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She knew the Shogun chafed at her body being so idle. She could hear her silent admonishments. “Inactivity serves no purpose whatsoever. Hmph.” “Fleeting illusions, transitory glimpses of fantasies that could never be.” “No underlying reality, mere baseless imagination.”
She let herself be amused by the thought of the Shogun ranting about something so trivial as fireworks. They were even more short-lived than a flash of lightening, yes, but they were not something worth being worked up over. There was nothing wrong, she had already determined years before, with the manufacture, use, or admiration of fireworks. In a sense, they were the ultimate embodiment of mortal existence: brilliant, colorful, and snuffed out in an instant. Inazuma was a tapestry of these eternally changing flashes, like a never-ending fireworks show. She had once stared at a shallow pond on a windy day, before the time when humanity did not need to use the phrase “a long, long time ago” to preface tales about youkai. No—she had allowed herself to be distracted and mesmerized by the ripples of the shallow pond. She still remembered the riddle that was perplexing her—what was the sound of one hand clapping?—how all thoughts around it faded away to the back of her mind as she traced the endless procession of ripples and reflections in their relentless march from creation to destruction. She knew, of course, that the pond was not eternal. Left unmaintained, it would evaporate or disintegrate or subside below the sea or be lifted above the clouds and deformed, given sufficient years. But Inazuma was not a pond. If she could preserve the eternal transience, the unending parade of ripples, the ceaseless fireworks show, then there was no need to fear erosion. For the nemesis of erosion was regeneration, ceaseless vitality, and it was one of the few things she worked tirelessly with her to cultivate. Until her death. Then, it had been one of the few tasks she entrusted to her before her own departure, with the understanding that one day, she would entrust the humans with the final part of her vision. For if Inazuma’s gods could not last forever, and could never be renewed, then her own continued presence would, in effect, be contradictory to eternity. Thus, she created the Shogun, confided her ambition to the confidant of the Kitsune Saiguu, and sealed herself away to waste away as Inazuma’s secret custodian until her dissolution.
Until she was dragged out. Twice.
The culprit was knelt next to her, eagerly devouring a bowl of fried tofu. She had been under no illusion that the perpetrator was only a pawn. A part of her still clinged to resentment at being manipulated so, but yet another chided that she should have expected this. Regardless, with the feeling of her warmth next to her again, the folds of her sleeves gently moving across her legs as she ate with the same gusto and zeal she had displayed since she had first met her frolicking around in the snow, her ornaments making the same joyful sounds as her ears twitched in their same childish glee, she could not sustain her disappointment. It was indulgent, yes, and she was far from rectifying the divergence of her deviation from her plan, but she knew, deep down, that this was the right thing to do. And she also knew, deep down, that she would laugh heartily at her if she shared these thoughts with her, yet though she may frown and chastise her, she would never bear any ill-will towards her, because beneath her laughter would be understanding and acceptance and the unspoken vow they made that though Celestia above and the Abyss below may will otherwise, their bond would never be sundered until the ultimate cessation of their existences.
“I’m surprised you still remembered how to cook fried tofu, Ei.”
“How could I forget?”
“I expected to have to need to call the Fire Brigade.”
“Centuries of committed practice will result in mastery in any action.”
“But it’s still so delicious.”
“I do have nearly five centuries of atoning to do, after all.”