dad, I shall make my way now."

"Best of luck, may your search for her prosper in success." The Nanushi wishes.

Takeshi nods as he slides the door open and walks out, sliding the door close behind him.

Jinko stands still, "Ha!" He hears the cry from outside the window from Takeshi boarding his horse with two other samurais following closely behind.

He starts crying again, his tears run down his face uncontrollably as he approaches the window.

"Just three of them.."

Jinko’s shoulders trembled. Snowflakes drifted past the glass, falling through his blurred vision like silent, mocking feathers.

“She’s worth more…” he whispered, voice cracking. “Tenmichi is worth… way more…”

His throat tightened until he couldn’t breathe. His small hands shook so violently against the wood that splinters pricked his palms. But he didn’t let go. He didn’t dare blink.

Because if he blinked, the thought of her returning might disappear.

“She was just playing… she was laughing— we were just playing…”
The words collapsed into sobs.

Behind him, the room was dim. The Nanushi, old but still broad-shouldered, stood with his hands folded behind his back. He had been silent the entire time. Watching. Thinking. Letting the boy cry.

Now, he stepped closer, his geta clicking softly against the wood.

“Jinko,” he said, voice steady as winter stone.
“You care for that girl very deeply, don’t you?”

Jinko didn’t answer. He pressed his forehead harder to the window.
“It’s cold… she must be so cold…”
Another sob.
“What if they hurt her…? What if she calls for help and no one hears…?”

His tears dripped onto the wooden frame, disappearing into the grain.

The Nanushi knelt beside him with a slow, deliberate exhale. His joints cracked — age catching up — but his presence was solid, grounded like the roots of the village itself.

“Three samurai is not a number of worth,” the Nanushi murmured.
“It is a number of speed. They left immediately, without waiting for more to gather. That is how quickly they want her home.”

Jinko sniffed hard, but the words didn’t stop his tears.

The Nanushi rested a hand on the boy’s trembling back — heavy, warm, fatherly in a way Jinko didn’t know he needed.

“Listen to me, boy,” he said softly, yet with iron beneath.

"Our village is weak. Our people are fragile, we don't have much to utilize in the first place. But..

There will be times when the world does not respond with the strength you wish it would. Times when people you care about suffer before help arrives. And times when you feel powerless, even if your heart is screaming.”

Jinko pressed his lips together, sobs turning into shaky breaths.
“I… I don’t want to be powerless.”

“I know.”
The Nanushi looked out the window too, watching the three figures become smaller silhouettes against the snow-lit village.
“And if you wish to stop such pain… if you wish to make sure no one you love is ever taken from you again…”

He rested his hand gently on Jinko’s head, ruffling his hair as the wind howled softly outside.

“…then grow strong.”

Jinko blinked hard, lifting his face from the glass.
His eyes — wet and red — stared into the Nanushi’s.
Confused. Hurt. But searching.

“Strong… like Takeshi…?”

“Stronger,” the Nanushi said without hesitation.
“Strong enough to stand where danger walks. Strong enough that the village will look to you when darkness comes.”

Jinko’s breath wavered.
His tears kept falling, but slower now.

“And… strong enough to protect Tenmichi?”

A small, sad smile touched the Nanushi’s lips.
“Yes. Strong enough to protect everyone you wish to keep close.”

Jinko curled his small fists, knuckles white.

"Tenmichi… stay warm… stay alive… I’ll… I’ll do something. One day… I’ll be someone who can help you. I swear."

The Nanushi rose and placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder before turning toward the door.

“When this day becomes a memory,” he said, “let it be the one that shapes you — not the one that breaks you.”

Jinko wiped his face with his sleeve, staring at the snow-blurred path long after the samurai vanished.

And in that silence, for the very first time,
a tiny ember of conviction lit inside his small heart.

Not enough to warm him yet.
Not enough to fight bandits or stop fate.
But enough to survive whatever comes his way.

Enough to begin, perhaps.