Fireflies? …Mhm, no.
Sleepy eyes blink slowly, the kindred’s chin dipping towards his chest. The moonlit treetops sway in the gentle night breeze, painting the canopy in liquid silver. It ruffles his hair, and he stirs.
A clawed hand snatches a glowing speck out of the air, quicker than lighting. Noboru cradles it within his palms, gingerly peeling them apart to peer inside.
A streak of ash mars his thumb, and he rubs it in thought. More fire-flakes, countless in number, dance on the wind past his perch in the camphor tree. He watches them, eyes growing heavy, and relishes in the faint taste of smoke on his tongue.
The kindred rests his head against the bark of the tree, gaze lowering to the firelights on the altar below. Nothing is awry, but there’s an unnatural weight to the air, feeding the movement of the beauty around him. It presses on him, deadens his body under the mask of sleep. It doesn’t feel dangerous, though, and he’s so very, very tired…
His eyes slip shut, and then he’s falling,
falling,
falling.
.
.
.
It feels like flying.
The thought makes him lift his head, a flash of exhilaration quickly smothered in the midst of the dreamscape before him.
No longer is he nestled comfortably in his tree. Instead, he finds himself kneeling in a sandy garden, the weight of his long hair settling over his back.
A familiar presence hangs around him, and Boru’s heart sinks in recognition.
“Noboru, my dear kindred,” the shape before him murmurs. Her voice is that of the softest firelight wax, the steam rising out of a freshly warmed stew—the dancing of fire-flakes on the breeze.
Boru resents it almost as deeply as he has missed it.
“It has been some time since we last met.”
Displeasure twists his mouth, and Boru turns his head away sharply. Or rather, he means to. His body, however, is frozen in the subservient posture; his hands lax against the top of his knees, his back and neck straight as if awaiting instruction. The manacles on his wrists glint in the dimness of the garden as if to taunt him. It sends a new wave of frustration coursing through him, and he grits his teeth in response.
“I have no interest in conversing with you, deserter,” he says coolly, ears flattened against his head. His gaze drifts to the side, determined not to look upon the face of his goddess—and sees it. A figure in his peripherals, shrouded in mist, undeniably kneeling a short distance beside him.
Boru’s eyes flare in surprise. Though he cannot discern the finer details of his company, he gathers they’re of a larger stature than himself. He catches a whiff of something like smoke on the figure, but strangely bitter. Tinged with steel. After a moment of mulling it over, he reconciles the scent with a memory: Firesticks.
The only ones he knows use such weapons are mortals.
“Why is a human here?” he demands, aghast, but his goddess ignores him. He tries not to dwell on how that stings.
Another voice joins the garden, but the words and tone are indistinct to his ears. A part of the spell, no doubt, to keep the both of them deaf and blind to the other. Why, he does not yet know. He can, however, tell that the human has a low timbre.
A man, then, he guesses.
Whatever the human has said, it parts a soft peal of laughter from the goddesses lips. “I am Kojin. The Goddess of Compassion and Shelter.” A pause follows, and Boru can sense the shift in his master’s mood to one more somber. Serious.
The kindred frowns.
“I have served the world for many millennia as such. Truthfully, I am ready to part from the title. I find I am no longer content in such a role.”
“What?” Boru exclaims, and were it not for the stillness of his body, he would have jumped to his feet at once.
Again, his goddess speaks over him.
“That is why I have chosen you, youngling, to be my successor.” She speaks to the mortal, and Boru’s blood runs cold at the revelation.
“This is why you vanished?! Why you abandoned your believers—why you abandoned me?” Boru cried. “So that you could place a mortal upon your throne and run from every responsibility?”
The goddess turns her head, the veil of mist rippling serenely over her face. For a moment, Boru imagines there is regret in the set of her downturned lips. Then he remembers she does not care, and his heart breaks again.
“Release me, then,” he whispers, suddenly hushed. As if the reminder stole the breath from his lungs, leaving only an echo behind. “I will not serve another. Release me!”
The cuffs on his wrists begin to glow, an unearthly blue hue nothing at all like the comforting light of the fire-flakes from earlier. Between one breath and the next his goddess is before him, delicate fingers hovering over his inner wrists.
