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on-wine-dark-seas · 12 days ago

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The Invitation

Dedicated to the little Black girl who wanted to be all things when the world told her she was nothing. You are everything. 🍯

🪧 Summary: 1050 AD, Heian Era. One full moon, Sukuna meets a dancing storyteller at the Hida Harvest Festival. But after a tragically violent evening robs her of everything, she winds up in a strange alliance with the King of Curses as his guest. 📚 Series: Sonder 🔞 Rating: Explicit ⚠️️ Warning[s]: Rape/Non-Con [not from Sukuna don't worry], blood, gore, description of wounds and dead bodies, cannibalism, recreational drug use [ganja, psilocybin, opium], slow-ish burn, hurt/comfort, PTSD, revenge, catharsis, eventual romance, eventual smut, Ryōmen Sukuna is his own warning. 💋 Pairing[s]: Sukuna x The Writer [⛩️🍯] 🎧 Playlist: [ the invitation ]

⛩️ AO3 𑁍 Parallax OCs 𑁍 Sonder OCs ⛩️

🍯 I. Hankali

Sukuna’s lips are curled into a sneer as he stares down at the shivering gaggle of priests kneeling at his feet. He towers over them, his shadow outstretched like an ominous hand, crimson eyes hard and merciless as he peels away the veneer of their presence to sink his teeth into their motivations.

Fear. These witless worms are motivated by fear, naught else. He half expects one of them to piss themselves any moment.

Sukuna has lived a life of solitude from birth, and one thing solitude has taught him is that his own strength is what is reliable. Friendships, companions, love, all of those are useless tethers beneath his scope of interest and control. No one invites him to things, because his lethal reputation has impressed upon them that he does not care. The people of Hida fear his power, and so they grovel to curry favor in hopes of gaining his protection. He is a sorcerer, but to them he is a god.

Hapless lichen and unmarked graves are testament of his power. A sea of blood for him to drink from endlessly. Meat to be torn and swallowed, sweet and succulent and limitless in its variety.

What care has he for petty festivals and sniveling proselytizing? He cannot make their crops grow nor their cattle healthy. He does not control those forces of nature, but these provincial types are superstitious about jujutsu.

And there are no other sorcerers who can lay claim to the feats he has accomplished.

His sneer becomes a leering grin.

“I accept your invitation,” he says in an even voice, deep and resonant in the temple he has claimed as home for most of his adult life. He watches with disdain as he sees the priests breathe collective sighs of relief.

“We thank his lordship for his consideration,” the head priest says, forehead pressed on the cool stone of the floor. Sukuna says nothing in response. He merely waits.

“I’m sure you do,” he says laconically after a stretch of fearful silence. “Get out.”

Thus are the priests dismissed, their limbs intact, and their numbers the same as when they arrived. They consider this a blessing in and of itself, scurrying out of the shrine like startled insects. Sukuna watches them go, his smirk turning to a pensive frown.

“Mercy, my lord?” Uraume’s cool voice is amused. Sukuna huffs out a breath.

“There is no joy in killing frightened peasants. Aside, there will be blood aplenty at this harvest festival of theirs. Blood is the only thing gods demand in tribute, after all.”

And Sukuna is fair starved for sacrifice.

The weeks leading up to the festival are hectic. With the Five Empty Generals and the Sun, Moon, and Star Squads eliminated, the capital, and by extension Hida, is thrown into chaos. Bandits roam the surrounding areas, waylaying travelers and refugees alike. Temples are packed to capacity to give alms to the starving and destitute. Misery permeates the air as the storm of Sukuna’s fury is felt throughout Heaven and Earth.

No one opposes him in the wake of this war, and he consolidates his power, taking tribute and extracting iron clad binding vows to secure and fortify his position.

But by the gods he can’t bring himself to care about any of it. It feels pointless to him. It nettles at his nerves, these petty political squabbles between clans of sorcerers who could not stand against him in the end. The Sugawara clan is especially in disarray, having lost their best sorcerers to Sukuna’s lethal domain.

Would that he could bring himself care, though. It’s as if the victory that should have been sweetest to savor has turned to stale ash in his mouth, and no amount of blood drinking can curb it.

Something is irritating his spirit, and he’s not sure what.

Uraume fields requests both in the form of face-to-face audiences with supplicants and distraught nobles desperate to hold onto their power; Uraume also fields written requests. Sukuna has so far been offered vast swathes of rice paddies, fields, and even cattle. Where he once had to hunt and scrape in the wilds for his food, now he has more than enough in his stores to throw feasts. But he does not do this. Anyone who would be invited to attend would only do so out of fear of how he’d respond should they refuse. Empty fear does little to sweeten his appetite. He has missed the scent and taste of true terror between his teeth.

