#besides it was just okan's words

[0ut-of-my-head]

Don’t know if I made that clear.

[vstranslations]

Norikiyo - What Do You Want? - Lyrics

song (spotify) Japanese/Romaji/English lyrics under the cut

*The music video on Youtube has English subtitles, but they are... not good. Hopefully these make more sense.

What do you want? What do you want?

間違いの始まりお互いに 指差し がなったって 抗うも この絡むもん 乗せ世界ってもんは回ちゃってる で、何かを今日責めても ただ自分ってもんすら嫌んなってく じょあ、恨むより許せたら？ せがむより愛せたら？

よく言うじゃん「世界は自由」 って言うけどどう？ 何マイルか 海の向こうじゃ争いも でも 俺には今日お金がいる 考える時間が要る 神様 見せてよ 案内図

もしも 飢えている人が いるんじゃ きっと 彼らは 今日パンが 要る もし 俺が 億万長者だったら 分けるかも 足んない分 って 綺麗な事を歌ったりする たまに 自分にがっかりする

じゃ何が理由？ 考える 犯した罪 とか 犯罪分 過去の俺に 三回 言う 「生きてること以外に何が要る？」

焼け野原に 建ったビル 昭和初期はどんな地図？ 昔もそう 金持ちも貧乏人も最期 死ぬ じゃどう生きる？って 今日 力むより 君に今会いに行く そこには大してない Reason ただ それぞれある言い分

ほら 愚かな僕らを乗せ回る この惑星はみんなの学校 でも 誰かを友と呼べず 踠いて探しているのさ答えを

間違いの始まりお互いに 指差し がなったって 抗うも この絡むもん乗せ 世界ってもんは回ちゃってる で、何かを今日責めても ただ自分ってもんすら嫌んなって行く じゃ、恨むより許せたら？ せがむより愛せたら？

What do you want? What do you want?

欲しいんだけど名案が　 知ってる？ねぇ旦那　　 裁判官や警官じゃねぇ スーパーヒーロー　 Hey Come Back 　 カビ生えてる正論なんかよりもハイになるモンが欲しい どの宗教だとか肌の色でもおれらどっちもどっち 賜りたいご静聴　戦車よりねぇちゃんに乗っかりてぇし 今原発じゃねぇ選択肢はねぇんか？　

愚かな僕らを乗せ周る この惑星はみんなの学校 でも「先生」ってそれを呼んでも　 未だ返事がもらえず迷子

What do you want? What do I want?

--

What do you want? What do you want?

Machigai no hajimari otagai ni yubi sashi ga natta tte aragau mo kono karamu mon nose sekai tte mon wa mawachatteru de anika o kyou semete mo tada jibun tte mon sura iyan natteku jaa uramu yori yurusetara? segamu yori aisetara?

Yoku iu jan, sekai wa jiyuu tte iu kedo dou? nan mairu ka umi no mukou ja arasoi mo demo ore ni wa kyou okane ga iru kangaeru jikan ga iru kami-sama misete yo annaizu

Moshimo uerteiru hito ga irun ja kitto karera wa kyou pan ga iru moshi ore ga okuman chousha dattara wakeru kamo tannai bun

Ja nani ga riyuu? kangaeru hanshita tsumi toka hanzaibun kako no ore ni sankai iu ikiteru koto igai ni nani ga iru?

Yake nobara ni tatta biru showa shouki wa donna chizu mukashi mo sou kanemochi mo binbounin mo saigo shinu ja dou ikiru? tte kyou rikimu yori kimi ni ai ni iku soko ni wa taishitenai reason tada sorezore aru iibun

Hora orokana bokura o nose mawaru kono hoshi wa minna no gakkou demo dareka o tomo to yobezu mogaite sagashiteiru no sa kotae o

Machigai no hajimari otagai ni yubi sashi ga natta tte aragau mo kono karamu mon nose sekai tte mon wa mawachatteru de nanika o kyou semete mo tada jibun tte mon sura iyan natteku jaa uramu yori yurusetara? segamu yori aisetara?

What do you want? What do you want?

Hoshiin dakedo meian ga shitteiru? Nee danna saibankan ya keikan ja nee suupaa hiiroo hey come back kabi haeteru seiron nanka yori mo hai ni naru mon ga hoshii dono shukyou da toka hada no iro demo orera docchi mo docchi tamawaritai goseichou sensha yori neechan ni nokkaritee shi ima genpatsu ja nee sentakushi wa neen ka?

Orokana bokura o nose mawaru kono hoshi wa minna no gakkou demo sensei tte sore o yondemo imada henji ga moraezu maigo

What do you want? What do I want?

--

What do you want? What do you want?

