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The sound of the rain hitting the surface of the lake drifted to Yukine through the open window. The rain was everywhere: entangled in the trees, running down the grooves of the roof, tinkling in the kusari-doi chain. Under its relentless assault, the flowers in the inner courtyard drooped, and the stones on the slope leading from the house to the edge of the lake darkened.
The rain season had come to Japan once again.
Frowning, Yukine stood still at the window, a tray in his hands. Across the lake, the temple loomed, and for a moment, Yukine thought the clouds above its roof were beginning to disperse. But he quickly realized it was just an illusion; the rain had no intention of letting up for the next few days.
Failing to suppress a sigh, Yukine slid the shoji closed, adjusted his grip on the tea tray, and continued on his way to Yato's room.
The house was steeped in a pleasant gray twilight and smelled of sakura incense—Yato refused to acknowledge any other kind. On his way, Yukine made a mental note to remind the other shinki to check the ikebana arrangements and trim the bonsai by the eastern window.
But for now, his priority was Yato. Everything else could wait.
Every year, as soon as the rainy season began, Yato succumbed to a strange illness. He would retreat to his room, wrap himself in his haori, and spend long hours staring at the sky, listening to the sound of rain falling on the lake.
Yukine couldn't remember when this illness first struck. Perhaps he had foolishly dismissed the initial episodes as mere mood swings from his god, and he would never forgive himself for that. He should have noticed something was wrong and offered Yato help earlier.
But now, Yukine was here. He would no longer let Yato suffer in solitude.
Pausing at the threshold of the kitchen, he listened. In the room across the way, life hummed—likely the other shinki were gathered around the kotatsu, whispering among themselves. Yukine listened to their voices to reassure himself; their presence reminded him not only of his responsibility as Yato's lead shinki but also that they were no longer alone. And that was a good thing. For far too long, Yato had no one but Yukine.
Suddenly, the subdued murmurs behind the paper screen escalated into a lively argument.
"Hiyori should go!"
"Quick, before he leaves again!"
"But we shouldn't disturb the master, remember?"
"Yes, but Yukine said we must always speak up when something bothers us. That way, it'll be easier for the master to know how he can help us."
"But now we need to help him!"
Yukine was almost ready to peek in for a minute to ensure things wouldn't escalate into a fight. Yato hadn't lost his peculiar habit of picking the most contentious shinki in the world of gods—inevitably leading to clashes several times a day.
But he didn't have to intervene. The sliding door flew open, and Hiyori appeared in the doorway.
For centuries, Yukine had been unable to stop calling her Hiyori. She, though still as stern and warm as ever, now bore a different name—one given by Yato when she became his shinki. Yet one thing had remained unchanged: Hiyori still cared for them as much as she had before she became a mature woman.
"Yukine!" she exclaimed. "Is the master unwell again?"
"Yes," Yukine responded evenly. Even he was surprised at how lively his voice sounded. In Yato's room, everything became muted, sleepy, and painful. Here, outside its walls, life simmered—if one could call it that.
Behind Hiyori, other faces emerged. Yato had never amassed the large retinue of shinki that Bishamon had—perhaps because he knew it wouldn't lead to anything good. Among them was a middle-aged man, already graying but still in good shape—he transformed into a violin. There was also a young woman whose vessel was a calligraphy brush and a young man who became a double-edged European-style sword. And then there was Hiyori, who turned into a shield.
All of them looked to Yukine, their lead, responsible for their master's care.
"Can we help with anything?" asked the brush.
Yukine forced himself to smile and replied, "You know him—he broods, and then it passes. He's always like this."
"Yukine," Hiyori interrupted sternly.
'Stop calling her Hiyori,' Yukine scolded himself silently and sighed. The others wouldn't let him leave without a clear and coherent answer, and he couldn't let the tea get cold.
"Sometimes the master grieves for those who died before," Yukine began cautiously. "You know he's lived on this earth for over a thousand years before meeting each of us. And during that time, he encountered so much pain and loss. Sometimes, you need to feel the pain; sometimes, you need to let it take over for a few days so it doesn't consume you completely."
