Lady Of The Sea

Summary: Amaya Kitagawa learns too late that one should never make a promise to a god.

Edit for image credits, top to left and right (links go to twitter, fyi): @a2BBy8EHgh1, @acyantree, could not find og link, but this is the artist signature line:

It’s dusk. The sky’s clear and endless. Distant cicadas hum in the summer heat. Amaya is lying down in a familiar clearing, tall green grass dancing above her head. The earth is cool and damp under her fingers, the sun’s warmth slowly fading as it sinks towards the horizon. Cedar, fresh-cut and close, light in her lungs. Water rushes over river rocks, babbling as it follows the winding slope down the hillside. Dragonfly wings hum, unhurried. She closes her eyes. 

This is what Amaya hopes death will feel like—stillness without tomorrow, where the hollow in her chest is calm water instead of ache. When having a body no longer matters. 

Amaya enjoys the stillness until there’s a shift—an increase in pressure, like the air itself is now leaning towards her. The cicadas sound further away, the river’s flow more muted and dull. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end. 

She sits up. At first, she’s alone in the clearing, close to the riverbank. A cluster of boulders rests on the other side of the river, separating the clearing from the dense forest and surrounded by red spider lilies she doesn’t remember. Upstream lies her hometown, the rooftops of the local shokudo restaurant and convenience store barely visible. Five minutes from here is her family’s house. This is a place she knows well; her favourite spot to hide and imagine a different world, a different life. 

She blinks and is no longer alone. A man is across the narrow river, sitting cross-legged on the largest boulder. His head is propped up on a closed fist, posture leisurely. He’s staring downstream, watching the water flow with a bored expression. His white kimono is bright even under the setting sun, his hair matching the warm pink of dusk. Amaya rubs her eyes, but his shape remains faintly undefined in the way the halo of a lit paper lantern softens and blurs its edges. She can’t make out his features clearly. 

“Oh, um—hello. I don’t think we’ve met before,” Amaya says before she can stop herself. 

He regards Amaya slowly, eyes appraising but his expression otherwise unchanged. The air changes when their eyes meet, dense and settling over Amaya’s shoulders like hands resting there, waiting. 

“If you like,” he says after a pause. 

Amaya is surprised at the sound of his voice, the low timbre of it, its odd resonating quality. She isn’t sure what to make of him, or why her vision hasn’t fully cleared. She feels a pull, something that keeps dragging her eyes back to him when she tries to look away. 

He looks traditional to Amaya, at first—kimono, geometric-patterned obi, water-like fabric—but his clothes don’t seem to match. The sleeves are long and loose, trousers a strange pairing with the kimono—not hakama like she’s ever seen it—and his black scarf doesn’t belong, either, too modern for the rest. 

“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” Amaya finds herself smiling at him. She’s never had someone to enjoy the clearing with before. An odd feeling builds in her chest, almost like a child eager at the prospect of making their first friend. “It’s my favourite place. The water’s just too deep and cold to play in, and the crayfish are all downstream, so no one likes coming this way. This time of year is the best, too.” 

The man’s features become more distinct. She doesn’t think she’s seen anyone like him before. 

I wonder if he’s new here? Pretty old-fashioned with that kimono, even for the countryside. 

“So,” he speaks slowly, eyes narrowing, “you can see me.” 

The man’s expression finally changes from boredom to something close to interest. 

“Unexpected.”

“Of course, I can,” she laughs. “I don’t think I know you, do I?” She tries asking again, her smile encouraging. 

“That’s unlikely.” 

He offers nothing else. Amaya sits up straighter, ignoring how the pressure intensifies as his attention focuses on her, how it makes his outline sharper. She can make out more details now—faint shadows along his jaw and cheeks like a tiger’s stripes, the deep red irises of his eyes burning with a cold heat.

There’s something about him Amaya has trouble naming. The sensation of the hair standing on the back of her neck hasn’t gone away. She feels compelled to look at him, can’t shake the instinct she’s felt echoes of this pressure somewhere else. 

“I’m Amaya Kitagawa. What’s your name?” 

The man pauses again for a long moment. 

“Tell me, Amaya—“ her name hits like a splash of cold water to her face, and he smiles in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes, “—do you always accept strange things that appear in front of you?” 

He drops his arm down to fully rest on top of his thigh. He’s still slouched, at ease as his smile widens, the sharp canines just visible.

Amaya falters for a moment. The casual familiarity of using her first name, the insertion of something that pushes against the boundary of reality—it forms a crack at the back of her head. She rubs the base of her skull, worried it might break. 

“I’m not…sure what you mean?”

“You can see me clearly,” he says. “That usually doesn’t happen.” 

The boundary cracks a little more. It hurts. 

“This is just a dream.” Her laugh is forced this time, some unseen hold constricting around her ribs. 

Wait, is this a dream? It has to be, right? 

Unease builds within her as the pressure bears down. Her eyes grow heavy.