When problems start, we point fingers at each other We try to resist getting involved The world keeps spinning with us on it Even if you try to criticize something today, the only thing you’ll end up hating more is yourself What if we tried forgiving instead of holding grudges? What if we loved others more than we pressured them?

Everyone always says “the world is free” but is that really true? There’s wars happening a few miles away on the other side of the sea But today I just need some money I need time to think Gods, please show us your plans

If there’s starving people, they definitely need some bread today People sing empty words, sayin’ that if they were rich, they’d give others some of what they’re lacking Sometimes I’m disappointed in myself

What’s the reason for it? Think – is it the act of doing a crime, or the crime itself? I’ll say this 3 times to my old self: “What do you want besides just being alive?”

Buildings put up in the burned fields What did this place look like at the start of the Showa era? Rich or poor, we die all the same – it’s always been that way Instead of worrying over how I should live, I’m gonna go see you I don’t really have any deep reason I just have lots to say

You see, this world carrying every one of us idiots is everyone’s school But I’m struggling to find any answers, unable to call anyone a friend

When problems start, we point fingers at each other We try to resist getting involved The world keeps spinning with us on it Even if you try to criticize another thing today, the only thing you’ll end up hating more is yourself What if we tried forgiving instead of holding grudges? What if we loved others more than we pressured them?

What do you want? What do you want?

I want it, but I got no good ideas You have anything, man? Don’t need judges or cops; hey superhero, hey come back! I want somethin’ to get me high, not some old argument Doesn’t matter what religion we are or the color of our skin I just want peace and quiet; I’d rather ride a pretty woman than a tank Aren’t there any options besides nuclear power?

You see, this world carrying every one of us idiots is everyone’s school but if you call for a teacher, you’ll end up lost without a response

What do you want? What do I want?

[mogadichu]

SOAST- Chapter 7: The Dhim’ra

The floating market rested at the heart of Elas-Ri-Hradek like a great wooden star, each of its five points jutting out for over a mile. Silk dresses and scarves in every color of the rainbow hung like streamers over brightly-painted booths. Enormous sapphires and rubies, emeralds and diamonds, both cut and raw, glimmered in the sunlight behind locked glass cases. Gold and silver rings, embroidered leather belts, fur-lined robes, all ready for the taking as greedy men and women skittered about with their strings of coin.

 Naga stood petrified on the Darrus’ bobbing skiff as Jerra tugged at her halter. She usually hopped onto the deck at once, but now, she did not budge, as though her clove hooves were nailed to the boards. He tugged again, and this time, she tugged back, with a low, constant whimper. “Come on now, old girl,” Jerra said tenderly. “You’ve been here a hundred times.”

“Just leave her, my love,” Shay said distractedly. She and Kale were already walking briskly down the boardwalk. Jerra looked back at Naga. Her ears were pinned back. The tawny hairs on her back stood on end.

Something was wrong. She could sense it.

Jerra hesitated, scanning the booths and brightly draped boats. Nothing seemed amiss. The market was full and fresh. The temperate water was still. Even the sky was blue and cloudless. He relaxed after a moment. Naga had grown old and skittish; perhaps the noise was finally beginning to frighten her old ears. He stroked her graying muzzle before joining the fray.

Exotic spices filled his nostrils as he hurried to catch up to his parents; basil, garlic, mint, cinnamon. A plump, red-cheeked woman sifted dry tobacco leaves, her booth devoid of potential customers. Her sleeves slid upward to reveal the thick runed cuffs on her wrists. Jerra blanched as his gaze rose to the woman’s mismatched eyes. Joghon. He scuttled away from the abhorrent, diseased woman. No wonder her booth was empty. Since when did the masters permit them to sell at the floating market?

Kale saw it, too, and it made him even more uneasy than he already was. “Shay,” he whispered, his eyes shifting about the market. “Let’s go back to our booth. They aren’t here.” He entwined his fingers with hers, willing her to stop, but she plucked her hand out his grasp. Her eyes remained forward, her feet hitting the deck with a determined slap.

“They are,” she said. “We don’t know how bad things are back home. Perhaps they’ve just been too busy to see us.” Kale’s brow furrowed. After all these years, she still thought of it as home. “They wouldn’t just abandon us, Kale.” Shay stopped abruptly, lifting a hand to his bearded jaw. “They wouldn’t just abandon you.”

Kale  kissed her palm as he stared down at the deck. Suddenly, he was too ashamed to look at her. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“They’re your brothers,” Shay breathed. “How can you say such things?”

They stood in silence for a moment, holding each other, the crowd parting around them like a stream around a stone. Kale shook his head. Why was she still doing this? Why did she drag him here, year after year? Why torment him with his brothers, whom he barely now knew?

Slowly, tentatively, his eyes found hers. “Let’s just go home.”

“That’s why we’re-”

“You know what I mean, Shay.”