The others listened intently, hanging on his every word. Yukine couldn't help but shrug. He still felt awkward in his role as the lead shinki.
"We can't help him," Yukine concluded. "But I'll take the tea to him. It will soothe the old wounds and help the master sleep."
The others remained silent—a signal for Yukine to continue on his way.
Yato's room was around the corner, positioned so that it offered views of both the inner courtyard with its flowers and the temple shrouded in the rain's mist.
Perhaps the biggest lie Yukine had ever heard in his life—after his death—was that time heals all wounds. If that were true, Yato would have long forgotten the losses that haunted him through the centuries. If time truly healed, Yato wouldn't suffer every time the rainy season came around.
Yato hated showing his vulnerabilities, but even his divine body ached with phantom pains from old wounds during the endless rains—sometimes so mercilessly that he couldn't rise from the tatami or shift to the futon. Yet Yukine knew how to ease physical pain. He had read enough books in libraries and learned how to mix herbs and spells to quell Yato's pain. However, he still didn't know how to heal the wounds of the soul.
In Yato's room, a tokonoma hung on the far wall, depicting the rising sun. Yato sat facing it, though he probably didn't see it, stubbornly gazing at the temple on the opposite shore.
To Yukine, the decision to build a veranda on the cold smooth stones of the lake's edge had always been puzzling. He couldn't understand why they had chosen this particular spot for the house. But from here, Yato had a perfect view of the temple he had dreamed of when he was a worthless, unwanted god—so perhaps it shouldn't surprise him.
At the sound of the door opening, Yato turned his head and stared at Yukine with faded eyes. He sat slumped against the paper wall like a puppet with its strings cut. The wind tousled his hair; his kimono had fallen open to the waist, exposing his chest. If Yato had been human, he would have been suffering from the cold and dampness. But Yato was a god, and he merely sat, his legs tucked beneath him, watching Yukine.
In the open doorway, the rain continued to rustle. Yukine allowed the silence to envelop them, wrapping them in its own shroud. The sounds of life and the bustle of the other shinki remained behind in the corridor under the warm kotatsu. In this room, it was damp, cold, and smelled of rain and death.
Yukine set the tray before Yato and immediately realized his tactical mistake: the tea would inevitably cool in the open air. But he couldn't bring himself to disturb the silence that saturated every particle in the room.
Yato returned to gazing at the temple and the rain.
Over centuries, Yukine had learned one simple truth: one day, Yato would tell him what troubled him. He just needed to show Yato that no matter what he said, Yukine would accept him unconditionally and never push him away.
The silence between them had lost its awkwardness about three hundred years ago. Around the same time, Yukine realized that if he listened carefully, he could feel what troubled Yato, just as Yato could feel him.
And this time, Yato felt lonely. Despite sitting so close, Yukine had no way to fix it.
"I still hear their voices," Yato finally said. "All of them. All those who once died because of me. The shinki who perished. The people who were lost. People devoured by ayakashi. Even the voices of Bishamon's clan, which I wiped out. They’re all there, in the rain. And each of them speaks to me; each of them whispers something. They ask: why? Why did I kill them? Why didn't I save them? Why didn’t I give them a chance to survive?"
He fell silent as if something or someone had interrupted him or struck him in the chest, knocking all the air from his lungs. Pulling his knees to his chest, he looked like a small boy on the verge of tears.
Yukine instinctively braced himself but didn’t let the tension show. He had seen Yato cry—many, many times. The sight had lost its novelty and surprise after the fifth time. Yato preferred to hide his emotions and struggles, but Yukine liked to think that, after all the years they had spent together, Yato had become more open with him.
Yet he was never fully prepared for the moments when Yato completely fell apart before his eyes.
"Yukine, it hurts," Yato almost groaned, clutching at the edges of his kimono over his chest. "It hurts, Yukine. Help me. Please, help me..."
His voice was so faint it nearly blended with the rustling rain outside the window.
