kinkfest | Snowlight (Okami, Amaterasu/Waka)

Title: Snowlight
Author/Artist:

nekokoban
Rating: G
Prompt: Okami, Amaterasu/Waka: dance - in every light
Word count: 1761
Summary: The prophet of the moon has a restless first night in the Celestial Court.

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The first night he spent as a guest in Great Mother Amaterasu's court, he did not sleep at all. Instead, he wandered through the open-air hallways from garden to garden, barefoot and restless, his flute in one hand the whole time. Even on the Celestial Plain the sun sometimes rested--not set, not anything like that--but the darkness here couldn't even be called that: it was soft and warm, and he could still see each step he took, one after the other. The sky was deep violet-blue rather than pitch-black, studded with the lights of a thousand tiny stars. If he cared to look, he could easily pick out the various constellations that represented the twelve Brush-Gods; the view was different here, compared to on the Moon, but he was a prophet and well-used to stars.

Tonight they accompanied him as he made his way finally to the last and greatest of the gardens--the one that Mother Amaterasu Herself and no other tended to, where someone traversing its length would pass from spring through to winter, each portion as delicately beautiful as the other. Waka chose to enter the garden through winter, curling his toes into the thin layer of snow that blanketed the ground--and there he stopped, watching his breath mist, staring to where autumn lay a short distance ahead--and summer and spring beyond that. Here felt more like home than anywhere else in this timeless paradise, but even that wasn't enough: though the winter garden was cold, it didn't cut to the bone. His feet were ankle-deep in snow and it felt more like standing in a cold stream, just on the edge of unpleasant. It was like a pale echo of the world he knew, very nearly like an insult.

On the other hand, he thought, with some bitter humor, it had been unreasonable for him to assume that a land that knew the direct loving attention of the Great Mother Herself wouldn't be perfect, even in its supposed imperfections. There could be no true cold in a place where the sun rested after her daily journey. Yet he couldn't make himself be happy here, in this world of peace and plenty, where ripe fruit hung from nearly every tree and fat roasts appeared from thin air--the flesh of no previously-living animal, but meat all the same--and the air smelled always, faintly, of flowers and dusty warmth. The gods of the Celestial Plain knew nothing of monsters, or what it was like to shiver and starve at the whims of a god who cared nothing for the comfort of his people, but extracted terrible punishment for unfaithfulness all the same. Children born here were called blessings rather than curses.

And here he was, refugee of the Full-Moon Tribe, oracle of Princess Kaguya's court, who had been unable to foresee the coup that had ousted his princess from her rightful place and sent her fleeing with a handful of their people for the sanctuary of the Celestial Plain. He, who had spoken before with the Emperor of Darkness Himself, had been unable to do nothing but stand by and watch his people die--and these soft fragile gods twittered their sympathies as if they actually understood how lucky they truly were--ah, though it was bad luck, he thought he might truly hate them, for having these gifts and squandering them.

Behind him came the sound of soft footsteps. Waka instinctively tensed, his hand tightening on his flute, then forced himself to relax. Only one being would normally be in this gardens, excepting stupid prophets who didn't have the sense to redirect his thoughts as a guest of the most holy. He breathed in the smell of flowers and turned, bowing low. "The Great Mother honors me with Her presence," he said. "I apologize for my rude intrusion into Her private sanctuary and humbly beg Her pardon while I excuse myse--"

Something tapped the top of his head. Startled out of his apology, Waka looked up, and found that he had been rapped by her closed paper fan, which still hovered a short distance above him, like she might do it again if the whim struck her. Through the gap of her long sleeve he could see the elegant curve of her wrist, delicate and strong at the same time. She had the fingers that would be the envy of either musician or swordsman and they balanced the fan with easy grace. She was dressed in white that faded into brilliant crimson at the hems, but nothing so fancy as the elaborate robes and layers that the people of the Moon Court wore--even Princess Kaguya, whom Waka loved best of all their fellows, had her vanities.

