When realizing home is not limited to one place

She was feeling more in need of her companions than usual, wanting to cling even more to their existence. And so, she asked them to stay with her for a while. But to the circle, they answered her in forever.

“I think, I would like some company. I don’t want to be alone.” She whispers to them.

Kagen continues to rub against her sigil, his thumb attempting to wipe her worries away with the warmth his energy poured from their hands. Aerael sat by the window, leaning back to watch the stars in the open sky. Neoru just arrived from getting Rure a meal.

“Where is Koharu?” Rure sits up, wondering where she could have left her little fox.

Kagen looked away, his eyes asking Aerael to confess to her.

She looks at Aerael for an answer.

When Rure finally slept, there was a drift that loosened her tense body into a comfortable slumber. She dreamed without images, only the feeling of calming storms within her. A current carried her forward into a deep sleep.

At dawn, they prepared to travel. The village behind them did not ask them to stay. They rebuilt and sang with voices that cracked, never apologizing for it. When the circle left, no one bowed. No one begged. They pressed bread into Kagen’s hands, water to drink in Neoru’s, and a strip of woven cloth into Rure’s palm. Something ordinary, unblessed. Aerael received many thanks and some berries.

“Go,” an elder told them. “And don’t turn back for us. We’ll manage”

That, more than gratitude, undid her. The elder whispering prayers in their steps.

They traveled quietly after that. The three days it took to reach the Water Clan passed without urgency.

The land slowly changed, something that made leaving that village a lot more challenging. They did not speak of what they had left behind. But further into their travel after ash gave way to damp soil, roots loosening their hold. The air was growing heavier with salt. The land seemed to understand them and softened beneath their steps, living in grains. Ash gave way to loam, loam to sand. The air grew kinder and the wind felt at peace.

Rure felt closer to home. Her sigils dulled only slightly, no longer burning with warning. The voices that once crowded her thoughts softened even just a little.

Kagen walked farther ahead than their usual formation, fire banked low within him. He felt ashamed of how easily destruction had answered him. Neoru stayed close to Rure’s side, fingers brushing the earth now and then to check for a fever that might return. Aerael followed close behind her, he did not look up anymore. Feathers stopped falling from the sky, yet something within him felt the shedding.

The inevitability he once spoke of, he remembered his command break, as people who had never been taught how to stop. The thoughts they’ve kept to themselves, slowly wrapping them in such darkness.

That knowledge weighed on them, guiltily. Their travel was filled with a lot of silence.

They fell into a rhythm without naming it. Aerael moved ahead at dawn and dusk, wings folded tight as he hunted along ridges and tree lines. He would return with fish caught bare-handed, small game taken cleanly. He did not boast as he placed the food down and stepped back, as if provision was not his to claim credit for. He was just happy to provide.

Neoru prepared what was brought to them. He cleaned, salted, and simmered in the heat Kagen made. His hands were steady once more, with careful movements. He treated his cooking as if it was another form of healing, one that did not cost him his own blood and breath. He hummed sometimes, softly into the field of trees. Rure adored his voice, a song without words.

Kagen built their camp, he would choose places sheltered from strong wind, scraping fire pits with practiced ease. He coaxed flame and his fire stayed small to keep them warm. Enough to hold them together at night without burning through the dark. He slept lightly, closest to the edge, offering them safety.

And Rure, she listened to nature. She gathered water before anyone asked. She knelt to touch the earth where their paths seemed to narrow to a destination, smoothing the places where the land felt bruised. She spoke softly to Koharu in the open air, wondering if she could be heard. Koharu’s spirit had grown quieter, whose tail no longer scattered petals but brushed the ground in an unseen promise.

At night, she would sit with them, not far apart. She let the silence grow too heavy, letting it pass when needed. She did not lead them; she only helped their balance. On the last night before the sea, sleep took her quickly.

Rure was pulled into a deep sleep where pearl light appeared before her. She stood on a shoreline, water curling around her ankles without soaking her hem. She felt at peace.