Something ached painfully in Yukine’s chest, but he forced himself to stay calm. The last thing he wanted was for Yato to suffer from his emotions as well.
He moved to sit beside Yato, allowing the god to lean against his shoulder. Yato would never admit it, but physical contact with Yukine calmed him and helped him ignore the phantoms that spoke to him every year.
Yato trembled all over. Yukine made a mental note to close the door once Yato had calmed enough to move to the futon.
Instead of offering meaningless words, Yukine handed Yato the tea. The god took it absentmindedly, his head dropping onto Yukine's shoulder. He seemed to collapse into a heap of kimono and limbs, completely unlike a god of war.
Yukine felt his shoulder rapidly growing damp. He knew how to react in these situations: he had to pretend it was the rain and not Yato’s tears.
Gently, as if handling a wounded animal or a sick child, Yukine took Yato’s wrists and raised the teacup to his lips. Yato sipped absentmindedly. In truth, he wasn’t really present in the room with Yukine—he was reliving every death and every loss that had struck him over the years.
Yato was too deep in his head, and Yukine didn’t know how to reach him.
After several minutes of silence, Yato spoke words Yukine had feared to hear, "It's my fault. All those deaths, all that pain—it’s my fault."
Yukine felt a familiar surge of anger that washed over him every time Yato spoke of himself this way. Perhaps better than anyone else, Yukine knew Yato wasn’t a god born to kill. Yato had been raised to kill, but that was a very different thing.
With a force of will, he shoved the anger into a far corner of his being and forced it to stay quiet. Then, carefully choosing his words, he said:
"Why do you think it’s your fault?"
He needed to pull Yato out of his head. He needed to make him leave that world where he was the villain.
Yato gasped shakily, the sound suspiciously like a sob. "Because I killed them all. With my own hands."
Yukine knew this. He had seen Yato kill. He had felt Yato kill. Yato was an unparalleled killer—but what set him apart from a true monster was that he wasn’t okay with his own actions.
"It’s true that your hands often held the blade that ended lives," Yukine began cautiously. Over many years, he had become a professional at this game. "But tell me this… Did you want those people or spirits to be dead? Did you ever truly, honestly wish for someone’s death?"
Yato froze for a moment, and Yukine could almost hear the gears turning in his foolish head.
"What does it matter?" Yato finally said. "What does it matter? Their blood is on my hands. Their deaths are on my conscience. It was me who—"
"It matters," Yukine interrupted, "because not every time you kill, it’s your choice. And for a long time, your will didn’t belong to you."
Yato turned his head slightly—Yukine knew this meant the god was listening. He was trying to make out Yukine’s words through the rustling of the leaves.
"For a very long time, you were a weapon in someone else’s hands," Yukine continued, summoning more and more courage. "Someone else controlled you, and is that your fault? You were doing something you weren’t born to do; you were fulfilling wishes that weren’t your own. Someone else used you as their shinki. Why would you think it's your fault?
"I let him use me," Yato muttered softly. His voice lacked confidence, but Yukine could hear that Yato believed those words.
"You were a child when it started," Yukine countered. "And you ran away from him when you had the chance when you began to understand something was wrong. So tell me this: where is your guilt in that?"
A few seconds of silence followed. Then something Yukine had both expected and feared happened: Yato began to sob.
His crying was somewhere between the sound of a wounded doe and a whale’s lament.
"I hate myself," Yato muttered, burying his face in his hands. "I hate myself."
Yukine tugged him by the shoulder, laying the god down on his lap. Yato clutched the fabric of Yukine’s shirt so tightly that for a moment Yukine feared it would tear. His entire body was wracked with sobs, but all Yukine could do was run his fingers through Yato’s hair and repeat, like a broken record:
"It’s okay. You don’t have to hate yourself. I promise I don’t hate you."
He wished he could stand between Yato and himself. He wished he could protect Yato from himself, but some things couldn’t be severed. All he could do was stand by Yato, guiding his hand slowly, year after year, until Yato could cut this tumor from his soul on his own.