Shay’s hand fell away, and she stared. She would have been angrier had the pain not been painted bright and brutal on her husband’s face. “After the way they treat you,” she said, “after the way they treat us, you want to simply stay there?”

“We could move, find another village. Perhaps, we can go to Janav.”

“No.” It was always Shay’s plan to stay in one place, to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. “We’re not going to Janav, because we’re not staying in Kelsh.”

Her words sparked something within Kale, a brief but violent strike of rage. “It’s been eighteen years, Shay,” he hissed. “I think it’s time you accept that we aren’t going back. We can’t. They’ll never forget. If we return to Yerda, they’ll never stop hunting us, our children. Not after all we’ve done. Whether or not any of us like it, Kelsh is the only place that’s safe.”

Jerra watched them from the adjacent booth, utterly disinterested in what his parents were saying. He grimaced as he sipped his cup of cider, all too aware that he could not feel the leather of the cup, the heat of the cider beneath his fingertips. Every time he picked up a bowl, a tool. Every time he was forced to ask for help with switching his arsenal of wooden hands, he was aware. They rubbed against his calloused stumps and the leather straps around his forearms chafed his skin. He never told his family that he still woke up in cold sweat; still saw the blood that that had drenched him as that ethereal blade sliced into his wrists, clear as the cloudless sky above him.

They could all leave, but he was not going back, not ever again.

“What about Sahn?” Shay hissed at Kale. Jerra flinched, as though the question were directed at him. Sahn, the archiver, the storyteller, the soft heart. Jerra did not want him or Aurie to return to Yerda, either. Yet, the thought of them staying in Kelsh with Okan-Isan also made his stomach sink.

Kale looked away from Shay’s blazing gaze. “Sahn is stronger than you think he is.” His hands clenched into fists. “Besides, perhaps if we’d moved, he wouldn’t have had the chance to-”

“Don’t you dare blame me,” Shay snapped.

“I’m not blaming you,” Kale said through his teeth. “I’m just-” Kale gasped, cutting off his own defense. Two copper heads bobbed above the crowd in the distance. Only their chins and mouths showed beneath their red hoods, but he knew them instantly. He rushed forward, his arms open to embrace his two younger brothers. But they’re hands grasped his collar, tugging him into a crevice between two empty booths.

Kale let out an “oof” of surprise. “Kima,” he huffed. “Kuri, what’s the matter?”

Kuri, beardless and riddled with worry lines, swung his gaze from Kale, to Kuri, to Shay and Jerra, who squeezed into the crevice to meet them. His eyes were wide and frightened, the bulge in his throat bobbing as though he were gulping down a jug of water. “I… Kale, we have to leave.”

Kale’s brow furrowed. “What’s the matter?” he repeated. Kuri’s mouth opened and closed before he pressed his forehead to Kale’s chest, whimpering like a lost pup.

Shay embraced the three violently. “Oh, my boys,” she cried, seemingly oblivious to Kuri’s agitation. “Is it time? Can we finally come home?”

Kima and Kuri exchanged an unreadable glance before turning to their brother. “Greenie,” Kima said. Kale started at the sound of his childhood pet name. “Greenie, listen-”

“We have done something,” Kuri finished the sentence. “Something- well, I don’t know what. Darya said that we had to, that we had no choice-”

“We did have no choice,” Kima interjected. He stood stoic and immovable as Kuri continued to whimper.

“But we- we saw it. We saw it leave him, like a shooting star. It was almost beautiful. And now, we don’t know-”

“Uncle, you’re babbling,” Jerra grunted. He placed a wooden hand on Kuri’s shaking shoulder. “What’s going on?”

Kuri gazed at his nephew. His face had paled from copper to beige. His entire head seemed to tremble, like in a feverish chill. “The Dhim’ra,” he breathed. “We found a Dhim’ra.”

  It was as though winter had blown through the thin crevice. Jerra backed away from Kuri, wrapping his arms around his mother, who stood stiff as a wooden plank. Kale gripped his brother’s shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes. “What did you say?” 

“You heard him, Greenie,” Kima grumbled. His eyes were turned downward, a flush creeping through his dark beard.

Shay stepped forward finally. “I thought they were extinct.”

“Now, you know that’s impossible,” said Kuri. “If they were, there would be no more joghons.”

“And what a tragedy that would be,” Kima drawled.

Kale gave Kuri a gentle shake. “Where is it?”

“Darya found it, in Anndr. She said this one had managed to stay out of sight for years, and yet, there it was, in a scholar’s library. She had never even meant to find it. Taking him was a bit of a struggle. We had to-”

“Where. Is. It. Now?” Kale repeated, shaking Kuri’s shoulders with every word.

Kima answered for him. “Dead.” Kale’s entire body went cold.

“Darya made us,” Kuri rushed out. “She said we had no other choice.”