It’s frustrating. So, he attends this stupid harvest festival as a guest of the highest honor: the God of Hida. Wielder of Storm and Flame. All manner of ostentatious titles he would never choose for himself, but he bears the weight of them all the same. Even the title, Ryōmen Sukuna, is not a name he chose, but it certainly suits him. It evolved from his deeds. He had been born a cursed and nameless wretch to a mother whose face was not even a blur in his memory. All he knows is the turning point of cognizance in his life, and the bloody present.

He sits amongst them, an impassive deity, inscrutable as the heavens that cursed him. Something stirs in his chest, makes his heart tighten uncomfortably. Will alone quells it, buries it too deep to be excavated without considerable aid, or his will. That unnamed feeling—that yearning—will be smothered in the salted earth of his heart like everything else.

The festival itself is lavish, a surprise for such uncertain times, but Sukuna sees these people—these insects—seeking joy when it would be easier to succumb to the hand fate has dealt them: misery and death; their pointless existence snuffed out and forgotten. Sukuna allows himself a smile at the thought. Yes, how fitting.

He sips his plum wine, smokes his kiseru, and stares at the nameless faces and listens to the empty and pointless chatter. His heart beats sluggishly as the contents of his kiseru finally take hold, dulling the sharpened edges of agitation flaying his nerves.

There’s a commotion at the entrance to the headman’s hall. Affronted gasps, mocking laughter. Sukuna knows that voice, and suddenly he reaches for the ornate lacquered box at his side, refills his kiseru, and takes a long, slow drag of it.

She’s naked. She’s always fucking naked. Sukuna doesn’t know or care, but she’s coming at him, her eyes shining with something he thinks is madness, and suddenly the distance is closed, and he feels strong arms go around him, gets a deep inhale of her scent: rosewater and her natural musk. Pleasant, but her arms around him, her fingers threading through his hair, her grating voice droning on and on about loneliness and love and other such drivel—the sharp edges of his nerves lash out before he realizes it.

Yorozu tumbles onto the floor, her open haori stained with her own blood, a slash mark across her chest, breasts stained in a curtain of crimson spilling from a wound that may as well have been made with a true blade. Sukuna should find this beautiful, but he doesn’t care. He’s just well and truly agitated, now.

There’s a fearful silence in the room as Yorozu climbs to her knees, swaying from the blood loss. Her face is a frightening rictus of ecstasy, as if she is having a religious experience.

“Ah, Sukuna!” She sighs in deep satisfaction. “You are the most magnificent thing! An honor to be struck down by your hands. I will spend the rest of our lives making sure you never know loneliness again, beloved.”

Sukuna frowns, the bridge of his nose wrinkling. Beside him, he feels the chill of Uraume’s cursed energy, like prickling fingers of winter in the form of their aura alone.

“If you’ve any decorum,” Uraume says in a warning tone, “you will attire yourself in a manner befitting the occasion and not embarrass my lord with your provincial ignorance.”

Yorozu should be angry, but when one is a powerful sorcerer, words of snarling lapdogs mean precious little. She gives Uraume as maddening smile.

“Oh, but have you not heard? I too decimated the Sun, Moon, and Stars Squad and have been accorded a place of honor amongst the Fujiwara for this festival. What role do you play here, Uraume? I am to be seated at Lord Sukuna’s right hand, as is my right!”

Sukuna snorts derisively.

“You talk too much,” he says in an exasperated tone. “Be seated and be silent.”

Surprisingly, Yorozu complies, arranging herself like some sort of creature at his side, giving Uraume a simpering smirk while they roll their eyes in obvious disdain and disgust. Sukuna is just thankful the woman is heeding his words and remaining blessedly silent. He focuses his thoughts again.

The entertainment for the evening is interesting. There is the traditional and ritualistic, which he watches and listens to with half an ear. He feels wholly apart from the festivities, as if he is some sort of interloper and not an honored guest. And all around him is the stench of nervous fear. Fear that he might do something unimaginably horrific should any displease him. He does nothing to dissuade them, but still…all this sweating and kowtowing is unnecessary and grates his nerves.

It’s not until he sees the performers arranging an interesting set of drums he’s never seen before that he sets his annoyance aside in favor of his curiosity. The players have also changed. Arrayed in strange costumes of grass skirts and anklets with bells. Their skin is as dark as rich, fresh-turned earth; the men have strong and stern miens; but Sukuna detects something submissive about them. They look to one of the other performers.

Sukuna’s gaze follows theirs as the lead dancer emerges. There’s a thump in his ears like a heartbeat. Her cursed energy blazes around her in a steady flame, moving with a fluidity Sukuna has seen only in himself.

Who is she?

Sukuna’s gaze falls like a weight on her and he suppresses a smirk when he sees her shift her body weight onto the balls of her feet. There’s a tinkling of bells from the thick ankle bracelets she wears, but Sukuna knows a tense posture when he sees it. She speaks to the drummers in a tongue he doesn’t recognize, hands animated in giving direction. Sukuna keeps his eyes on her. Skin like burnished umber from what he can see, her breasts high and proud in a bra made complete of cowrie shells. He can also make out the tattoo on her back, a symbol he doesn’t recognize. Is she a criminal of some kind as well? There’s a crown of cowrie shells on her head, affixed to soft buckskin straps that obscure her face from him, but he can make out her lips.

The dancer grows more interesting by the moment from her appearance alone, her eyes dark and sparkling, her braids falling around her in a sea of black and gold, framing her cowrie-obscured face that he catches glimpses of when she turns: high cheekbones, and sculpted soft nose, and lips shaped like a perfect bow. When she smiles, which is frequently, Sukuna marvels at the perfect whiteness of her teeth, the way her smile seems a power all on its own. There is something inside of her, something yet to be tapped, and he wonders.

He waits.

A hush falls over the entire crowd, faces illuminated by the massive bonfire burning in the center of it all.

Then, the dancer opens her mouth and begins to sing. Sukuna’s brows go up at the power of her voice, a clear trailing of notes and melody in a tongue he doesn’t recognize but somehow the tone of her song reaches him. He understands her meaning, sees it written in her smile as those foreign words slip from her mouth like a lure. She commands the music with skill, the primordial drumbeats whispering to thread with the melody she sings. Sukuna can feel the power in her, that thing inside her that he can’t quite place trembling like a chrysalis on the verge of opening.

When she begins to dance, Sukuna understands. By his side, Yorozu follows his gaze, notes how he never takes any of his eyes off of the girl. Her lip curls in open disdain and disgust.

The dance becomes faster, the drums carrying the dancer into a frenzy that is no wilder and more beautiful than a summer storm. Sukuna can see a sheen of sweat on the girl’s back, right between her undulating shoulder blades. She commands her small stage with consummate skill, executing complicated footwork, the bells around her ankles creating a counter rhythm to the drumbeat whipping everyone into an excited and breathless frenzy. Her cowrie shell crown’s straps are flung about her head like a halo when she executes hairpin turns on the balls of her bare feet, rapid and surefooted, affording the crowd a glimpse of the sculpted face beneath. Her feet, stained crimson with henna, tap out a counterrhythm to the drums in one sequence, creating a synergy the likes of which Sukuna himself has never seen nor heard. The drummers are not sorcerers, but there’s something in their playing that bolsters the dancer. The flames climb higher and higher, and Sukuna suddenly finds himself breathing with her. Inhale. Exhale. Controlled diaphragm as she chants and sings louder, not even sounding the least bit winded.

The crowd feels it too. They clap; they stamp their feet.

Sukuna can feel the chrysalis inside of her vibrating. Her soul is vibrating. The fire crackles and seems to dance higher and brighter. The drums are in his blood, pumping his heart, making his pulse race with the same breathless anticipation he gets just before a fight.

“Exquisite,” Sukuna says breathlessly to himself. Yorozu’s brow knits in consternation as she gazes up at him sharply. He’s still watching the dancer. Worse yet, his lower hand resting on the floor beside him is tapping in time to the rhythm. She’s sure he would hum along if he knew the damn melody of the barbaric chanting and yowling the girl is doing.

The smell of spring and bounty permeates the air as the music swells, and the girl’s feet move faster in more complicated patterns, a test of endurance, an expression of strength. Sweat slicks her dark, umber skin. Sukuna sees the softness of her body, the undulation of her waist and hips, the way every curve moves with its own fluid rhythm and knows she will taste so tender and succulent between his teeth. The salt of her sweat makes him salivate a little at the thought.

But also, she is gifted with immense power. He can feel it. A latent potential as yet untapped, struggling to be born. All it needed was the right push and it would be free, and she would be formidable. It would be a waste to consume her for the fleeting pleasure of tasting her. Sukuna knows a rare delicacy when he sees one.

No, he would have to do something else. He would need to find a way to savor her.

Several times she dances near him, and he tenses, but there is something reverent in the way she looks at him through the curtain of cowrie shells from her crown; the way she smiles at him as if she is inviting him to join her; the way she always seems to be in supplication when she addresses him with the movements of her body. A bow, a flourishing gesture of the hands to highlight the enormity of him, little bits of acknowledgement that she knows him to be the sovereign presence here; the mystery of her being obscured when she turns away from him with fluid grace, and he wants to reach out and seize her, turn her back, and look into her face in full. There’s something sensual about her method of dancing, which he deduces to be a harvest tribute.

He likes that.

The music swells and blooms, and her soul blooms with it as she kneels in perfect reverence before him, sitting on her heels, hands pressed delicately to the floor, her forehead on the ground. Her bells and shells are silent. She doesn’t even shiver in his presence. Sukuna looks down at her, fascinating by the rhythm of her slow and deep breaths of exertions. This close, he gets a good look at the tattoo limned in her dark skin. The symbol at her nape interests him, and he almost reaches out to touch it.

