struggling to find a new muse, he returns alone to the countryside town he left behind as a child. kind, romantic, and maybe a little bit naive, despite life's best efforts to bring him down.
???
a slumbering deity who resides in a shrine along the outskirts of a quaint town. wisened in her many years spent on this earth, though not much more powerful beyond that.
They wouldn't really know what to say, because it is the sort of thing one finds difficult to put into words. Akin to the creation of the universe, except not really, not at all. Liminality in the most literal sense, but you haven't a clue when you fell into it nor how long it goes. It is the space between chaos and order, the nook between life and death, and it is nothing and yet, everything. That is how they would describe it, if they had to;
In a rambling of words you would never hear, because when a god enters slumber, they do not usually awaken.
When they open their eyes again, they can only muster up a single sound, a quiet gasp:
"Hm."
A tangle of stiff limbs lay in the corner of a forgotten, dusty room. In the distance, they heard the soft ring of a bell — a sound they could never forget, etched into their very being. They flexed their fingers, experimentally, testing muscles unused in decades — centuries? — and pushed themselves up onto bare feet. As they moved closer to the sliding door that hid her from view, the familiar, pungent aroma hit her nose.
The door opened with a soft thud, and she stared down at a man. He was dressed for an era she did not recognise, hands clasped together in prayer to a force she does not know. His eyes fluttered open at the sound, and she studied his surprised gaze with a curious tilt of her head.
Fate spoke to those who listened. It whispered, in unsuspecting moments, about where happiness lay and where love might lead. And sometimes, it spoke of things not so grand, like which section of a train might have empty seats, or where best to hide if you didn't want to be found.
He had wanted to hide. He felt no doubt or shame about it, or so he reminded himself. Comfort becomes such a rare commodity the older you grow; in a city where time was always running and the people always chasing, it was nowhere to be found.
Somewhere beyond the memories of a childhood home — the dusty streets and the corner store, with gacha machines lined up against the brick wall — he had ended up here. Across the town as it blended gradually into the forest, up a trail and down the hill, where a small stream housed the sleeping fireflies, waiting to come out once the children went home.
There weren't many children left in this town, anymore, but the fireflies still waited. The sun was still out, and so he had continued his hike, past the stream that used to mark the boundaries of where he was allowed to go.
He saw it there: the unmarked shrine.
It was not large or particularly small as far as shrines went, a square hall with an unrecognizable stone statue and a sliding door behind that looked like it might crumble if he pushed. Any traces of an owner or the deity it served must have long since faded, only a cup of incense and a box of matches covered in dust remaining as their legacy.
He sat on its steps to take a breath, and in the wildflowers peeking out of the cracked wood, in the narrow rays of sunlight that filtered through its roof, he felt a certain sense of empathy. He ended up here, he thought, and the incense was still half-full. This was a kind of fate, itself, too.
Lithe fingers lit a flame, an offering to the unknown god, and only when the smoke had thinned did he remember to make a wish. A story, he asked, though he mused in the back of his mind that finding a desolate shrine in a forest was a story enough. Something worth writing ab-
Thud.
He flinched, cutting short his prayer. Wide eyes met an unusually light pair, both unblinking — his, because he'd forgotten to in his surprise, and hers out of what seemed like confusion. He stared at her, taking in the loose dark hair and traditional dress, all slightly disheveled.
A ghost?
His heart jumped. He hadn't considered the possibility that the genre of the story he got might be horror. The woman continued to study him, head tilted to the side like a curious cat. Bright eyes hid behind lids half-closed, like she was lethargic, or had just woken up.
Had he woken her up?
"Greetings,"
she spoke first, the captivating quality of her voice only barely overcoming the odd word choice.
"What are you doing here?"
"Oh, uhm, hello,"
he replied after a moment of flustered silence,
"I'm sorry, I- I didn't know there was someone in here."
He adjusted his posture, from how it'd been frozen upon her first appearance, clearing his throat.
"Was the incense yours?"
That she was talking to him eased his worries, and he offered her a sheepish smile.
"I'm sorry I lit it, I thought this place was abandoned."
He smiled, as if embarrassed. She only stared back impassively.
"It was,"
she said,
"But you need not be cautelous."
She eyed him for a moment as if appraising him. He reminded her of a lamb stripped bare of its coat, his posture tensed like she might bare her fangs; she supposed reverence had always been accompanied by trepidation. He seemed wary for other reasons.
Her legs folded beneath her, one hanging off the side of the porch while the other became a rest for her lolled head. She let out a yawn, slow and drawn-out, before a finger lifted to point at the smouldering incense.
"You lit it,"
Half of the stick had been reduced to crumbling ash by now, and she inhaled its scent pleasantly.
Cautelous. What did that mean? He could only venture to guess it was something to the effect of sorry or, perhaps, cautious. And, indeed, he was clearly the more cautious between them at the moment, though it seemed to him that she should be warier than she was now, rather than him less.
He watched, quietly and awkwardly, as the girl — if that's what she was — maneuvered herself into a more comfortable position, her words interrupted by a languid yawn. The sound of rustling leaves in the passing wind filled their momentary silence, reminiscent of a burst of laughter. He imagined that the forest found them amusing, as well.
"You lit the candle,"
she continued, her tone as light as the breeze that brushed by them.
"What for?"
"What for?"
He repeated, confused. Such a straightforward yet inexplicable thing to ask, at a shrine no less.
"Oh, well, you know,"
he searched for an answer as it dawned on him, amidst her crystal-colored stare, that she was serious,
"to pray. Make a wish."
They sat on that thought together for a moment, as he finally shifted from a kneeling pose to cross his legs. The wooden floor felt oddly warm underneath them. The trees had gone quiet again.
"I wished for, uhm, ideas. Stories,"
he continued at her lack of reaction, belatedly realizing the nature of her question. He wondered why she cared to know, or if she even really did. Strangers typically didn't.
"I'm an author, you see."
He found that easy to tell her — he usually didn't. No matter how many books he published, giving himself the title still felt pretentious. Embarrassed, he tagged on,
"I'm an author, you see. But I'm on a bit of a break at the moment."
Her body was deathly still for a precious three breaths before her head tipped back, pale, spindly arms propping her torso up and dark hair cascading behind her like a cape. Her eyes looked at him lazily, as if she might as well be peering through his being.
"How odd. Other authors are more interested in fame, or wealth. Perhaps you have both?"
The corner of her lips curled into a leisurely half-smirk.
"It is not good to ask the gods for stories. Gods know less of what a story is than humans do, because it is not easy for them to understand,"
she mused aloud, her tone light-hearted and her gaze drifting elsewhere as if following the unseen breeze that tickled at the leaves of surrounding trees.
She remembered when the tallest tree she could see had been a mere sprout.
Her eyes returned to meet his, a curious twinkle in the faded grey-blues of her irises.
