Τ̗̄ ̞͙͒ͅH̥͂ ̝̼̦̳E̥̽ ͓̜̣ ͎̰ ͎̣̝̹R͖̩̂ ̖̤͌Е̱͇̲̫̓ ̳̻̅D ͎ͮͅ ͚̬̖̤͛ ͔̺̗ͤ ͓̗̅ ͉̙̫̤ ͚ ͍̞ͭ-͓̳͔̌ ͉̲̍ ͖̼̆ T͔ ̜͕͇̝H̩͙̫ ͎̹Ε̹͎͚̅ ̘͓͇ ̘̩͗ ͓ͅР̣̥̤ ̞̺̺Ḙ̻ ̠͕͙̻ͯD̫̲ ͇ ̣̝͓ͬ ̟̣͇̒ ̖̠̯̹ͣ ͈̪̆ ͓͍͉͊-̻̘ ͔͎͓̝́ ̍ ̳͇̫ͬT̳̘ͅ ͙͉̗͋Н̤̥̜̘ͅ ̤̈́E͎̗ ̠̖̪ ̲̠̗̐ ̼͍͐R͓͕̖̗ͬ ̗͙̮̈Ε͔̮̑ ̻̹͈̑D͙͕̥ ̲͉̝̦ ̟͕̙̎ ̲̖͕͈̾ ̖̮̱ͪ ͍̙͖ ̝ ̥̗̲́-̙̗ͅ ̘͕̘͑ ̳̖̰̥͂Т͕̼ ̗̫ͥΗ̰̝͖͉̂ ͈͕̬̖E̺̤͖ ͔̏ ̩͙ͤ ̪͙̩R̼̲ ̜͚̥E̥͈͚ ̠̦̻̖ͤͅD̼̣̝̖̽ ͚̺̀ ͖̗̉ ͖̝̪ ̰̹̟̓ ̤͔̖̺̍ ̝̠̏ ̜͕-͍͙̈ ̤͓͌ ̙̼͎ͦ ̲̫T̳̙̗͑ ̯̟͎̱̏Н̜̗ ͇̜̃E̩̝̜̭͊ ͎͓̮̥ͨ ͇̼̗̈ ͖̠̖̑R̭̪̙̩ ̠̮̩Ἐ̰ ͙̹̬̬Д̭͕̯ ̲ͩͅ ̥͇̹ ̻͎̼̰ ͅ ͓̲͎ ̩̤̅ ͚̏-̹̗͛ ̼͌ ͉̬ͯ ͫͅT̫͍͓̾ ͓̯͗H̞̩̬ ̦̦̯ͬЕ̤͚͖ ̙̇ ͚̣̮̟ͦ ̲͐R̳̳̞ ͙Ε̬̮̟̠̌ ̫̼̝Д̳̝ ̥̟ ̘̤̇ ̩͉͖̙̣ ̘̙͗ ̬̥̼ͨ ̮̖̼͉ ͖̜͗ͅ-̪ ͉̱ ̖͋ ̤̪̠̲̍T̺̥̥̽ ̺̟̼ͦH̤͇̺͓ ͍͔Ε̭̗̯̣̖ ̝̞͚̑ ͙̞͉ ͍̏R͓ͪ ͖̣̦͗Ḙ̦̠̙̞ ͇̘̩̽D̳̠ ̻̘̫͚ ̭͈̜̂ ̦̈́ ̯̲͉̻̊ ̺̹̄ ̖͈̠ ̗̯͍-̙̼͖ ̤̦̯ͣ ͔̯ͅ ͖̳͍̌Т̺̣̠ ͈͔H͎͖ ̳͎Ε͕̳̖ ̩ͯ ̟͓̞̜̿ ͓̹̺̫͕Р̥̬ ͎Ẹ͚ͅ ͇̖D͍̙ ͔̼͎́ ͙ ͉͇͍̠ ̜̖͚̤ͦ ͇͎͓ ̻̠ ̱̭̠̟̾-̤̻ͣ ̱̣̲̗̂ ̜̹̒ ̖̩̖Τ͙͑ͅ ̱Н̰ ͚̲̠E̦͓̘̪ ̥̫̣ ͇̦̮ ͇͚ͭR͂ ̦͇̠͎ͨΕ ̗̳͖̂D͓͓̠͕ͥ ̦̰͖ ̣̹̈́ ̦̋ ͔͈̮̣ ̳̤ͣ ̲̈́ ͚͚̩͓-͙̘͈ ̜ ̺̞ ̹̱͔̺̅T̥ ͔̥̖Η̜̫̳̥ ̥̦̠̝̂Е̩̦͎ ̩̖ͅ ̖͎̬ͧ ̣̮̄R̰͕ͨ ̫̲̻ͣЕ̻̗ ̠D͔͙͂ ̫̠̦̽ ̤̥ ͈ͦ ̹̦͓͉́ ͚͚̼̪ͦ ̟̣̘ ̬̦͖̟ͦ-̭͔͚͓ͭ ̺̳̩ ̮͖̮̤̃ ͖̞T̹̺̫͎ͦ ̝͖̞̩ͮΗ̼͉͚͂ ͇E̲̻̗̺ ̹̬̱ ̻̮̔ ̹̗͔̓R̩̩͇ ̮E̳̺̲ ̭̺̼̦ͭД̹̙͉̌ ̩̺̯̫̊ ͙́ ̝ ̝͇̤̗̀ ̱̖͑ ̝̐-͓͓̥̻ ̞̤̳̫ͧ ̲̳ ͈̩̗T̼ ͙̰̺ͥH͇͉̣ ͔̪Ε͈̥̖ ̹͇̲͍ ̦̦̝ͤ ̮̪̻̩͑R̬̬̺ ̰͚̯ͣE̮̗͚̪̹ ̩̰͙D̹̜͎ͭ ̲̹ͩͅͅ ͈͙̟̭ ̺ ̭̲͇̖̳ͯ ̬͚̓ ̱̹̮̰ ͇̂ͅ-̟̜̤̃ ