It's that time of the year again. GO PLAY YOTSUME GOD!!! It's on sale rn and one of my favorite games 🥹❤️ Especially if you like mystery games and bittersweet stories. It's life-changing.
Summary: On a visit to his hometown, Yuma meets a dying god.
Warning: Spoiler for up to Ending 12
The afternoon of the Autumnal Equinox Day, Yuma goes out to explore and finds himself at the entrance of a shrine.
His parents have told him, repeatedly and sternly, that he shouldn’t go out by himself, and he isn’t a disobedient child by nature but still he went. Because something here, in the village, in its strange, grim air and red-dyed afternoon, is tugging on him.
(And because everything here is familiar, the dull midday sun, the whirr of children’s pinwheel, the smell of harvested rice, even though he’s never been here before)
The hill was foreign and shaded and familiar but he plodded through the path without getting lost, turning around the curves with only a flicker of second of doubt like he’s known it all his life. And now here he is, standing under the torii and looking up at the crows perching casually on it.
The sign reads ‘Yotsume Shrine’.
The four-eyed god, the four-eyed mother
He steps in and the tug gets harder, enough to ache, and something rises from his chest into his throat, building up like a chokehold.
The vines on the right pillar, someone’s scribbles over the shrine’s history, the trickling of purification water, click clack of geta on pebbled path, this is—
“What are you doing here?”
He blinks, the choking grip subsiding, and looks up to see a young man, tall and light-haired, clad in green priest’s garb.
—home
He opens his mouth but no word comes, and the young priest looks at him, equally mutely, with an unreadable gaze.
“Are you okay,—?” There’s a suspended, unfinished end on his words, like there’s something else he wants to say but refrains from. Regardless, the concern on his face is genuine. He reaches out but stops midway, retracting his hand and curling his fingers in instead.
Yuma nods. “Is the shrine… not opened to public?”
“No. Not today.”
“Oh.” It’s still there, the choke, in his chest, and he wants to know why and knows that the answer is here. “I’m sorry for intruding, then.”
The priest looks torn, like he can’t decide whether to smile—strangely enough—or to admonish him. “You should leave.”
“Why?” Leaves his mouth before he can even register it.
This is home
The priest looks taken aback by the question. Yuma barrels on before he can answer, before he himself can question it. “I’ll just make an offering, then I’ll be on my way. Won’t take long.”
(His mother would chide him for not being more polite, but all manner just seem to evaporate from him in the face of this priest, for a reason he doesn’t know)
He fishes on his pocket and inwardly sighs in relief when he finds a coin. Mai always loses whatever is in her pocket, but he never does, no matter what they say that a girl should be more meticulous, more careful.
There it is again, the priest’s conflicted expression. Yuma almost feels sorry for him, but he holds his gaze. The priest sighs. He looks almost smiling, although it’s more sad than happy. “Follow me, then.”
It is a straight way to the front of the shrine, but the priest insists on leading him through the shrine ground. The swish of his robe is nonexistent, drowned by the autumn breeze. Yuma strains his ears for any other sound, giggles, hurried steps, the slamming of doors, but hears nothing.
In spring the trees are all in bloom and they eat mochi, in summer the sky is sharply blue and — would spend days hunting bugs, in autumn the ground is littered with gold and they play and pretend it’s money, in winter everything is white and it’s — favorite season because she can blend with the snow and jump at anyone who passes through—
“How old are you?” The priest asks, suddenly, and the thought memory is splintered and scattered.
“Sixteen.”
“Ah.” He pauses, and Yuma thinks it’s unlike you to lose words like that and he can’t understand why. “Second year of high school, then?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you— I mean, youth on your age up to, around that time in life?”
Yuma stares at him incredulously. “You sound like an old man. How old are you, actually?”
The priest laughs, genuinely laughs, and for a moment the tension seems to leave him. “Ouch, you hurt me, Imi—“ The laughter halts, as abruptly as it started. But this time the priest is quick to regain his composure. “I am old, but did I sound that ancient?”
“Yep.” Yuma still eyes him dubiously. “You sounded like you’re from the World War era.”
The priest breathes out another laughter. “Oh, I’m from a time farther back than that.”
“Liar.”
His laughter intensifies for another minute before subsiding. “I’m not lying. But won’t you answer my question?”
Yuma sighs. “Youth on my age usually fuss over college entrance exam, or future plans, or girlfriends. But that’s just generalization. My sister, for example, makes a big deal over baking a perfect fully-frosted wedding cake before new year, or, as she claimed, she’ll spend her old age being a laughingstock because she can’t bake for shit.”
“Perfect fully-frosted—“ The priest looks at him, half a laughter already creasing his eyes, unperturbed by the swear word. “Now, why would she be worried about that?”
Yuma shrugs. “Because apparently all of her friends can bake. I told her she’s being an idiot, because what they bake is not wedding cake, and it doesn’t really matter anyway, whether she can bake or not.”
The priest’s laughter is longer this time, shaking his shoulders and making the edges of Yuma’s lips curl up.
The priest then asks him about his family, about school, about his friends, and it feels like that meeting with Uncle Makoto, the way he was earnestly interested with how their lives are going (Mai told him that Uncle Makoto feels close, familiar, to her, and maybe it’s the same with how he feels about this priest).
They fall quiet when they reach the front of the shrine. Yuma makes an offering, rings the bell, and prays for prosperity and good health for his family.
People pray to Yotsumegami for prosperity and safe delivery, but,
When he turns around, the priest is watching him, his expression a mixture of pain and sadness and fondness, and Yuma’s heart clenches, inexplicably.