Fear quickens his breath. His pupils contract, and were he afforded the movement, he surely would have pulled away.
“My darling, your time as Kindred is not yet over.” Kojin leans forward, softly pressing her lips to his forehead. Her claim over him is unbroken, even as she stands to face her new successor.
“I understand this must be very alarming to you. A nonbeliever, a fledging god?” She smiles beneath the veil. “But there is none who embodies the spirit of a protector such as you do. In time, you will come to learn this as well. And you will not be alone.”
She motions to Boru, who has closed his eyes and flattened his ears once more. It does not matter; the mortal can neither see nor hear him through this mist. Kojin has deemed it too early for them to meet.
He wishes they would not meet at all.
“I will send you a guide. One who will lead you home and to a kindred spirit. He will teach you what it means to be god.”
The goddess moves again, and Boru peels open his eyes to watch as she gently lifts the chin of her successor. Then she plants a kiss on his forehead, too. Even in the dream, Boru can feel power swelling around the new god, flocking to him like birds to carrion.
This is no mere token of affection. It is Kojin’s blessing, and the parting of her divinity. She will never truly stop being a goddess, but as an unaffiliated member of the divine she will be all but confined to the godly domain above. Free to live out her retirement at the price of her greater powers.
Distantly, a part of him wonders what sort of power her divinity will awaken within him. Gods usually develop something unique, something to set them apart from history—but the larger part of him does not care.
Kojin has betrayed him once more.
“Go now, youngling. Sleep. The world will look much different when you wake.” The other figure dissipates, and Boru can feel the sandy garden beginning to slip away beneath him. Like a hazy hourglass, it spills into wakefulness.
To him, the goddess smiles and says, “Do not hold me in contempt, Noboru. I have done what I have out of compassion. You are my last godly act.”
The kindred says nothing. A shining silver tear falls from his cheek as the last of the sandy garden dissipates.
.
.
.
Boru opens his eyes, and the branches of the camphor tree wave in greeting. The night feels still now in spite of the wind, absent of the presence of his god. And yet, his shackles feel heavier than ever.
He is trapped here by her final command, ripe for the picking of another young god. Kojin’s last act of compassion after abandoning him for forty years. Fury settles over him like a blanket of snow, and he grips the bark of the tree so that it nearly splinters in his hand.
I will not serve another.
Until the new god’s claim is exerted, he cannot be forced into obedience. It does not matter that Kojin has bound him to this place; it does not matter that he is approaching his thousandth year of life. Even if he remains trapped here for the rest of time, stuck on this ground like a lowly snake, he will not let himself become tied to the godling.
Not even if it kills him.
⊹˚₊‧ ˖ ܁ (Timeskip) ܁ ˖ ‧₊˚⊹
In the bustling streets of the city weaves a small cat. Its fur is pristine, a lovely cream color that seems to glow under the street lights and between the flashing headlamps of passing cars.
It winds around the legs of passersby, drawing little attention as it goes. Once in a while someone will remark in surprise or admire the pretty coat of the cat, and each time the creature’s fur prickles with pride. It never stops, however—not even when tantalizing scraps of food are held out to it in offering.
The cat is on a mission, you see, for this cat is not a cat at all but a messenger. Exactly twelve hours have passed since it was given this task, exactly as it was instructed. Twelve is the number of messages, after all, and, it supposes, of divine purpose—although, if you ask the not-cat, the importance of the former is far more significant.
It slips between the sliding doors of a large building, briefly crinkling its nose at the pungent scent of sweat, and continues on to a room private to only to employees and staff.
In the room is exactly what it’s looking for. Satisfied, the not-cat leaps onto the bench directly behind its quarry, craning its head in a not-catlike manner to peer into the mirror before him.
Instead of a small cat with cream-colored fur, the reflection in the mirror that greets Marcus is sharp and grins with long, pearly white canines.
Its fur is indeed the color of cream, but swirls of burgundy creep past its pawed feet and tall ears. Its snout is long and whiskered, shadowed by two intelligent shining eyes rimmed with a brighter red. Its fur really does shine, lit from within by the source of an unknown glow.
A small fox sits before the godling, three burgundy swirled tails swishing proudly behind it.
“Godling,” it greets, its voice high-pitched and far too self-satisfied. “I’ve come to collect you.”
