Aokigahara was well and used to the eerie air of his Wonder. It no longer bothered him, not particularly, not when he’d been coming regularly for months to clean and fix and polish. The ghostly manifestations had gotten worse over time, certainly, but in a way he regarded them less as one would malicious spirits and more as one would mischievous children. The most recent phenomenon, which greeted him as he stepped onto the path to the shrine, seemed to fit in with that - little foxfire lights, whirling around him and butting against his shoulders as if to attract attention, but if he did turn, they soared away. They seemed to want to play hide and seek more than they wanted to harm him.
But Aokigahara knew enough about fairy lights of all kinds not to follow. They would lead him nowhere good, and he had his suspicions about the viability of escaping the woods that bordered his Wonder. No matter how mischievous they seemed, these were dangerous spirits.
So he stayed his course, pausing at the purification well to wash his hands carefully, tucking his gloves into his pocket and performing the same minor ritual of handwashing he would at a shrine at home in Japan. He had cleaned that out and put in new water, and now it functioned - sort of - as it was supposed to. It functioned well enough for his purposes, at least.
This time, he did not intend to sweep the steps and go, which was what he usually did when tending to the shrine. The honden still remained, and as much as his last encounter with the Code rankled him, he did not particularly expect that it would return. The heart of the shrine needed tending, and he was the only one left to tend it - surely the Code, as clearly the closest thing to a kami there, or whatever other spirit might be housed on the altar, would understand. Someone had to do it; the place needed a caretaker.
He was reverent in his actions, cleaning and arranging with a delicate hand, taking care to avoid overly disturbing any of the relics. There was no reason to be heavy-handed or careless; reason, in fact, to be the opposite.
He finally approached the altar itself, and the shinden, and his hands were just as delicate and careful there as they had been, and when he was done he felt a bloom of something inside him, a burst, and he was changed.
Grown.
Aokigahara let out a long breath, and looked down at himself, and smiled.
Yes, this was...right. This was what he had been working towards. He was no longer a Page; his Wonder had rewarded him for his service.
He walked out of the honden, and his eyes were drawn to the side - to something he hadn’t noticed before. He bent down and picked up the object - two objects, a pair of hairsticks, delicate and carefully crafted, made of silver and engraved with graceful designs and topped with carved flowers and dangling sapphires.
Rin regarded the man before him, hand extended, hairsticks floating a few inches above his palm.
“When did you last see her?” He asked, polite but firm. The man looked left, right -- his former wife’s body had been found, discarded, and only recently identified, and it was because of her mysterious death that Aokigahara, the Inquisitor, had been called to this small corner of the great Saturninan city, pulled away from his graveyard and his forest to deal with this. To ensure proper respect was given to her so that she could rest.
“Days before she went missing,” he said, and the sticks crossed, and Rin shook his head, smile never leaving his face.
“Try again,” he said cooly.
“That day,” he admitted, and this time the sticks did not cross.
“When, that day?” Rin asked, as calm as ever. The man was obviously uncomfortable under Rin’s calm, cheery stare. And, Rin suspected, under the glare of the hairsticks, which would cross every time anyone in the room lied.
They had not crossed for Rin yet. They had crossed perhaps half a dozen times on statements made by his interviewee. Terribly unfortunate, that was, because it told Rin all he needed to know about the man. Weaselly, a liar. It did not, however, make him guilty. Not yet.
“Late afternoon --” the sticks crossed, “evening --” they crossed again. “I killed her alright? I snuck into her place and I killed her, it was late at night, and she deserved it. Put the damn sticks away!” He was shaking, staring at the sticks like they were the architect of all his misfortune and his worst nightmare come alive, and then his eyes darted to Rin, still smiling as calmly as ever, and back, and over again.
This time, they did not cross. Rin sighed, and released the magic, letting them fall into his palm and then tucking them back into his high ponytail, behind a delicate, gossamer scarf that seemed to sparkle and shimmer in the light from some kind of strange glitter.
“It is unfortunate that is your truth,” he said, and then he stood to leave, beckoning in the guards who had been watching in amazement. They had assured him the prisoner would not crack, that he hadn’t under any other interrogation. Rin had just smiled and said that the Inquisitor had his ways. They had not believed him. Clearly, they did now.
It was remarkable what people would admit to when they knew their lies had been sussed out.
Aokigahara paused, and then he smiled. Yes, he would keep these. They would, he suspected, serve him nicely, as well as he was sure they had served Rin a thousand years ago.
He would not be searching out killers, but there were always a thousand questions about the war to answer, and it would benefit everyone to meet on an equal playing field - to ensure that no falsehoods were being told at the negotiation table.
This was exactly what Aokigahara needed.
As he walked away from the shrine, he did not notice that a second pair of footprints followed his steps -- and those prints were marked in blood.