Kale swallowed down the curses lumping in his throat. He and Shay had been informed many times about the new leader of their tribe. They said Darya was still a young woman, too naïve to know the ways of the Taidjura. But, this was not naiveté. It was idiocy. One did not simply kill a Dhim’ra in times like these, when there were so few of them left, when they were so valuable to the joghons.

Shay leaned on Kale’s arm, as though she was ready to faint. “What did you do with the body?” she asked, her voice low and quiet.

“I don’t know,” said Kuri. “We left while the pyre still-”

An ear-splitting shriek sliced into the crevice before Kuri could finish. Jerra went to look, but Kima gently pushed him back, poking his head out instead. More noises spread from the boardwalk, crashing wood and tearing fabric and indistinguishable roars. Kima’s face twitched, the slightest window of weakness, as he returned. “What is it?” Shay asked.

“It’s her,” Kima breathed.

“Who?”

“Rize.” Kima and Kuri fumbled with their packs, throwing their hoods over their heads. They began to shove the others through the side street, back to their skiff.

Jerra struggled to look behind him, catching glimpses of overturned booths and saberwolves with mismatched eyes, mowing down screaming traders with their curved tusks (though carefully moving around the joghons, leaving them unharmed). He fought the chill threatening to rattle him. Joghons on Kelshin shores, selling at the floating market, using their magic freely in the presence of humans. And, “Who in Moyane’s name is Rize?”

“I thought she was just some crazed zealot,” said Shay. “That she was nothing.”

Kuri shoved even harder. “Just go,” he cried. He and Kima scrambled onto their skiff, where Naga screamed in the corner, rapping her hooves against the side as though she would break through. Jerra rushed to calm her. Kale and Shay fought to squeeze through the trail of boats struggling to get to safety. “Get down,” Kuri gasped as jagged fins cut through the water, the glow of those infernal eyes shining beneath the surface. Jerra stared in horror as one of them jumped from the water, morphing from a shark into a muscled brute.

“There you are,” the joghon growled, every bit as monstrous as Jerra remembered. “Where is the Dhim’ra, human swine?” Jerra cowered away, clutching to Naga like a frightened child. Kima, nearly twice its size, lunged forward, flicking a pointed stump in his hand that shot out into a spear-headed javelin. He buried it into the joghon’s chest before it even had time to react, towering over it like a building. The javelin shrunk back down before the body hit the water.

Finally, the boats dispersed, the fins vanished behind them, back to the chaos in the floating market, and the group rocked along smooth waters, the galaxies arching above them, silvering the world below.

“Now,” Shay sighed, “will you tell us what is going on?”

Kima only patted her shoulder. “I swear,” he said, “all will be answered when we get to Kelsh.”

[coruscorp-blog]

DEAR, MS. ( MITSUE ONISHI )

We are pleased to have you back for another year as an UPPER SECOND YEAR STUDENT at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We sincerely hope your classmates in RAVENCLAW treat you well.

sapporo, hokkaido. 1988. odori park is where onishi rikizou and matsumura kanon meet under the fleeting flowers of spring. two people lost to the heart of a work culture that demands constant overtime and obeying of seniors, their minds only know of exhaustion. one silently craves death, telling nobody of their thoughts. if the two of them had not met, forced to share a bench to eat their respective lunches, then perhaps this story would come to end in a tragedy.

conversation strikes solace. then a friendship blossoms while the brief sakura wilts above them. among the emerald and turquoise of summer, rikizou decides to ask kanon out on a date. the cicadas almost drown his voice out, but she hears. he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a smile that shone so beautifully in his life. she can’t wait to offer him many more, scattered throughout the future.

kyoto, honshu. 1998. “nee-san, nee-san!” there is a loud thump of a body hitting the floor, but the excited boy in question does not feel the pain from the soft tatami. he scrabbles over to a nearby coffee table, to slap his sister’s arms. “okan and otoun are coming back! i see them right out the window!”

“amato what did i say about keeping calm?” his sister hisses without much malice for she too is excited, leaving the table to head to the door. it only takes a few seconds for the door to unlock and there enter two proud parents. kanon is cradling a precious bundle against her chest.

“amato. yuika. come to meet your imouto mitsue.”

kyoto, honshu. 2003. “mitsue, what did i say about climbing the gingko tree?”

“but nee-san i can’t think as well when i’m on the ground.”

“are you a bird? why do you need to be high up to think better?”