A voice sung reached her,

You have come far without breaking, it said.
That matters.

She saw three currents rise from the sea.

One burned hot and restless, always searching for something to ignite.
One moved through the cracks, mending fractures no one else could see.
One cut through the air, sharp with certainty, aching against restraint.

They were never meant to rule, she heard.
They were meant to walk with you.

Pearl-light flickered before it dimmed a soft glow moving towards her.

When Rure woke, her chest tingled with recognition.

She did not know that the same night—

Kagen dreamt of a wildfire dancing aggressively past the fields and trees, reaching the sea, incapable of being extinguished.

Neoru dreamt of hands in tight grips, letting go of wounds that did not belong to him.

Aerael dreamt of standing at the edge of cliffs above, in the sky, and choosing not to command the wind, or let it control him.

All of them woke up before dawn, but the quiet pull towards each other was felt strongly. No one spoke of it.

At dusk on the third day of their travel, the ground sloped gently downward. Rure smelled the water before she heard the waves kiss the land.

She felt it breathing.

Across from them, the horizon was a welcoming sight. When the sea finally revealed itself, something in Rure felt at peace. The others felt it too, like a calm presence that could endure the fracture, perpetuating their peace.

Below the hill they stood, they could see people from the Water Clan emerging from the seas, some acknowledging their presence from afar.

The Water Clan did not send guards, no sigils were flared, no weapons meeting their fates. People moved along the shore as if the world had always been this peaceful. Children continued running barefoot between tide pools, elders would be seen mending nets or tending to the catches from their boats, laughter folding easily into them.

Rure’s chest tightened with hope that everyone could continue living this way, years after them.

As she looked back at the horizon, something old stirred within her.

Since she had been named.

Since she had been protected and hidden and restrained for the sake of what she might become.

She slowly understood why she was born. She was neither a weapon nor a throne.

She was just a vessel, after all.

And the thought did not hollow her.

There they were welcomed with water, salt bread, and with curiosity of their adventures. Magic continued to linger everywhere they went, here the balance was not tipped.

An elder approached, with hair as white as foam, skin darkened by sun and years. Pearls were woven into her robe, as memories kept together.

“Chiharureika,” she said gently. “Welcome back, child.” Her gaze invited her to the shrine she was kept in. “Mother Pearl would like to see you.” Though they felt the request was not commanded.

Still, the circle felt tense. Kagen’s jaw tightened, unconsciously they stepped closer to her. Aerael’s wings flexed, restrained. Neoru felt like he needed to stand closer to his circle. Rure felt it, and she chose calm.

“I will see you after,” she said. She believed it of course, nothing here was meant to cause her harm.

Mother Pearl’s presence was vast, like the sea when resting. While she left to meet with her, the others stayed in the center of town, exploring and taking in the water clan’s peaceful living. After their adventure, they were led into a building close to where Rure had disappeared, they were told to bathe and feed themselves with the food prepared for the future’s only hope. Uneasiness still lingered within them in the absence of a companion.

When Rure came face to face with Mother Pearl, she did not bow. Mother Pearl studied Rure with eyes that had seen cycles end and begin again, much like now.

“You will tend the shrine,” she tells Rure. “For a few days.”

Alone, she meant this to be apart from the circle. Rure nodded.

That night, as she walked toward the water-lit shrine, she felt Koharu’s presence glow within.

The shrine was not a simple structure, it felt like it was breathing in place.

The water that mirrored the ceiling did not move constantly as rivers did elsewhere. It rose from the stone, falling back as if exhaling. Pearlescent light refracted through shallow pools, painting the stone walls in soft, living color. Shell chimes hung unmoving.

Rure knelt at the edge of the shrines opening where spring perpetuated.

For days she had tended it—cleaning nothing with prayer, correcting the position. The Water Clan had only asked that she remain, she could provide that. She listened to them. She needed the shrine to recognize her.

On the fourth night, the water began to stir. It parted, and soon a glowing figure emerged from it.