“Hm,” he says thoughtfully. Yorozu sucks her teeth in irritation. “You are a foreigner. What is your name, girl?”

The dancer doesn’t move.

“Do I have your permission to rise, my lord?” Her Japanese is accented, and she speaks slowly, but Sukuna understands.

“You do,” he says, curiosity making him unusually tolerant this evening. The girl rises into a seated kneel, her eyes still respectfully downcast behind the curtain of cowrie shells, full lips parted. Sukuna wants to tear the crown from her head and see her face, but something about it is…hm.

“My name is Šetû Asiri,” she says, her voice measured through steady breaths. “Though in your culture I suppose Asiri Šetû would be the appropriate introduction.”

Sukuna tilts his head. “Take off your headdress.” He orders. Asiri stiffens briefly, momentarily taken aback by the bluntness of his command. Behind her, her drummers are a knot of tension and anxiety. Sukuna’s reputation is fearsome, and no doubt whatever caravans brought them here from their lands leagues and leagues away have been rife with myths about his whims.

Asiri’s hands go to the cowrie shell crown, and slowly she pulls it from her head, braids tumbling free, her face bared in full. She keeps her eyes downcast, black lashes cresting on her high cheekbones. Her expression is neutral.

And Sukuna cannot smell her terror or fear. Either she does not know him for what and who he is, or she does not care…or she’s a fool.

Alternately, she can be as mad as Yorozu, but he highly doubts she is. He does not see it in the lines of her body, soft and sculpted by years of dance.

“Look at me,” he says. There’s another tense silence following those words. Asiri breathes in and lifts her face and gaze to meet his. Eyes darker than forest pools past midnight, glimmering like polished obsidian. Sukuna sees the inscrutable void of the moonless and starless nights in her eyes. Eclipse eyes. Asiri holds his gaze steadily. Sukuna’s lower eyes flit to her neck, collared by a cowrie shell choker with pretty silver coins, and he watches as two beads of sweat roll down, pooling in the hollow of her clavicle before rolling down the plush curve of her breasts. He licks his lips before he realizes it.

“Did my performance please you?” She asks steadily. Sukuna smirks but doesn’t answer. It is answer enough.

“Where are you from?” He asks. Asiri hesitates.

“Across the sea,” she says quietly. “Beyond the Silk Road. I would need a map of the world to show it to you.”

Sukuna narrows his eyes, makes a pensive hum. Asiri remains kneeling, and the assembled crowd holds its collective breath. Sukuna steps down from the dais, onto the soft moss she’s conjured around herself with her dancing. The heat of the bonfire illuminates her skin, and his nostrils flare as he breathes deep. Her sweat is sweet, but he smells something else…a fragrance heady and warm, like night-blooming jasmine.

Mm.

“You may go,” he says. “You and your troupe may enjoy the festivities…with my blessing.”

Asiri allows herself a small smile, pressing herself into an obeisant kneel, forehead to the floor. The shells that adorn her body click prettily.

Behind Sukuna, Yorozu seethes.

“Thank you, my lord,” Asiri breathes. She waits for him to be seated and rises from her kneel. Sukuna watches her return to her troupe, the musicians murmuring in that strange tongue, whispering and shooting nervous glances in his direction. He should kill them, but they are foreigners, and he foregoes his usual punishments. It will not do to profane these rituals with blood. Even he will not deign to be so greedy and blasphemous this night.

“Did you see the size of him?” Ajani’s voice is rife with shock and not a little horror. “What manner of creature is he that they would worship him as a god?”

Šetû smiles from behind her changing screen as her cousin continues to go on and on about the cultures and customs of the people, they find themselves performing for. It has been a long and arduous journey for their little family, but Šetû knows this place is where they can truly make a life for themselves.

Away from the horrors plaguing their homeland. The horrors that took everything from them but the talent in their skulls.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I thought he was kind of handsome. And he’s clearly a powerful man!”

Ajani sucks his teeth in disgust. “You are too kind, Haji,” he says. “Remember what those priests said? He eats people.”

Šetû shrugs into her abaya, a silky shift of oceanic blue, the collar and edges of the wide sleeves stiff with golden thread embroidery. She keeps on her dancing bells and places the cowrie shell crown reverently in her trunk. Then, she surveys herself in the shined pane of a beaten mirror, marveling at her reflection.

“I’m sure those were just the frightened exaggerations of peasants,” Šetû says as she slips into a pair tabi and geta, humble gifts from the leaders of the village. She had been surprised at the taboo of displaying one’s naked feet in public. The four-armed man had been barefoot, even outside. Perhaps these customs only apply to their living gods.

She steps from behind the changing screen, heaving a sigh.