“maybe it’s the sky…” the little girl reaches her hand out towards the broad blue carefully. "because when i look at the sky it spreads out infinitely and it makes me realize how much i don’t know…but also how much space my mind probably has. like the sky.“

“is that what a five-year-old should be saying? maybe amato was being serious when he said you’re smarter than him,” there is a giggle, a brush of leaves against branches as a familiar figure sits beside her to stare off into the distance. but unlike her younger sister, yuika is unable to see the same colors and thoughts.

but though she won’t tell mitsue beyond a fond stroke of the younger girl’s hair, yuika knows that she doesn’t want to live the same life. a life of obsessing over details, solving riddles and theorizing things that extend even beyond a simple explanation of imagination.

kyoto, honshu. 2004. “mitsue is what? a witch?” kanon pulls her daughter closer to her on the couch, but the little girl is not paying attention to her mother’s movements. she’s focused on the sudoku book in her laps, but she can hear distress. she can also hear the stranger’s words.

there’s some things about magic which now explains to the little girl why she’s often been able to stare at something long enough for it to float. or the few times that she’s been angry at her older siblings she’s made the ceramic on the dining table crack much to her entire family’s further displeasure.

weird things happening. emotions correlating to power. there’s an answer to it all. there’s always an answer to things, it just depends how easily everything can be reached. the stranger does’t take long to convince kanon and rikizou of their daughter’s behaviors and soon she is sent off every morning on umi tsubame to an unknown island with unknown people.

unknown, but they are just like her somehow.

minami iwo jima, ogasawara. 2008. “mitsu! what book have you lost your nose in this time? put it down! we’re going to be late to the entrance ceremony.”

“hai, hai, i’m coming!” mitsue sighs but she’s not actually annoyed by her friends calling for her, tucking away the milky way road by miyazawa kenji into her gold colored robe she runs after her them. opening ceremonies are nothing new, but this will be the first time she attended mahoutokoro as a boarding school and not something simply for the day.

it’s the first time she’ll be away from her parents and her two older siblings. it was the first time she saw amato cry too when he hugged her goodbye, but the girl had promised him when he handed her his stack of mangas that she’ll read them all and message him back about it before they meet again over christmas holidays. there was no way she wouldn’t go back and risk missing her mother’s osechi during the new years.

“are you excited to live here mitsu?”

“stuck on an island with you? i don’t think so,” she earns a sharp jab in the ribs by a rough elbow but the laughter in the air as the flock enters the building is enough to explain everything about them all.

minami iwo jima, ogasawara. 2014. “takeru you’ll get water all over your bangs.”

the boy leaning over the water foutain looks up at her with a goofy lopsided grin, mischief glimmering in his eyes. she sighs at his response, reaching into her robes to pull out a simple red hair-clip. her fingers are careful when they brush aside wet bangs, clipping the stray strands into place with a satisfied smile.

“is this the school idol onishi mitsue that i know? the famous mahoutokoro quidditch manager being a lot more approachable than rumors say and even doing a few things beyond playing tactician? shocking.”

“what are you saying? are you an idiot,” mitsue scoffs at takeru but she doesn’t break eye contact from the warm familiar brown hues that she’s come to call a piece of her home. comfortable silence fills the space between the two of them, then it too is pushed out of the way as he leans in to close the distance between the two of them. her eyes close. briefly, a sensation like honey floods her entirety for eternity. but eternity is always so painfully short.

“hmmm, i wonder? what am i saying to my girlfriend?”

“girlfriend,” mitsue tilts her head to the side playfully. “quidditch captain, i wasn’t aware that someone like you could actually get a girlfriend?”

she screeches when cold water hits her robes but the noise dissolves into a fit of giggles under the sunny warmth.

minami iwo jima, ogasawara 2017. “onishi-san, as you are the valedictorian of your year and someone who holds an excellent extracurricular record, i would highly recommend you to attend the new program at hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry,” there is a short but loud snap of a folder snapping to a close. mitsue sits in her gold, knees pressed together and hand on her lap. maple irises are reading the headmaster’s every expression.

hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. another transition to another world.

“kouchou sensei, i’m honored you believe that. but are you positive about this? it’s halfway across the world and i have never stepped one foot outside of japan. i may know english, but i know nothing about the people there. the culture. i don’t think i’m suited for it, i would be so lost.”

“remember when we first met?” there is a warm hand on her shoulder, offering her a comforting squeeze, “i told you that i wanted you to become like the sakura trees and blossom beautifully. but you told me you didn’t want to live such a short fleeting life. that as someone born to a regular family, you wanted to become a tanpopo. one that can survive anyplace anywhere. people may call you a weed, but they would also be the ones holding hands with the wind to spread the seed of your legacy. that was almost ten  years ago when you told me this mitsue. you wre still a child when you said such profound words. now tell me, where is this dandelion now?”

a pause, there is a small shuffling noise that comes from her aureate robes as she finally stands up from the couch to bow down to the senior.

“preparing for a journey across water and land to scotland.”

highlands of scotland. 2017. i can already tell, you’re a smart one. but i have one question for you, do you like quidditch?

