It was a clear but cold morning, the chilly air stinging Yamaguchi Senior’s papery cheeks. It had rained hard earlier that morning, and the dark old autumn leaves had become a sludgy slime on the pavement. It hadn’t rained for very long, so they’d managed to wait it out.
The trees’ boughs arched beautifully over the road, their bare bonelike branches cutting through the brilliantly blue sky like cracks. Most of the birds had already migrated, but the good ole’ faithfuls swooped low over the trees like specks. A squirrel dashed around a branch, pausing suddenly to twitch its ears, before dashing again.
The Karasuno coven’s ramshackle old cottage was a brisk walk down from the hill, so it hadn’t taken Yamato Yamaguchi much to convince his wife they didn’t have to drive.
And for whatever reason, his grandson thought he couldn’t put one foot in front of the other.
Tadashi bounced around his heels like an excited Jack Russell terrier, except with half the good nature. Honestly, Amaya, Yamato’s wife, hadn’t been that worried, and she’d known him since he was a skinny rascal with scabs forever on his knees and elbows. But then, Amaya had known him when he could carry two huge sacks of grain on his back and carry them three miles, and Tadashi only ever knew him as a fat, wrinkly old fart.
“Oh, shut up Tadashi!” Yamato snapped, after his grandson offered his scarf for the millionth time.
Tadashi grimaced and fell behind, embarrassed.
Yamato huffed, and sped up, clearing the cobbled path and making it to the door in record time, despite his aching knees.
The coven’s door was, much like the rest of it, well-used and weathered, the solid oak knotted, its bottom dented by the kicking feet of ages. It was good, strong, and sturdy, much like the Karasuno witches themselves.
He knocked.
There was a muffled thump, hurried steps, and the door was thrown open.
It was the young lad, skinny and short, with wild orange hair sticking up every-which-way, even more so than usual. He squinted at Yamato.
Yamato squinted back.
“G’morning, Yamaguchi-san.” The lad said, flattening against the wall to let him in.
Yamato grinned, and passed him, his grandson scampering after him.
A black witches’ cat stares up at them with wide dark eyes, between mounds of dried yew branches. His fur arches dark over his shoulders when he glides to his feet, sharp and clumped like black feathers, head dipping back to slip behind—
The young witch lad scoops him up, holding him close to his chest. He’s grinning. “Are you here for your joint pains?”
Yamato nods. “If you could make that balm again, that would be great.”
The lad bobs his head, and bundles the cat into the stacked kitchen, dropping him down on a pile of what looked like gardening magazines. He fixed the cat with a stern look. “You might s’well stay, Kageyama-san. I need your help.”
The cat suddenly looks attentive, ears swivelling forward.
The lad—Hinata, Yamato remembered now—grinned, and patted his thighs. “Joints, joints...” He muttered.
“Poppies are good for pain.” The cat suggested.
“Only when ingested, and then he could just take pain killers.” Hinata rubbed his chin, squinting. “I remember; Radish, Bishop’s wart, wormwood, crookleek, hollowleek and, and, Helenium. That’s... fi-six! But there are seven ingredients, I’m sure.” The lad’s forehead wrinkled, and he looked practically constipated.
“Um, it’s a place to start, at least, lad.” Yamato said hopefully.
“Yeah, I—Garlic!” He exclaimed. “Garlic, I forgot garlic. That’s seven, yeah. Could you start collecting them, Kageyama? Garlic and Radish’s here on the veggie rack, and I’ll drag the pestle and mortar down.”
Kageyama leapt neatly off the table, and disappeared around the corner in an instant.
Hinata hefted an ugly green pestle and mortar and set it on the table with a heavy thud, and fetched a pan. By the time he was done, Kageyama had returned with Bishop’s wort, and had gone off to find wormwood.
Once all the ingredients of stage one were collected, Hinata mashed it all up in equal parts and dropped as much of the soggy mess as he could into the pan, with some butter, celandine and red nettle, trying to keep it on the boil.
“So,” Tadashi said, “You finally got a familiar, Shōyō-san.”
“Yeah.” Hinata graced him with a blinding grin. “He’s alright. Bit grumpy though.”
Kageyama looked mildly affronted, although nobody saw.
“Hmph,” Tadashi snorted, “I guess we’ll have to find another way to get rid of all the strays then.”
Hinata frowned. “He’s wasn’t one of yours?”
“No, it was kind of weird really. A handsome city fella was carrying him around the market for ages in his basket, trying to pawn him. It was weird.” Tadashi shook his head.
“Do you know anything about that guy, Kageyama?” Hinata peered around the table legs, trying to catch his wily familiar’s expression.
Kageyama opening his mouth, closed it, and then quickly said, “No.”
“Were you hidin’ in his garage or something?” Hinata turned back to the stewing ointment.
“I—No, I’ve never seen any—any city fellow.” Kageyama said, in chunks.
“So you’re a country cat at heart then?” Hinata asked.
“I suppose.” Kageyama flattened his ears, he tried changing the subject. “Is there any fish in the fridge, I’m kind of hungry.” Cats ate fish, right? That wasn’t just in cartoons. But they were supposed to drink milk, even though they were lactose intolerant.
Hinata didn’t seem to notice the abrupt change, and smiled again, “Sure, I’ll just—”
“No, it’s okay, I’ll do it,” Tadashi leapt to his feet, ever eager not to impose. He fished out a plate from under some turnips, brushing off most of the dirt, and slapping a cold fish onto the middle. He put the plate down quickly and rushed back to his seat.