Their troupe, Na Waje, consists of her, her two brothers, Amadou and Yusuf, and two of her cousins, Ajani and Ajamu. For the last few years, it has been only them since their grandmother and uncle passed. Šetû cannot count how many foreign lands she has traveled across in the years since they packed their entire lives in their painted wagon filled with their instruments, clothing, and supplies, and their sturdy Mongolian steed to pull it, a gift of the Khan for their rousing performance under their endless sky. It has been hard going, but Šetû will not trade it for anything.

Still, having stone walls and a proper bed would not go amiss.

Šetû makes her way outside of their tent, which they set up on the outskirts of the village near their wagon and horse. Amadou has already secured dinner for the evening as he and Yusuf had gone hunting and fishing much earlier that day. The smell of roasting rabbits seasoned with the meager spices they’ve managed to hoard for themselves is enough to make Šetû’s mouth water. Yusuf has secured sacks of rice, and a pot of it bubbles over an additional fire.

“Have any of you had any luck with the locals?” Šetû asks as she takes a seat on one of the logs arrayed around the campfire. Yusuf pokes at the rice with a grunt. Šetû laughs.

“They worship a four-armed man who looks like he eats people,” Yusuf says with a sour look on his face. “I’d rather not make friends with such a superstitious bunch, if you don’t mind.”

Amadou, the oldest of all of them, and their somewhat de facto leader, laughs.

“Perhaps you should consider taking more time to get to know them. We are the foreigners in this land.”

“We’re foreigners in every land,” Yusuf grumbles. There’s a collective groan as the twins come to join them and Yusuf’s sour face somehow—against all odds—grows even more pinched.

“Here we go,” Ajani murmurs with a grin as he sits next to Šetû, who hides her smile in her mug of tea.

“I was a djali!” Yusuf snaps. “A true scholar of the craft! I served noble families and was respected in every corner of the Mali Empire! I wore silks and walked in sandals made of the softest leather and exquisite beadwork. I was slated to be—”

“—given an honor at the right hand of the King himself; we know!” The others finish in unison. There is a sizzling sound as fat drips into the fire from the roasting rabbits. Another pot holds a rich stew. Since coming to this foreign shore, finding ingredients that best remind them of home has been hard. But they’ve made good coin this month and so their supplies are plentiful.

“Speaking of strange customs,” Ajamu says, gathering their bowls to serve rice and stew. “Did you see the woman next to him? Completely naked! Is that how these people celebrate the harvest?! And if she is his wife, how…immodest!”

Šetû snorts into her tea. “No,” she says. “I saw the way the people were looking at her. I’m guessing nudity at public events is frowned upon even here, Ajamu.”

“I didn’t mind the view,” Ajani says, earning an elbow to the ribs from his twin. He grins shamelessly. “She definitely had all of her best qualities on display.”

“Yeah, and was practically ready to rip Šetû’s throat out when that giant monster spoke to her for a few minutes.”

Šetû’s cheeks go hot. In truth she hadn’t noticed the nude woman’s venomous looks during the entire encounter. She’d been too afraid of offending Hida’s local deity. She thinks about the performance again: dust beneath her henna-stained feet, lost in the rhythm of her breathing to match the breath of the earth, her ears filled with the ancient rhythms of her homeland; four crimson eyes, glowing as bright as the flame she danced around, with a hunger she could not name; her head pressed to the ground in an obeisant kneel, a glimpse of very large bare feet, and thick bands of black ink around the ankles.

Look at me.

Šetû remembers looking up, so far her throat arched. He had been massive, looking down at her with a curiosity that reminded her of a tiger deciding on whether or not the lamb in its grasp would be a toy or food…or both. She remembers his face, black ink limned into the skin in sharp, thorny lines, emphasizing the divine sculpture of his high cheekbones, his nose, his strong chin.

Four eyes, glowing like coals in the breeze, flaring bright.

And the heat and energy that she felt from him had been oppressive. Not only was he massive, but whatever power he held was just as big. He frightened her.

But more than that, he intrigued her.

“Šetû are you daydreaming again?” Ajani asks, handing her a bowl. Šetû blinks slowly, a waking dreamer pulled from a reverie she had yet to finish processing. She takes the bowl with gratitude.

“Well, it’s night,” she says. “So, no. I was just…thinking, is all.”

Ajani’s brow furrows with concern, but he says nothing, taking his seat beside her. For a while, the family eats in silence, enjoying the bounty prepared by the elder cousins.

“The headman gave us a gift for our performance,” Amadou says, breaking the silence as they eat. “A cask of their rice wine. I say we breach it tonight in celebration.”

“There’s five of us,” Yusuf grumbles. “How are we to finish an entire cask of wine in one evening?”

“Well, there’s no room for it in the wagons so we’re going to have to try,” Amadou says back with a smile. “I’d say we’ve earned a night of drunken respite! And the festival continues for another day. We’ve been permitted to participate in the rituals and festivities freely after our performance tomorrow.”

Šetû feels her mind beginning to fade, Amadou’s voice turning into a drone. That oppressive energy is back, spilling into their camp like a chilling fog.

Hida’s god is here.