“no, i’ve never been athletic. sweating’s gross and flying’s not as fun on a broomstick.”

interesting, but when i look into your memories i see a lot of the sky.

“when i’m high up, i think better. i tell myself the sky is endless and that the only part stopping me is the horizon itself. same goes for the human mind. we’re stopping ourselves.”

the sorting hat murmurs something she can’t quite catch then it roars into the great hall.

RAVENCLAW.

[mogadichu]

SOAST- Chapter 2: The Scholar’s Jewel

An archiver’s visit to the western monastery usually lasted under twelve minutes. For Sahn, it was over an hour. The Kelshin monks walked silently around him as he wandered up and down the rickety stairwell of the monastery library, practically gliding in their thick wool robes. Sahn breathed in the tower’s musky scent, wanting more than anything to vanish into the hundreds of scrolls that surrounded him. Every wall was covered, floor to ceiling, in octagonal shelves filled to the brim with sacred texts, all coated with a thin layer of dust. He ran his fingers along the carved wooden covers, leaving a stark trail behind him. These stolen moments were Sahn’s only opportunity to lose himself in perfect silence. Today, however, silence could not drown Aurie’s words out of his mind.

I want to see a joghon. Just once.

The phrase had repeated in his thoughts like a song ever since he left her in the fields. It was not the first time she had shown her interest in the monsters that lived beyond the horizon, the monsters whose very presence, according the sacred words written on the stone walls of the High Temple of Shianyi, perverted the very nature of the Kelshin soil.

The Only Order Is the Natural Order

They were sacred words, to swear by, to never be questioned. Yet, Aurie had practically walked out of their mother’s womb asking question after question about the monsters. “What do they look like? How do they live? Do they pull magic from the air? From the earth? Do they truly sacrifice animals? Do they truly dance naked in their blood?”

Their mother’s earlier response was tame compared to the usual slap on the ears and wild-eyed command to not ask such “heathen acquisitions.” Sahn never blamed her for it. They did not need magic curiosity to add to their oddness.

Sahn circled around the tiny scriptorium, peering over the monks’ hunched shoulders. With steel fingers, they painted a map of Kelsh along the thick beige paper.

Kelsh and only Kelsh.

A hiss from the dark-eyed men signaled that Sahn had once again overstayed his welcome. He strapped the newly-copied scrolls into the wooden pack on his back and, with a bow of gratitude, set off in his little raft. His long, thin oar pierced into the rocky bottom, pushing him along Rin River. The land on either side of him was sprawling rice terraces and grain fields, copses of birch and curved tiled roofs. No mountain, not even a hill large enough to block the view to the blurred line of the horizon.

Devoid of mountains and magic, eh, boy? Novoyai chuckled, sitting cross-legged on the braided reeds, sliding a flat rock along his ethereal cutlass. What am I going to do with my qigara blade, then?

What the exact purpose of a qigara blade was, Sahn did not know. But, he still chuckled at his imaginary friend’s quip. “Let’s hope you never have to use it.”

Oh, come now. No need to be such a pacifist. The hero’s thick black whiskers curved in a cold smile, his braided beard wrapped around his neck like a scarf. What about your grandfather?

Sahn stiffened. “What about him?”

He could use a close shave, I’m sure.

“Novoyai…”

I bet I could slice him clean in half, and I’d never hurt him half as much as-

“No,” Sahn shrieked, startling a flock of sparrows off a nearby willow. “No magic blades on my grandfather. There’s no…” His face heated again at his own silliness. Of course, Novoyai would never be able to even touch his grandfather. Still… “There’s no need for violence, Novoyai.”

Tell that to-

“No,” he said again. “No violence, and-” his teeth gritted behind his lips. His fingers drifted to the long, thin scar at his collarbone as he whispered, loud enough only for Novoyai to hear, “and no magic.”

Novoyai snorted before returning to his sharpening. Where’s the fun in a world with no magic?

 The citadel stood at the tip-top of Gleaner’s Hill, first to touch the light in the morning and last to touch it at night. The building was of rich burgundy wood carved in patterns of leaping carp and blooming water lilies swept up in lapping waves. A gleaming gold sun stood at each curved tip of the green tiled roof. The inside was paneled with dark wood, the walls varnished with oil murals of sailing ships and groves of cherry trees. The floors were inlaid with shining squares of gold and turquoise stone. Sahn’s footsteps echoed as he weaved through the maze of the same octagonal shelves, stacked atop each other like honeycomb, filled with newer, sleeker copies of Kelshin history and lore, folktales and sacred texts, from the adventures of Tuma and Moyane to simple accounts of village residents. Most of Kelsh’s books were archives of the nation’s history, retreading its many great achievements in its five thousand years of existence. Their fiction, what little there were, held no magic in them, not even their children’s stories. They held monsters and otherworldly beasts, they even held gods. But never magic.

