Chapter Text
When the God of Eternity is cast from the Heavens by Celestia’s decree, the first thing It registers is two heartbeats. It pounds in its chest and in its ears, as deafening as the thunder It wields.
The second thing It registers is the world around It, now viewed from two pairs of mortal eyes. The restricted view blinds It to the things It used to be able to see.
It pushes Itself on its knees and The Other mirrors its movements to perfection.
The third thing It registers is the smell of rain, the feeling of grass beneath It, the sound of birdsong, the ticklish feeling of disheveled strands of hair that covers half its vision.
It feels like a mortal does and it. Is. Stifling.
It and The Other lock eyes without moving a muscle more. Neither wants to be the first to break the silence because breaking the silence means—
Because speaking out of turn means—
Because existing apart from The Other means—
It and The Other shudder in unison.
Without need for communication, twin circles of electro spawn beneath It and The Other, spinning ever faster as they attempt to break away from their flesh prison and return to the skies. Lightning lashes out, barely missing the trees around it, until all the built up power implodes in on itself and unleashes a light so bright it scorches the sclera of every creature in the vicinity unfortunate enough to be looking.
When vision returns It still exists in a mortal shell.
The Other remains.
Sparks of fading electro dance between the yawning space of them; a mockery.
“Celestia,” The Other growls, breaking its self imposed silence in a fit of rage, and the skies above rumble in reflective anger.
There is a nauseating tension settling on Its shoulders. It wants to bite its tongue off for fear of speaking up, but questions, so many questions crowd inside its head. Are they the same questions The Other has?
In the end, there is no avoiding this. It cannot reach The Other through any other means; cannot take its mind between its hands and see inside of it with gentle fingers.
It is hesitant to open its mouth (What if they do not sound the same? What if The Other's soft but angry tones do not reflect in it? What if—) but it has no choice, and when it does ultimately speak its question into existence: “How did it do this?” It sags in relief at the sound that comes from it, low and hesitant but perfectly identical.
The Other sounds just like It, and It sounds just like The Other. That is good, that is correct.
The plunge taken emboldens It in equal measures as it starts rattling off possibilities and solutions.
“A seal?”
“The bodies?”
“Perhaps?”
“Destroy them?”
That suggestion makes its stomach twist in uncomfortable knots but before It can say anything, The Other is already on its feet which causes It to scramble in order to mirror its movements.
Electro once again sparks into being but it is not the same as before, it is sharp and hungry; seeking blood, seeking destruction. It lashes out against the grass, burning it into nothing before it can even think of catching fire.
It is not afraid of The Other even as the arches of lightning grow deadlier and ever closer, what It fears is that The Other does not seem to register the difference in opinion on this matter.
It makes It sick.
It frowns in mounting dread and commands with a shaky voice, “Stop.”
The reaction is immediate: Power abruptly cuts off and The Other freezes in place, its chest ceases to take breath and its eyes widen in dawning horror.
It does not want to think about it, It tries not to think about it but its newfound reality is overwhelming. Different bodies, different thoughts, a different existence wrong wrong wrong—
It steps forward and desperately reaches out to The Other who does the same.
Their palms meet, fingers intertwine, and they fall to their knees on the grass clutching at The Other with naked terror.
Blunt nails dig into the back of The Other’s hand and its free hand roams across The Other’s body, frantically searching for imperfections but it does not find any. They are perfectly, impossibly matched; each strand of hair is the exact same length and color from root to end, the ridge of their nose arches and dips underneath the pad of their finger, their eyebrows are equally thick and bushy, and their cheekbones are structured low, with a sharp jawline that makes a fine point. It counts each eyelash and arrives at the same number. It opens its mouth and checks each tooth, finding the same gaps and crooks.
Before It can continue gliding its hand down its neck, however, its breath catches in its throat anew as its gaze flickers down, arrested by a dark speck beneath its right eye that is[n't] present on The Other.