It’s frightening that none of them so much as heard a twig snap, but the conversation dies down as the four-armed deity’s shadow falls over them. Šetû shivers from his presence. There is something sinister about it, and whatever it is…it’s hungry. At that thought, she has an idea. She sets aside her bowl, jumping to her feet. She motions for the others to do the same.

“Šetû,” Amadou whispers, “you’re the one who speaks their language best. Does he mean us harm?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she answers. “But we should all kneel out of respect.”

And so they do, and the god’s brows raise up in surprise. The youth beside him, whose presence feels like the first, dire fingertips of the bitterest winter, smirks.

“My lord,” Šetû says from her kneel. “It is a surprise to see you here. How may we serve?”

The god tilts his head, says nothing for a long while. Šetû’s knees are beginning to ache.

“You may rise,” he says at last, as if he had been deliberating on something and finally came to a decision. “And resume your meal.”

Šetû breathes a sigh of relief as they all climb to their feet and return to their seats. Šetû lingers a moment and gives the god a friendly smile.

“Would you and your companion like to join us?” She asks. “We’ve plenty to spare, and we were just discussing breaching a cask of wine. Far more than needed for the five of us.”

Here, in the full light of their own cookfire, Šetû takes an opportunity to look upon Hida’s living god. She isn’t quite sure what to make of him, really, and his expression is inscrutable. For a moment, there is only the crackling of the fire, a log pops, and the subtle hiss of moisture steaming out of it in the heat. Amadou’s jaw is tense, his body taut. Of all of them, he is the only one with any real combat prowess, as he once served in the city guard back in their homeland. He and Yusuf and the twins have protected them from the onslaught of bandits, gangsters, ruffians, and all manner of unsavory attackers over the years. They will not let Šetû come to harm.

The god smirks, and Šetû is reminded of the first time she ever saw an animal slaughtered. His smile is the blade drawn across the trembling throat, spilling crimson vitae in its wake. She shivers and his nostrils flare.

“You would offer me a seat by your fire?” He asks. “Do you know who I am?”

Šetû blinks in obvious confusion.

“Are you not…are you not the deity being honored at this festival? Ryōmen Sukuna?” She asks, genuinely puzzled. “It would be rude not to offer you a place by our humble fire. It would honor us, in fact.”

The god—Sukuna—crosses his lower arms and Šetû grits her teeth on a surprised sound but her troupe is not so subtle. There is a subtle gasp of shock. She hadn’t noticed his physique up close before, but it is truly a marvel.

“What’s this?” Sukuna asks, peering into the cook pot. Yusuf looks nervous but Amadou places a hand on his shoulder.

“Well,” he says, steeling his courage much to the amusement of the mountain of a man before him. “In our homeland it’s called…naman sa.” He glances at Šetû, who smiles.

“I guess the closest translation would be beef stew…but we didn’t have any beef on hand, and the local butcher would not sell to us. So we used rabbits we hunted.” She explains. Two crimson eyes regard her and she tries to maintain her composure under the weight of his gaze. A low rumble sounds in his chest, a sound that reminds her of a tiger purring. Pensive. Ajani and Ajamu gulp, clearly fearful.

“I will join you,” Sukuna says and there is a collective breath of relief.

From there, the strangest of meetings unfolds.

Sukuna arrays himself like a king by the fire. Amadou moves to serve him, but he holds up a forestalling hand. Amadou’s brows go up in silent question. Was he not hungry?

“I want her to serve me,” Sukuna says, pointing at Šetû who startles, but rises quickly to do so. Amadou’s brow knits in a frown but at his younger sister’s insistence he hands her the bowl. Carefully, she scoops heaps of rice into the bowl, then ladles a helping of the spicy rabbit stew over it. Sukuna’s lower eyes watch, going a little wide when he sees the stew on the rice but then takes the bowl from her proffered hands, admiring how she kneels to serve it to him. His large fingers brush her hands and heat blooms in her cheeks before she moves away to sit beside Ajani.

“Hashi?” Uraume asks cooly. Amadou’s brows knit again, and he nods, fetching a fresh set of chopsticks for Sukuna to use. He doesn’t hesitate, the god of Hida begins to devour the food immediately.

Everyone sits in silence, breathing slow, wondering just what they’d done to deserve his attention this evening.

Sukuna clears his bowl in record time. Amadou has retrieved the cask of rice wine, and pours Sukuna a cup, which he uses to wash down his meal.

Sukuna grins, eyes heavy-lidded, like a man sated.

“That was delicious,” he purrs. “Which one of you made this?”

Amadou bows. “It was me, my lord,” he says in his halting Japanese, speaking slowly. Of all of them, Šetû is the best at picking up languages, and they’ve not been in the country long. “Though it is my sister who crafts the recipes.”

Sukuna glances at her again and she tries not to jump.

“Uraume,” he says. “Get the recipe from this one.”