Great Mother Amaterasu, on the other hand, wore a simple kimono and no other accoutrements; like Waka, she was barefoot in the snow, though she stood upon its surface rather than sinking down into it. Her hair tumbled loose and free over her shoulders, long enough to trail past her hips, nearly to the ground, marked with the same red patterns as her fur when she walked as a wolf. The smile on her face was almost kind--and almost wicked, too, with just a hint of sharp teeth behind her soft mouth. She did not, at least, appear upset to have found him in her sanctuary, cocking her head at him. All of the gardens of Takamagahara are open for those who set foot upon its lands, her eyes say. There is no one place that is the domain of a single soul.

Except that Waka had seen the other gods, even the ones who wielded the power of the Celestial Brush, give this place a respectfully wide berth, and while previously he had been feeling recklessly annoyed at their indulgences and softnesses, he felt himself quailing a little under the Great Mother's steady gaze. It felt unpleasantly like being a child again and caught in the midst of a prank and forced to explain just exactly what he had been doing and why. Despite being an adult twice over in the eyes of his people, thinking of his earlier grudges in Great Mother Amaterasu's presence made him feel small and pathetically juvenile. He opened his mouth to apologize again, and before he could even draw in the breath for the words she rapped him on the head with her fan again, more smartly than before. When he looked up again, her expression was very nearly stern.

If there is anything I cannot abide, she said, with a toss of her hair and with a tilt of her head, it is when people cannot learn. She narrowed her eyes at him, her now-hard gaze sweeping him from head to toe. Are you an idiot? her expression asked, and Waka found himself straightening, drawing himself up to his full height. Even then, he found he had to look up to meet her eyes and the challenge within them. Her hand hovered a short distance from his cheek, her fan held like the hilt of a sword between her fingers; he could feel a tangible warmth radiating from her, though the snow under her feet remained pristine as always. Without breaking eye-contact, greatly daring, he brought his own hand up and curled it around the arch of her wrist, and a part of him marveled at how uniquely, humanly fragile she felt to the touch.

"My apologies," he said. "I appear to have been mistaken." He pulled her hand and was actually a little surprised when she allowed him to move her in such a way; prophet that he was, he was not infallible, especially when his own fate in particular was involved. For just a moment he looked away from her face to watch their hands instead, holding his breath a little as he slid his fingers up to touch hers. When she did not protest or pull away--when he looked at her face and saw that same warm spark from before, he allowed himself to smooth his thumb down from the heel of her palm and across her wrist, across the thin skin where the heartbeat of the Sun-God and Great Mother beat steady and strong. Waka lowered his lashes and let himself peek up at her, coy, and said, "Will you accept this apology, ma chérie?"

She laughed at that--actually laughed aloud, a pealing bright sound, glad enough to make an answering joy bubble up in his chest. It seemed to Waka as if the entire Celestial Plain--the entire world, perhaps--paused to listen and let out a sigh of contentment. Aah, Great Mother Amaterasu was laughing, so all was right with the world--and he, Ushiwaka of the Full-Moon Tribe, was the primary witness. His earlier poor mood had dissolved completely in the face of of the Great Mother's laughter, even if it was at his expense. Waka released her hand and received a gentle tap on the cheek from her fan, her eyes on the flute in his other hand. The smile on her face is cheeky now, a challenge in the way she tosses her head and flicks the fan open with a graceful snap of her wrist. You play, do you not? Then let me hear it.

This time Waka was the one who laughed, stepping back a short distance so that he could bow to her. He thought of things he could say, mocking or teasing or anything else; he settled for bringing the flute to his lips instead. The songs he knew were lullabies and love songs, all in minor keys, but the one that came to his mind at that moment, full-formed and perfect at once (as the legends said Amaterasu herself had been) was a hymn: a paean to the Amaterasu-Omikami, Origin Of All That Is Good And Mother To All, each note bright and clean. He played as he never had before and--he knew, in his heart--never would again. The vision was still hazy, but from the corner of one eye he could see a creeping approaching darkness, which would change everything--later. For now he played and tried to recall the sound of her laughter in the music.

And just for him, her feet leaving no mark upon the white snow of her winter garden and her hair glowing under the scattered stars, she danced.