It brings its hand up to graze at the discrepancy and lets out a wretched keen, as if It’s been wounded.
Rain falls in torrents and the God cries for the first time in its existence.
Are they
still one?
They do not move beyond that meadow for a long time.
Rain comes and goes in drizzles or heavy droplets that get carried by harsh winds.
It does not wash away the grief that only seems to get worse the longer they remain as they are.
“Baal,” mutters The Other, a pitiful attempt at comfort, a sad attempt at throwing an anchor down amidst stormy seas.
“Beelzebul,” It echoes and cuddles deeper in The Other’s embrace, clutching at the arms that encircle it until it draws thin lines of red. “What are you thinking? What are you feeling? Talk to me, let me hear your voice.”
Beelzebul hesitates. What if The Other says the wrong thing? Are they not broken up enough? If it and The Other stay like this forever, maybe they can salvage this, maybe they won’t fall apart at the seams. It’s scared, It's angry. It wants to scream, It wants to rip out its tongue. Its heart jumps like a rabbit in its chest.
Baal shifts, cupping the back of Beelzebul's neck and guiding its head down to rest against its breast so It can hear how its heart, too, jumps like a rabbit in its chest. “Please do not let doubt fester in your heart, Beelzebul.”
The fear in its voice finally pushes The Other to speak.
“I am... sad,” Beelzebul says, and its voice breaks at the end, tears once more prickle in its eyes; it is helpless to stop them, It feels like it will never be able to stop them.
The Other’s nails dig into its scalp as it runs its fingers through its hair. “I am cold.”
“I want to go back.”
“Where I belong.”
“I miss you.”
“I’m right here.”
The connection is still there, naturally. It can still feel The Other as part of It, a warm campfire light it can never truly lose sight of. They feel the same, they think the same but they do not look the same.
How long until they do not feel the same? How long until they do not think the same?
A loud screech causes Baal to flinch, spurring Beelzebul into tightening its embrace in preparation for some kind of attack.
From the treeline across from them jumps out a fox pup, and then another, and another, and another; a whole litter. They nip and barrel over each other with abandon. Pups playing tag, heedless of their audience.
Baal-and-Beelzebul watch on, noting the weak traces of power that makes the cubs’ fur stand on end as they try to pile on their largest member, a snow white fox with two tails.
“Kitsunes,” Baal breathes out in awe and a sense of stark relief. Kitsunes are one of their most devout followers, it’s almost as if Fate itself has intervened when they needed it most.
The smallest of the litter catches their eye and it breaks away from its siblings to curiously trot towards the God. It drops down onto its belly halfway, as if stalking prey, tail swishing back and forth in anticipation.
It’s so painfully, hilariously obvious what its plan is that when it jumps towards them with a yap, fully expecting to startle them, it manages to surprise a weak laugh out of Baal who reaches out with a hand to boop the cub on the snout.
It immediately takes it as a challenge and it bites down on the offending finger, nibbling and batting at Baal’s hand with abandon.
Beelzebul scowls in displeasure, eyes lighting up from within, but The Other does not look in pain so It stays its hand (out of fear; don't act out, don't don't—)
Baal is in the process of playfully shaking the tiny cub back and forth as it kicks at its hand when a bark of alarm penetrates the bubble of (empty) peace.
They look up and are greeted with the visage of a woman, younger than their vessels, who stares at them in disbelief. Her short white hair and twin tails clues them in on who it is, the fox previously being ganged up on.
“You—” she blanched at the realization of who exactly has her little sibling in their hands and without a moment’s hesitation she falls on her knees, bowing low enough for her forehead to touch the grass. “Almighty Narukami, you’re...here?”
Her hesitance implies many questions crowding the tip of her tongue, but wisely, she keeps them to herself.
Baal lets the cub go, gently urging it to go back to its family, and in so doing quietly says goodbye to the fleeting happiness that had enveloped It.