“Of course, Lord Sukuna,” Uraume says, affording Šetû a smile that can only be described as chilly. She chews her lip nervously.

“Well?” Sukuna grins, and they tense. “Don’t stop on my account. Do whatever it is you do when the locals aren’t bothering you.”

The troupe glances at one another in confusion. How did they carry on when they’d been warned how dangerous this man is? That he has a capricious temperament and kills on a whim?

The wine.

It doesn’t take long, but the wine flows, and eventually, tongues loosen and tension eases enough for conversation to flow. Out of respect for Sukuna and his companion, they converse in Japanese to include them in the conversation.

“How is it you wound up here?” Sukuna asks. “And what was it you were singing earlier?”

Amadou smiles. “We travel all over, performing for coin, doing odd jobs. Our homeland was ravaged by war, and we had to leave. This may be the furthest we’ve ever gone in the world.”

Sukuna chuckles. “Tch. And now that you’ve come here, what do you think?”

Amadou is silent. Yusuf, however, snorts in disdain. Sukuna’s crimson eyes focus on him, and he startles like a cat in a spray of water. Ajani and Ajamu laugh when he shoots them a glare.

“Are all the locals so rude to foreigners?” Yusuf asks bitterly. Sukuna tilts his head with a grin.

“Count yourself lucky that it is only the ignorant peasants who are rude to you,” he says and there’s something about his tone that sends a chill down their spines. A threat? A warning? It can be either, but his smile is too sharp, like a butcher’s knife freshly-whetted on the stone. Even a caress will cut.

“I suppose you have the right of it,” Yusuf concedes. “Still, it’s something to hire us to perform and then force us to linger on the outskirts of the village. To have fallen so far—”

“What he means to say is…things could stand to be a bit more hospitable,” Amadou interrupts quickly. “But it is a beautiful country. Reminds me of some parts of our homeland.”

Sukuna recalls the brief conversation with Šetû and smirks.

“Come to my estate,” he says. “All of you. I could use some entertainment and new flavors to try.”

Yusuf looks visibly nonplussed but Amadou smiles.

“Truly? We would be honored to accept but…” Amadou hesitates, glances back toward the village. “We have obligations here. Would we still be welcome after the festival is done?”

Sukuna’s grin is sleek, and one of the eyes on the bone plate of his face settles on Šetû and she chews her lip again.

“I don’t see why not,” he says laconically. “You will be paid for your services. A great deal better than these provincial superstitious idiots. Aside,” he turns the full weight of his gaze on Šetû again. “I believe what you have to offer is very interesting.”

Amadou frowns. “And what do you mean by that, my lord?” He asks in a tone that dares to reveal a bit of steel. Sukuna grins then, and this time it chills all around the fire. Uraume smirks as if they know something the others do not.

“I have never seen art like yours before,” Sukuna drawls. “And it would please me to have you present it to me away from…” He gestures vaguely toward the village. Amadou seems settled by the explanation, but he shares a brief glance with Yusuf who seems to understand what just transpired.

“It would be our highest honor, my lord,” Amadou says, bowing his head.

There’s the sound of bells tinkling as Šetû shifts in her seat.

“We should play Hankali,” she says with a grin. Amadou and Yusuf look momentarily startled, but Ajani and Ajamu seize on that opportunity.

“Great idea!” Ajani says, getting up. “I’ll grab my tama, eh?”

Šetû claps her hands together excitedly, kicking her feet and making the ankle bells jingle prettily. Sukuna watches her with an amusement one would expect from a normally impassive deity.

“What is this…” he thinks for a moment, then says the word slowly. “Hankari?”

“Hankali,” Šetû corrects with a grin. “It’s a children’s game we usually play after a good night. A test of rhythm, memory, and word association.”

Sukuna snorts. “And how is it played?”

The little family gathers around as Ajani returns with a small, two-headed drum affixed with thick, gutstring ropes, and a curved stick with a flattened tip. He wears the drum slung on his shoulder and carried in his armpit; and it sits high, almost too high for it to be reasonably played by hand. Sukuna watches unblinking as he tests the drum, tapping out a rapid series of syncopated rhythms with only the stick and his fingertips. Sukuna’s eyes narrow when he sees the subtle flex of his arm, tightening the gutstring ropes and causing the drum to sound out different notes.

As if it is talking. Sukuna tilts his head, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Teach me,” he says to Šetû, who beams at him as if he is an old friend and not the fearsome and rightly feared sorcerer that holds sway in these lands.

Sukuna watches as she moves her hands, gesturing to Ajani to play.

“So,” she explains, “we start by establishing a rhythm…”

Sukuna listens, watches as Šetû’s hands move, tapping her lap, clapping her hands, and then snapping both fingers. Sukuna’s brow furrows, listening. The drum, her hands, two counter rhythms locking in to become a sentence, a phrase. Sukuna begins to breathe in time with the music; it’s just like her performance earlier in the evening. He’s caught in the rhythm, tapping in time with one finger before he even realizes he’s doing it.