Each citadel was meant to be a beacon of knowledge, a scholar’s jewel, a place for every Kelshin, no matter their station. Everyone of Gleaner’s Hill being illiterate was either an unfortunate accident or a cruel twist of fate.

Their citadel may have been a marvel to behold, but the scrolls remained unread, the gleaming stone never grew faded from the feet of a curious reader. All but few of the people of Katha ate and slept and plowed from the cradle to the grave without ever learning their letters. “I’ve got no time for letters,” Old Maga, a rice farmer with thin arms and a pot belly, grunted when Sahn had asked about it. “I wake up in the morning, I plow, I muck, I seed, and I go home and sleep. Besides, knowing your letters doesn’t make you smart.”

“But, my ma and da know their letters,” Sahn had protested, “and they’re smart.”

Old Maga had scoffed. “If your ma were smart, she wouldn’t have married a foreigner.”

Kale never spoke of Vyorn, never spoke of his family (if he ever had one) or what his life was at all before Kelsh. “There is nothing to tell,” he would say. All his children ever knew about his heritage was from his sheer size, all shoulders and legs and scraggly brown beard.

Of the three of them, Sahn bore the least resemblance to his gentle giant of a father. Jerra inherited his massive stature and copper skin, arms taught with hard muscle, flecked with scars from years of plow work, and a beard that grew like mad if he did not shave regularly. Even Aurie, with their mother’s kind amber eyes and clear sandstone skin, obtained Kale’s curved mouth that made her seemed to always smile, even when she was not.

Sahn, inherited everything from his mother, only in short supply. His figure was tall and wiry, his hair thin and black as mulch- kept a short, straight mop so as not to fall into his eyes as he read- and his skin the sallow yellow of aged parchment. Not to mention his rather humiliating inability to grow facial hair. His features were soft, unthreatening, “effeminate,” some said. The only thing he gained from his father were his large angled eyes, a bright, striking peridot green.

He unloaded the strapped scrolls onto a nearby table, the noise echoing off the polished walls despite his delicate touch. He noticed silhouettes showing through the paper windows of the mezzanine. Okan-Isan was pacing back and forth, flailing his arms. Another figure, hunched shoulders and bent knees, was standing still. Voices rang as Sahn silently slid the new scrolls into their shelves, his movements slow and deliberate. “… don’t care who they are and why they are here. We are under treaty.” Okan-Isan’s voice, high pitched and raspy as a crow. “How dare they come into these lands. Who do they think they are?”

Sahn blinked. He glanced at Novoyai, but he did not seem quite so interested. He pulled a scroll from the shelves and tapped it rhythmically against his forehead. Sahn gasped, nearly dropping his satchel. “What are you doing?” he cried.

I’m bored.

Sahn gently set his satchel down on the table long enough to snatch the scroll out of his imaginary friend’s hand. “Have some respect, Novoyai,” he said as he caressed its carved wooden cover, green rice terraces filled with water. It was a document of Great Batti, the lonesome shepherd who brought the groundbreaking art of irrigation to the Kelshin fields. Sahn knew every scroll in the archive forward, backward, and sideways. “This is nearly four hundred years old.”

Old. Everything is old, in here. Novoyai hopped onto the table and returned to his whetstone, his gaze lingering on Sahn. Would you hold a girl like that, boy?

Sahn put the scroll back, his face heating.

“How do you think I feel, Okan?” the stranger’s voice cried from above. “I’m the one who had to let them port.” Sahn stopped altogether. It was Matsu-Isan, of Agaoka. The last time he was in Okan-Isan’s quarters, Sahn and half the nation had been bed-ridden with pox. “I had to watch them set their filthy feet on our beautiful cobbles,” he continued. “I had to look into… look into their…” He did not finish. Moths fluttered in Sahn’s chest. “Let us hope it’s only temporary.”

“Temporary,” Okan-Isan snorted. “And how long is ‘temporary,’ Matsu? Weeks? Months?” His voice grew higher with every question. “Years?”

Matsu was silent. Sahn turned to Novoyai, who had finally ceased his sharpening. “What in the world are they talking about?”

Novoyai said nothing. He was interested now, his narrowed eyes focused on the windows. The shadows danced behind the mural of golden Tuma and silver Moyane stretching their hands to each other.

“It doesn’t matter, Okan, and it doesn’t matter what we think,” Matsu-Isan finally spoke. His silhouette shook with his voice. He was as afraid of Okan-Isan as Sahn was. “They won’t listen to the Shianyi Council, and they certainly won’t listen to us. If you want to go down there and tell them to leave, be my guest.” His figure backed away, toward the door. “See how long you last.”

He raced through the threshold, slamming the sliding doors shut, denying Okan-Isan the last word. He shuffled down the ornamental staircase, shivering like an excitable dog, his large brown eyes darting back to the mezzanine over and over. Sahn called to him from his place in the corner.