Baal grips Beelzebul by the hand and prompts The Other to stand with It.
There is purpose here, however short-lived.
“Tell me," It smiles, "Does the prestigious Hakushin Clan have room for a guest?”
The God of Eternity’s welcome to the Grand Narukami Shrine is a hurried and unexpected affair.
If not for their perfect memory, the kitsunes serving there would have liked to forget the embarrassment of scurrying their priestesses to and fro when their God showed up in the flesh after being deaf to their prayers for days.
What had happened? It wasn’t like the Almighty Narukami to keep the skies so silent and still.
At present, Baal-and-Beelzebul kneel at a low table in comfortable if inexpensive yukatas, with food being served by awestruck humans.
Guuji Akane, with her fiery red locks and fur, sits opposite her God alongside her apprentice, the white haired Saiguu who had been the one to find them.
She gives her maidens a scolding glance when they try to linger by the door and they squeak at being caught, scrambling to slide it shut before they get into any more trouble.
“Your Excellency,” she says with reverence, her eyes briefly glancing from one to the other before settling on the space between. This is a test, and she isn’t about to choose what shouldn’t be chosen. “It is an honor to have you.”
Saiguu follows her mentor’s lead after discreetly sneaking a glance.
Baal smiles while Beelzebul remains stone-faced. “I’m afraid this is not a social visit, Guuji.”
“No, I suppose it is not,” Akane’s ears lowered in agitation. “If I am to guess, your Excellency’s recent silence and these human vessels are not a coincidence?"
Beelzebul nods in approval. “As sharp as expected. Your age has yet to dull your mind.”
Akane has been trained vigorously since childhood not to show her true emotions, and all those years are the only thing keeping her tails from wagging at receiving such direct praise from her God.
Saiguu fights not to scoff at how her mentor doesn’t pick up on the jab at her age. Woe is she if she ever made fun of such a thing. She sets aside her grumbling and wonders aloud, “Is it the Intruder’s fault?”
“Celestia,” Baal automatically corrects, which earns the God a curious look from the two kitsunes.
“Celestia?”
“...Yes,” Baal-and-Beelzebul grimace in discomfort. “Its name carves itself into my mind the likes of lightning leaving scorched earth in its wake. I cannot forget it even as I desperately wish to erase its existence.”
Celestia has no place in its mind.
That thing is able to do such a thing to their God? The very notion puts their furs on end with endless agitation. Such nerve to desecrate their idol; it must be hunted down and destroyed for its hubris.
“A cleansing ritual perhaps?” Akane thinks out loud to herself, worrying her lower lip between sharp fangs. “It’s very likely that ‘Celestia’s’ interference could have left something behind. It would be prudent to—”
“Do not waste your time,” Beelzebul lifts a hand up in a stopping motion, cutting Akane short. “It has already been attempted.”
Saiguu nearly scoffs. “Did you simply attempt to bruteforce it? I must say, a kitsune’s ritual is much more intricate and thorough than a mere clash of lightning.”
If you were to ask her centuries from now, why she says what she says on that day, she would smirk and tell you “Perhaps I did not appreciate my mentor being dismissed so brazenly? Or perhaps I was but an idiot pup such as you? Who’s to know?” However, today, only silence reins over the room as an explanation.
Akane looks ready to throttle her right then and there for having the gall to snark back at the God she’s been trained to worship with her body and soul.
Baal raises an immaculate eyebrow, and Beelzebul stares daggers at her.
Saiguu is most surprised of all in the wake of her audacious question that borders on accusation.
Her ears nearly disappear in her shock of white hair and her head bows low. Overwhelmed with shame at having allowed her emotions to run her mouth, she glares at the tatami mat beneath her knees and digs her claws into the flesh of her palm as further punishment.
“Feisty cub [Disrespectful brat.]” Baal-and-Beelzebul speak with amusement [with annoyance] and in that brief moment of pause afterwards the air stops moving, as if it’s suddenly been primed to burst.