Šetû begins to sing, her voice coming out honey sweet in that strange tongue Sukuna doesn’t understand, introducing yet another element to the music. Sukuna focuses on her hands, but he hears the men respond to her call, and he smirks.

It doesn’t take long for him to pick up on the pattern, letting them play a round where they switch to Japanese, listing off words that are commonly associated with one another. At the end of each turn, Šetû returns to the calling chorus, and Sukuna responds. Even Uraume who is usually so reserved seems to relax to the music.

And now he’s having fun in a way he did not expect.

Several times, people are knocked out of the game for missing the rhythm, hesitating, or saying a word that doesn’t match the round robin. Sukuna laughs uproariously when he realizes the point of the game.

“It helps teach you our language,” he says. Šetû beams again.

“Got it in one,” she says. “We’ve gone begging for translators and native speakers in our travels, but the best way we learn is by simply immersing in the language. And then we use Hankali to practice.”

Sukuna smirks. “You’re passing fair at it already, and your brother isn’t a bad cook.” Although there’s a sense that he doesn’t believe for a moment that Šetû isn’t the smartest one in the bunch. He finds her brothers to be irritatingly suspicious and antsy, but Šetû has exhibited a calm in his presence he isn’t used to; not only that…she has welcomed him.

“My lord…” Uraume stirs by his side. He seems startled from his thoughts, eyes cutting downward to regard them. “We must depart if we’re to prepare for travel tomorrow.”

Sukuna sighs and waves a hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says dismissively. He rises to his full height, and all rise with him. They bow to him as he turns away to leave. He spares a glance over his shoulder.

“I expect to see you all at the shrine after this festival is over.” He says and Amadou keeps his eyes dutifully downcast.

“Of course, my lord,” he says, willing obeisance into his tone. Sukuna smirks smugly, pleased with the outcome. Uraume bows one last time before they depart.

“My lord appreciates your hospitality,” they say cooly.

And with that, the pair depart. For a while, Šetû watches them go until they vanish around a bend in the path, leading toward the thick forest, vanishing like mist.

“Anyone else almost shit themselves in terror?” Ajani asks when he’s sure Sukuna and Uraume are out of earshot as well as line of sight.

“Wallahi, each of the man’s hands were the size of Amadou’s head, I thought for sure he was going to kill us all,” Ajamu says, earning nervous but relieved laughter from the group.

“And the way he kept looking at Šetû…” Yusuf snorts. “Like he wanted to have her served up on a platter or something.”

Šetû’s cheeks flush with heat. “Please, he was probably just lost in thought or something. Plus, I’m the one who speaks the language best. And if you blockheads would actually stop acting like a bunch of posturing peacocks, we’d be able to get the locals to be more welcoming!”

“Tch! If his mouth hadn’t been closed, he would be drooling like a starved dog.” Yusuf says and Šetû laughs. She doesn’t quite believe it herself, but she remembers the weight of Sukuna’s gaze, the way the crimson irises seemed to gleam like drops of blood, rippling with something she couldn’t name. A hunger with an unending maw and gullet, one that will inevitably swallow her up if she dares get too close.

She pushes such thoughts from her mind.

“Well, in any case, we’ve accepted his invitation,” she says. “We can’t back out. Something tells me he’s not the type who takes kindly to one going back on their word.”

Amadou makes a pensive sound, resting his chin on his hands.

“Yes,” he agrees. “We’ll finish up the festival tomorrow and then head to the shrine. I don’t think Sukuna means us harm. He could have easily harmed us right here if that was his aim.”

Yusuf sucks his teeth in annoyance.

“And would you wander into the mouth of a tiger if it promised not to close its jaws on your head? Amadou, the man is dangerous. He had an aura of evil about him that chills the blood. You cannot mean to accept his invitation!”

Amadou sighs. “Of course I do, Yusuf. He has promised payment, and we’re low on coin as is. Our wagon wheel will need mending soon, and our food stores are in dire need of restock. Of course I will accept the invitation, what other choice is there?”

Yusuf grumbles but no retort comes to gainsay his brother. Thus settled, Amadou declares the night over. Together, siblings and cousins clean up the camp, douse the fire, and retreat to their yurt. Inside is a snug fit, but it’s warm. Ajani and Ajamu decide to take the first watch.

“What do you think we should expect at the shrine?” Šetu murmurs from her pallet. Amadou snorts.

“More of the same: servants, a few priests and priestesses, and Sukuna himself, I’d imagine. Likely he’ll only want us there for the night, so it should be safe.”

Šetû thinks about the way Sukuna’s crimson eyes flared with a hunger that made her shiver to the marrow. Safe is not the word she’d use, and yet she gets the distinct feeling his invitation is sincere. Her eyes drift close, and she catches the faintest whiff of something burning as she slips into sleep.

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