Chapter Text

Far below the earth, there is a place where the broken, the cruel and the despised come to rest. Far below the earth, under cold stone and over a colder river, there is a bridge rightly forgotten, tended to by its prisoner.

Noon has come to the underground, and to the forgotten bridge that leads deeper into it. A playful term among Hell's inhabitants, one of a number of descriptions for the paths that wandering spirits take through the air above, casting their light across the cavern walls, like a procession of distant stars. Life here has little in common with the surface, but there are countless old habits to ape the memories of the sunlit world.

The fugitive does not and could not have known that, of course; if she does, she would not have cared. She walks unsteadily down dark, uneven rocks, on a slippery, treacherous path down from the surface, muttering oaths under her breath all the while; any louder, after all, and someone might find her.

She can barely see the path ahead of her, let alone find herself generous enough to call it a path in the first place. The souvenirs of recent battles cling to her, all she had time to bring from her life above. Cuts, bruises, soot and mud, light burns and creaking bones. The pain still lingers, a few marks for each of the many that hunted her, but she pushes it out of her mind for now. This is her chance of escaping, of finding a place – however miserable – that can keep those who hounded her at arm's length.

...That doesn't mean she has to like it, and her complaints still pour out into the stale air, quiet and bitter, as sharp as her tongue, as if she hopes to cut a hole in the stone around her with spite alone. There's no harm in trying.

The stone fails to budge.

Slowly, she makes her way down the rough cave floor – one that has only bothered to roll out a carpet of slime and moss for her arrival – until it finally opens out into an equally dismal sight, at least to her eyes. The ceiling lifts, and ahead she sees strange, pale, unnatural lights, which still fail to reach the top of the cavern. Just how far below the earth has she come? Her eyes have yet to adjust – though a youkai might see at night well enough, most could at least count on the stars and moon to help them - and what little light the walls have to offer is a sickly glow coming from... some sort of plant?

No, plants do not move, none that she knows of. She chooses, for now, not to speculate further. The scratches on her face are met with a cool, damp mist, one that might even be pleasant if it felt any less clammy. There must be a river below, if only from the sound, but she can neither see it, nor does she want to. There is barely any light here, and yet she has already seen too much of this place. Small wonder that it was once a place of punishment.

Traversing the river is what remains of a bridge of wood and stone. It is the colour of time, the rot setting in here and there, held together by rusted metal and chipped stone, decorated with the odd gouge or flaking piece of paint. A far more generous soul than her might have claimed that it is red. Certainly, once upon a time, that had clearly been the intent.

She only notices the figure leaning against the railings once she is no more than a few steps away, and it takes all of her self-control not to show her alarm. It – she, the fugitive corrected herself after getting her bearings – stands on the bridge, bedraggled and unkempt, in stark contrast with the rest of the surroundings, which were spotless, in spite of any other flaws.

Gaunt, in a word. She has the air of a scarecrow about her, with matted straw-coloured hair, layers of dust and some grime clinging to a shabby old dress in an unfamiliar style. She wears an exhausted expression, with dark rings under her eyes: Bright, piercing green eyes that hold an almost unnerving gleam in the half-light of the underground.

“I thought you might never make it this far, at the rate you were moving,” the figure remarks drily. A strange voice. Not native, certainly, though she tries. Not recognisably from elsewhere, either. More than anything, it puts the visitor – is that what she is, now, having come too deep underground to be followed? - in mind of someone who has spoken so little in so long that she has almost forgotten how to, and the very sounds are unfamiliar to her.

“You were watching?” She blurts out, incredulous. “If you saw how much trouble those steps were giving me, you could've-”

“Yes, I imagine so.” Her tone is like glass, as smooth and even as it is lacking any warmth. “And who might you be, dragging yourself all the way into what's left of hell? Has it become a fashionable destination, perhaps?”

“What's it to you?” Already annoyed, but then, that is nothing unusual.

“A matter of some base courtesy, mostly. Miss Seija Kijin, I presume?”

The amanojaku sputters, caught off guard, brushing a lock of red and black hair out of her eyes, now positively venomous. “You already know who I am?”

“I'm afraid so. Who doesn't, at this point? News travels... eventually, even down here.” She waits a moment, then close to a minute as Seija's furious tirade and river of obscenity washes over her. How pleasing it must be, she finds herself thinking, to have her name known far and wide. Better to be unforgotten, if one's reputation is to be vile already. “...Parsee Mizuhashi, since you were so kind as to ask,” she adds eventually. “Your creativity is commendable, incidentally, if not something I find myself eager to hear again.”

“Same story every place I go. I'd be damn proud of myself any other day, but right now... I guess I better keep moving,” she answers, a certain weariness setting into her voice. Is it real, or a convenient way to garner some support? She isn't quite sure herself, only that this week has already been quite long enough.

“To the palace of Gensokyo's only remaining satori? Or would you prefer a city of oni?”

“You telling me I'm trapped?”

“Hardly. For all that you might have heard, hell does not judge; if it once did, then those days are past it. We tend to take it on trust that anyone who finds themselves here has their reasons. Death or otherwise. You'll find questions of one's past scarcer than sunlight, down here.”

Seija looks around slowly, warily, taking in the surroundings as well as she can. “...Then I'm stuck right here at this bridge, aren't I?” Parsee manages a vaguely courteous twitch of the lips, rather less than a smile, and does nothing to contradict her. It is no sort of home, but at times like this, it might be shelter enough. There is power of sorts in generosity. It is comforting, in a way, to come across someone as desperate as the amanojaku, as... dependent. There are so few ways for a youkai of no significance, bound to an inconsequential bridge to feel as though she is something other than utterly helpless.

She would like to believe herself capable of some higher motive, but today, it would seem, is not the day she would convince herself. Nor would this be her first choice of lodger, but... she will suffice. Just enough noise to give her some quiet, some peace of mind.

“D'you come with this place or what?”

“Despite my best efforts over the years, yes.”

“Shame. I guess camping out at some run-down bridge wasn't bad enough already. You got a name, lady?”

“As I already told you-”

“'M calling you Green. Easier to remember.”

“...And I would argue,” Parsee answers with a sigh, “if I thought it would make any difference.”