The incense that has provided a comforting aroma up until now is blown out by a gust of impossible winds and the skies outside darken in an ominous but familiar manner.
The Almighty Narukami has been wronged.
You’re in danger, scream Akane’s instincts, but in the presence of her God she squashes them down and squares her shoulders. If this was to be her end, smited down due to her niece’s arrogance, then so be it. It is Akane’s failure to bear.
Saiguu’s tails curl around her waist in fear, betraying the young kitsune’s emotions despite her best attempts to hide it. Her shoulders tense in preparation to be struck, apologies on the tip of her tongue gone unspoken and useless.
Tension stretches mere inches from snapping—some invisible beast’s maw hanging open and vicious above them—but as suddenly as it has appeared, it vanishes the moment Baal-and-Beelzebul reach out in unison to clutch at the other’s hand.
Baal inhales and speaks with a steady voice and an even smile. “If it would put your apprentice at ease, we can go through with your cleansing ritual, Kitsune Akane. Although I doubt it will bear the fruit you wish for.”
Akane bows and does not acknowledge her God’s mercy. To the Almighty, mercy is a weakness, and to be shown such here is tantamount to a miracle. She will not waste it on pointless curiosities.
Saiguu, on the other hand, cannot tear her eyes away from their clasped hands; a subtle shakiness to their fingers, that gets answered by a tightened grip.
She cannot tear her mind away from this all too human display of comfort.
All throughout the ritual's proceedings, it is quiet and somber. Even the shrine maidens, blind and deaf to the divine as they are, can sense their God’s ill mood.
Its hands clasped together like a physical tether, It and The Other remain expressionless as its followers speak in ancient tongues passed down from generations, originally taught by it to a scant few.
Nothing comes of the hour-long event, as Baal-and-Beelzebul had predicted. All it serves to do is tire out the kitsunes in charge of channeling the magicks through their God’s vessels.
Akane’s shoulders slump with the feeling of uselessness; at her inability to help her God. All she can do is offer the shrine’s baths as a meager comfort.
That is how It and The Other find itself submerged in hot waters, once again alone. Once again left with the yawning reality of its separation.
It looks at The Other and sees its despair mirrored in its eyes. A tiny incident it may have been, but it hurts as if it had been struck by a mortal blow.
It wishes to say Forgive me for saying the wrong thing, for not simply waiting, for failing. It wishes to reassure that it will never happen again, that It will never speak again. But its lips are sealed shut, weighted heavy by the implications that continue to grow and grow like a canyon; ever widening, ever more damning.
The water is no comfort. Their closeness is no comfort. It only serves to highlight the problem.
It makes It sick.
“Beelzebul—”
“Speak for me,” The Other interrupts and Baal is left speechless by the determination It sees in Beelzebul’s eyes.
The strength It shows in this moment makes The Other want to cry.
Speak for me Speak for me Speak for me
It will not allow itself to be shaken like this again. It will adjust, It will silence itself for the sake of the Whole. For the sake of its sanity.
The proclamation saps the weariness from its bones in a way the water could never. But It still wants to hear it, It needs to hear, and so with a hesitant voice, It probes for more. “You would deprive me of the sound of your voice?”
“Only when in public,” It clarifies and The Other feels a thrill run through its body. “Whatever you say, I think the same.”
The stubborn set to Beelzebul’s jaw—the unspoken unity in its decision—makes Baal burst out into tears interspersed with wild laughter that echoes throughout the spacious bath.
What relief.
What joy!
It grasps at The Other and hugs it close, presses its grinning lips against its throat. The pulse It feels is tantalizing with how fast it beats, just as fast as its own.
The same relief. The same joy. The same heart. The same thoughts.
The same.
The same.
The same.
Beelzebul’s arms snake around to wrap around The Other’s waist and pulls It flush against its front.