Kageyama nosed his way towards it, unsure.
He hadn’t been lying, when he’d said he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten for at least a day and a half. And all he’d had before challenging Oikwana was a tuna sandwich and some coffee.
But when he saw the fish, his stomach flipped, partially from nerves.
The fish stared up at him with wet, dead eyes. It was floppy and smelt fresh, a chilled scaly corpse. He sniffed it hesitantly. Man, it smelt heavenly.
His mouth watered, and hunger riled up, gnawing feverishly at his stomach. He edged closer, and picked at the scales with his teeth. It took a while for him to scrape off enough scales to actually see a good piece of the flesh under the blood, but that, at least, looked good.
Kageyama nibbled a corner of it.
It tasted good, so he took a larger bite. He chugged down a good half of it before he had to stop for a moment because the fish’s eyeballs were freaking him out.
The fish’s expression was accusing, deep, glassy pale eyes with wide pupils seemed to follow him. It unsettled him. He padded at the cold kitchen tiles.
“What, you don’t like it?” Hinata asked, peering down at him. “Sugawara-san’s usually finished by now.”
Kageyama raised his front paws in a awkward shrug. He shook himself. Get a grip, Kageyama. It’s a goddamn fish. He forced himself to eat the rest of it, snapping up the cold meat and choking on the bones. It was cold, far too cold for his liking now he’d taken the edge off his hunger, and slippery.
“I’m done.” Hinata squatted down, sitting on his heels to show Kageyama what it looked like. “See that nice red colour. It means it’s done.” Hinata nodded sagely.
Kageyama tried to record the colour and texture, peering at the lumpy mass. “Yeah.” He said, eventually.
“Alright, Yamaguchi-san—eh, Yamaguchi-sans—I’ll put this in a lunchbox. If your joints start to hurt, strain it and apply it directly to your, eh, joints. Do you need any fabrics to strain with?” Hinata sounded weirdly professional, fetching a plastic box from the overflowing under stairs cupboard.
Yamato shook his head slowly. “No, I have some old curtains I can use. Say hello to that young fellow with the short hair for me.”
Hinata grinned.
--
The storm hit the hills like a hammer, covering everything in a thick, sticky snow about half a metre thick. The sharp hills and trees were reduced to vague pale shapes; farmers who wanted to shovel snow first had to shovel their front doors open. The air stung like salt on their skin while they did it, sting like pins and needles in their throats, like the very moisture in the air had formed icicles.
It was one of the worst snowstorms in decades, and it was barely December.
There had been no warning either; it rarely went from being warm enough to rain to snowing just overnight. It was a bad omen, a very bad one.
No warning for anyone, except Yamaguchi.
He looked out from his window, the icy glass remembering his breaths.
His family were agriculture farmers, not livestock ones. The only livestock they had were two dozen chickens, and an old cow, both of which didn’t seem to mind the snow much. He hadn’t mentioned the fae’s words.
Yamaguchi felt like part of his stomach had rotted away. Guilt kept him frozen in place, like ice against the glass.
He hadn’t mentioned the fae’s words, but not because the plants were safe. They weren’t. The snow would melt and the ground would be a sodden, swampy mess of rotten crops.
He hadn’t mentioned them, because part of him wanted them to be true. He didn’t want to inherit the farm. He’d never wanted to inherit the farm. Every time it crossed his mind that he’d spend the rest of his life as a worn out, lonely farmer, his stomach pitched and he buried the thought immediately.
He was so far away from, from—... from somewhere.
Yamaguchi’s stomach felt repulsed from every tree and crop. He didn’t belong here. His heart was restless, keeping him awake and alert but making every move a labour, his heart seemed to be connected to somewhere else, tugging and tugging and tugging, and maybe if he moved too fast he’d tear it out entirely.
His nose brushed the window; ice had formed on both sides of the glass. He stared unseeing at the endless mounds of sugar-like snow covering every feature as it stretched on and on to the horizon.
Yamaguchi felt it rise in him, a surge of something familiar but unnameable.
He remembered.
The sea.
He misses the sea, a deep, aching long for it, deep in his bones. It’s an old wound, one he doesn’t remember getting, but it aches and aches like a sore joint. It flares up, fiery and determined, at the most sudden of moments. Like when he’s answering a question in school, his hand paused, mid-sentence, the chalk still and forgotten in his hand. Like when he’s talking to his friends, his soft voice guttering out.
Like now.
He misses the sea more than anything else. It’s the strongest thing he feels these days, a deep, deep desire, curling raw and wild in his stomach.
He yearns, not for the seaside beaches and ice creams, but the vast uncontrollable rock of the ocean.
His heart burns for the salty air, the shouts and gruff laughs of the fishermen perched unsteadily on the metal hulls. He needs the silent depths, filled rich with dangers and opportunities, the dark twilight blue hiding all demons. He wishes and wishes in sleepless nights to be whisked away by Neptune’s soft hands, to be drowned by the roll of her ruthless waves.
But in the aftermath, when his words guttered back into life, and his chalk began to stiffly move again, he’d stare into the distance, completely thrown, the restless energy dispelled.
He’d realize then, in the fallout, what worried him bone-deep.
He’d never been to the sea.