Mother Spring rose from it as a memory given form. She was neither young nor old; her body shimmered between the woman Rure was and current. Her hair flowing like soft waves through clear water, eyes deep mesmerizing and deep enough to drown memories. Pearls boomed along her collarbone like constellations. When she spoke, it was heavy with knowing.

The word struck Rure deeper than any blade as she watched the figure call out to her.

Her breath caught. “I was told you were a force. A cycle.”

Mother Spring smiled, Rure could feel the heavy grief, older than kingdoms, she carried.

I was once only water, she said.

When the world was young, it was a beauty to explore and live.
Then it broke itself too often.
Fire burned futures before they could arrive, stealing them.
Earth held the dead too tightly, hoarding their blessings.
Wind learned to control everything under their wings.
No one listened anymore.

Then the spring darkened, then cleared.

So, the world did what it always does when it cannot decide.
It made me.

She showed Rure the first spring: born where fire died willingly in place, the earth cracked open, leaking energy from within. And the wind flowed gently over the bud. Together, life returned there again and again.

But cycles alone are not enough, Mother Spring continued.
They need witnesses. Keepers. Hands that can choose mercy when balance turns cruel.

Rure’s chest tightened.

“You made shrine maidens.”

No, Mother Spring corrected her gently.
I made one.

The truth unfolded, but hit Rure with questions.

Mother Pearl had shaped her body. The Water Clan had guarded her childhood. The isolation, the purity, the restraint—it had never been cruelty.

It had been an enduring preparation.

You were not chosen, Mother Spring said.
You were born.

Rure felt the weight of it press down, unbearable and precise.

“And Koharu?” she whispered.

Mother Spring’s gaze softened, watching her daughter with deep longing.

Koharu is not your guardian.
Koharu is what anchors you in this world.

Rure understood then, the reason Koharu had always been there. Sometimes in silence. Why her power never consumed her. Why her grief had not turned her cruel.

“Koharu lives inside me.” Rure said. Not a question.

It does, Mother Spring answered.
And it has borne half of your weight so you could remain human.

Rure bowed forward, palms pressed to the stone.

“Please,” she said. Her voice was breaking. “Let Koharu live as it will. Let me—let me be Rure. Even for a while.”

Silence seemed to stretch between them. Then the water warmed.

Separation is possible, Mother Spring said.
But it will cost you.

“I know,” Rure said. And truly, she did.

Then she felt spring rise around them, gentle and relentess.

From within the Sakura tree, Koharu stepped forward.

Koharu did not fight, its form shimmering with fur becoming light, the tail unraveling into the petals Rure missed dearly. With a breath from a petal, Koharu pressed against Rure’s forehead.

You carried me well, Koharu’s voice chimed, clear as bells.
Now walk.

The pain of her existence was quiet. The sudden, hollow absence where warmth had always lived. Rure gasped, fingers clawing at her chest as Koharu took shape beside her—much smaller, but more solid, breathing on her own.

Alive.

Rure laughed and sobbed at the same time, the strings that connected them tightened even more. They could feel it. She gathered Koharu in her arms.

There would be no escaping this role, no day when the world would not lean toward her. No future where she was untouched by what she carried. She had never been meant to leave the spring behind. Only to choose as she always had, to remain.

Mother Spring knelt before her—equal to equal, energy to energy.

You may walk the world, she said.
You may love. You may break. You may refuse to become a throne.

Rure lifted her head, tears steadying.

“But when the world calls,” she said quietly. “We will always answer.”

Mother Spring smiled. That is all I ever wanted.

At dawn, Rure stepped out of the shrine where the sea greeted her gently. Koharu trotted at her side, real and separate, tail brushing her calf.

Her circle waited close to the shrine, where the Sakura tree seemed livelier than before. They felt the difference before they saw it in her. Not less power, more cost.

For the first time, Rure walked toward them not as spring’s vessel—

—but as a woman who had chosen to remain.

But in the end, the world still needed Mother Spring. She was her.