And, Yukine thought, watching the leaves tremble under the rain, perhaps that would never happen. Then he would remain by Yato’s side—every rainy season, when the whispers of the ghosts became too loud, Yukine would stay.
He couldn’t change many things. He could only accept them and try to help Yato accept them too.
He didn’t know how much time passed. Gradually, Yato’s sobs quieted; calling the god’s name gently, Yukine realized he had fallen asleep.
He prepared himself to sit there as long as necessary. Outside, the night was falling, and the rain showed no signs of stopping. He was already getting cold, but he didn’t dare move to close the door.
Suddenly, rustling and muffled voices reached him from the corridor. Yukine turned in surprise—just in time to see the door slide open and the face of a calico cat peek inside.
"Oh, Hiyori," Yukine breathed. "Come in."
The cat slipped into the room, twitching its ear in annoyance at the smell of rain that had soaked into the mats. The door opened wider, revealing the other shinki—worried, frowning, and unmistakably concerned about their god’s well-being.
Yukine felt a swell of pride. Pride in himself—for guiding them properly; pride in them—for their loyalty to Yato, a loyalty no one else had shown before Yukine.
"Come in, everyone," Yukine whispered. "Just don’t make any noise. Don’t wake him up."
The others sat in a semicircle before Yukine; one of them reached out and closed the door.
Yato had buried his face in Yukine’s stomach, so they couldn’t see his expression. But Yukine saw that he was sleeping peacefully.
"We were worried," one of the shinki said. "He was crying so much we thought…"
"He must be in so much pain," said another. "I’m glad he has you."
Yukine blinked in surprise and exhaled, "What?"
"The master probably doesn’t say it," murmured a third, "but he values your support a lot. Thank you for taking care of him, Yukine. If it weren’t for you, he might not be here with us."
Flustered, Yukine stared at her, feeling his face rapidly flush with embarrassment.
But the others paid no attention. They casually shifted to discussing a completely unrelated topic—it seemed someone had found one of Yato’s old tracksuits. Now they were trying to figure out what that strange piece of clothing was and why it looked so ugly.
Yukine could have told them a lot about the god who stubbornly wore a tracksuit simply because he couldn’t afford more decent clothes. About the god who fought relentlessly for his future even when anyone else would have given up long ago.
He could have told them a lot about Yato, but he never would. That chapter of their lives was in the distant past. Now they no longer needed to fight for survival every day. It was enough just to live and enjoy the company of those around them.
Yukine let the muted conversation of the other shinki fade into the background. He didn’t listen to their words and had no intention of joining the discussion. It was enough for him to run his fingers through Yato’s hair and sit there—for as long as it took.
*
When Yato woke up, he immediately noticed two things. First, he was unbearably warm. Second, something was tickling his nose.
Opening his eyes slightly, he managed to make out the striped back of a cat right in front of his face. Hiyori was mercilessly tickling him with her fur and purring deeply.
He tried to roll over onto his other side to get away from the cat fur and continue sleeping, but discovered he was surrounded on all sides by bodies. Someone was holding his forearm; someone else’s head was resting on his leg.
Something wasn’t adding up in Yato’s head, but he was too sleepy and too exhausted to figure out what was going on, and that irritated him.
He must have made some pitiful sound, somewhere between a groan and a heavy sigh, because a small, cool hand immediately rested on his forehead.
“Yato?” a quiet voice called. “Are you awake?”
Yato would have recognized that voice even if it had called to him from the farthest shore.
“Yukine,” he croaked in response.
His vocal cords refused to cooperate. His whole body felt like it was made of cotton; he felt like a bundle of a god rather than one of the mightiest gods in the heavens.
Yukine’s voice wrapped around him like a cool, soft cocoon.
“It’s okay, you’re alright. I think you caught a bit of a cold while sitting and watching the rain. The others decided to stay with you; your temperature went up later in the night.”
The source of the strange warmth that pinned him in place was now clear. He was surrounded by his own shinki.
“Sleep, it’s okay,” Yukine whispered, running his fingers through Yato’s hair. “When you wake up, we’ll still be here.”