“Matsu-Isan.”

The old man jolted at the sound of his voice, his eyes widening to extraordinary size as they fell on Sahn. No doubt Okan-Isan had informed him of the Mad Darru on his arrival. “What were you two talking about?” Sahn asked, attempting to sound bold, and failing. “Who is staying?”

Matsu-Isan wrung his hands, plagued with gnarled skin from fish hooks and sea water. He was much older and thinner than Sahn remembered, bony and malnourished. His hair grew in clumps of silver fuzz. His back made a perfect curve beneath his stained, threadbare robes. He glanced once more at the murals (Okan-Isan’s silhouette was no longer there) before speaking. “Joghons,” he whispered, too softly to echo. “Joghons are here.”

Sahn’s breath caught. “What did you say?” Surely, he had not heard him right.

“Joghons are here,” Matsu-Isan whimpered. “The disgusting, defiled perversions are on Kelshin soil.”

It was as though the room no longer had a floor. Joghons, monsters, majysts, here. “Why?”

Matsu-Isan shrugged.

The scroll in Sahn’s hands twisted and creaked. There had not been a majyst in Kelsh since- a pang rippled through Sahn’s heart. So many questions suddenly crowded his tongue all at once, climbing and clambering over each other, fighting for the chance to be asked first. How long had they been here? How many were here? Were more coming? Sahn had thought the terms of the treaty were unbreakable. But perhaps they had found some sort of loophole? If that were the case-

           “All Kelshins are forbidden to approach the port towns of Orutan and Agaoka. No exceptions.”

           Sahn’s thoughts shattered like glass. “Why?” he repeated.

           Matsu-Isan loosened a sigh laced with irritation. This was a question he had been asked a lot already, a thought that surprised Sahn. “It is Moyane’s will to remain among the green, to keep to the natural order.” Sahn swallowed back a sigh. Moyane’s will. Always with Moyane’s will. “Besides, if we come to them, interact with them, it might tempt them to enter further. It is best to… leave them where they are.” Sahn knew what he had wanted to say. It is best to keep the disease from spreading. He also knew that Matsu-Isan was not a human man saying his own thoughts in that moment. He was a silver-winged kess repeating Okan-Isan’s words in a monotoned squawk. “Agaoka and Orutan are being evacuated as we speak.”

           “Why?”

           “To keep our people from the joghons,” Matsu-Isan snapped. “Moons, have you heard anything I said? Or is that the only word you know?” His mouth clamped shut as he looked away. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I haven’t really been myself lately.” His hands pressed into his stomach as though furthering his point.

           Beside him, Novoyai fidgeted in his spot. His trembling fist clutched the jeweled hilt of his cutlass. Oh, there’s no need for that. We already know a majyst. Sahn’s gaze darted between the two men standing before him, one real, one imaginary. Go on, boy. Tell him.

           Now is not the time, Sahn wanted to say. Matsu-Isan still held his stomach, gritting his teeth.

           Tell him, Novoyai pushed. What’s the matter? Are you ashamed?

           Sahn gulped.

           Ah, Novoyai said disappointedly. You are ashamed.

           Stop it, he thought.

           Don’t know why I’m surprised. After all, is it not Moyane’s will to hate anything different-?

           “Stop it,” Sahn blurted out to him, immediately thinking he might burst in flames from the heat that exploded through his face. Matsu-Isan looked in Novoyai’s direction and, when he saw no one was there, Sahn watched in horror as he turned from beige, to pale, to bone-white.

           “Stop what?” he asked slowly.

           Sahn mouth opened and closed. “Are you hungry?” he asked far too loudly. He rifled through his satchel and pulled out Aurie’s uneaten breakfast box. “Here. It’s a bit cold now, but…” His gaze remained on the checkered tiles.

           Matsu-Isan chewed on his lip, his fingers wiggling, aching to take the box, but he hesitated a moment before tentatively closing the space between them and plucking it from Sahn’s hand. He gulped at the sight of the food. When was the last time he had properly eaten? Sahn wanted to ask, but he felt he had asked this poor man enough questions, though more still burned his tongue.

           “Thank you,” Matsu-Isan croaked, gawking at the boy, wondering why he would give him such a gift. Sahn did not know himself. He only nodded, flushing a bit.

           Matsu-Isan left the citadel licking his fingers, his belly full for the first time in days. He had been in such a hurry getting his people out of Agaoka, making sure they were housed and fed, that he had entirely forgotten about himself. He glanced back through the lattice window, watching the boy reading the archive scrolls, still as a tree in dead wind, his free hand always on that little satchel. “Stop it,” he had said to the air. Matsu-Isan’s eyes narrowed into slits. What are you hiding, boy?