Yotsumegami is also known as the God of Needless Children.
The priest walks him back to the entrance, but this time Yuma makes sure to slow his pace, to hang back, to take his time. He sees a board weighed down by votive tablets and swerves his way there, casually.
“Are you going to make a wish?” The priest ambles after him, his geta quiet, quiet against the graveled ground. “I wouldn’t advise you to.”
Yuma turns and frowns at him. “Why?”
“This shrine isn’t going to hold on much longer.” The priest’s face is neutral, devoid of all the emotions he’s shown earlier. “The head priest passed away earlier this year, and the number of believers is dwindling. People of the village have started to turn away from Yotsumegami, and a god without believers is as good as dead. There would be no one to grant you your wish.”
The words strikes him like a hammer to the chest, suddenly and with such force that the breath is knocked out of him, shattering his ribcages and leaving the splinters embedded in his heart. He looks at the priest’s calm face and wants to say something, anything, but the words are burned from his tongue.
He must look horrible, because the priest’s face softens. “Please don’t look like that. The believers have done unforgivable things in the name of Yotsumegami, so it is for the best that they stop worshipping him. That way, there will be no more needless children.”
“But what about you?” And them, and Yotsumegami himself, herself, all of you (us) who called this place home?
“I’ll be alright.” He smiles, plastic, and Yuma slams the votive tablet he’s clutching against the board, letting the choke bubble out and spill from him unrestrained.
“Don’t smile.” He doesn’t yell, or scream, but his words shake and his nails are digging into his palm and the tug in his chest hurts. “You won’t be alright. You and—“ Their irritating giggles, the click clack of their geta, the mochi powder all over — hands, — jumping and snagging on the bell on his hairband—“You won’t be alright. I know. You— won’t.”
The priest’s calm mask melts into shock, then concern and sadness, but also resignation. “Imi—“ He cuts over himself so forcefully that Yuma can hear the click of his jaw. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with us. Once you feel sorry or sad for us, you won’t be able to go back.”
“I know!” Yuma grits his teeth, his nails scraping the inside of his palm until it stings. “But I can’t— I don’t want you to… to end like this.”
The priest hugs him.
Almost.
He’s already leaning forward, his arms outstretched, but with the same force he stopped himself with earlier, he halts. Pulls back. The sleeves of his robe ghost over his cheeks fleetingly.
Yuma doesn’t dare to breathe, or to move. He waits, hopes, for this to be a lie, for this reality to…
no
he can’t
not after—
The priest pats him, on his head. His hand is cold, but his touch is gentle, familiar, and Yuma leans into it for a very brief second before swatting his hand away.
“What are you doing?!”
The priest chuckles, wistfully, and he pulls his hand back, letting it fall and hang on his side.
“Thank you for having forgiven me.”
“Come on. I’ll walk you to the gate.”
They don’t talk anymore for the rest of the walk, but Yuma thinks, recalls what he learned from father and what he read as best as he can, thinks, and decides.
At the torii, he turns around and meets the priest’s eyes. “I’ll come again next year.”
The priest blinks. “Wha—“
“I’ll come again next year,” He repeats, emphasizing every word. “and I’ll pray to Yotsumegami for my grades, for Mai’s, for dad’s job and for mom’s health. So you must stay, and grant them.”
The priest sighs. “Yuma—“
“As long as there’s a believer, the god will keep existing.” Yuma says firmly. “And you can’t refuse a believer. It’s out of your control, whether I choose to worship you or not.”
“I’m not—“
“What’s your name?”
The priest stammers to a stop. “Why do you—“
“You called me by my name,” finally, “so I want to know yours. So I can pray to you too.”
The priest looks at him for a long time. His expression is a myriad of emotions, each fighting with the others to show. “How are you so sure it would be enough?”
“I don’t know.” Yuma admits. “But I don’t want to give you guys up without a fight.”
“It’s selfish of you.”
That drops a block of ice into his insides. He is being selfish. He knows said so himself that sometimes people don’t want to be fought for, that not everyone think the same why are you so sure your younger brother hated you? It’s such a depressing, one-sided thought and yet here he is, fighting tooth and nails for someone who might want to just let go and finally be at peace.
But then there’s a chuckle, quiet and helpless and fond, and he looks up to see the priest’s eyes flickering like all those times he makes fun of him.
“I understand.”
Yuma stares at him.
“I’ll stay, and listen to your prayers and grant them.” He isn’t quite smiling, but it’s there in his eyes. “And I’ll wait for you to visit next year.” He reaches out and pats him again, this time less tentatively. “So you better come, lest you want to face the wrath of a god. Or in this case, two gods.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.” Yuma swats his hand away, again, but only half-heartedly this time. “And you haven’t answered my question. What’s your name?”
The god breathes out a soft laughter. “Tagata.”
“Tagata.” Yuma repeats, the name slotting into his memory like it has always been there. “See you next year then, Tagata.”
“You should address a god more politely, you know.” Tagata says, laughs when he tries to kick him. “And treat one more respectfully too.”
“As if I’d do that to you.” Yuma huffs. Tagata laughs again, before pushing him gently out of the torii, into the mountain path back home.
But this is home too.
“Be careful on your way back.”
“I know.”
Don’t look back, they used to say, but as he skips down the sloping path, Yuma looks back, and sees Tagata still standing behind the torii, watching and smiling, solid.
This is home too.
He smiles back, before turning back ahead and jogging the rest of the way home.
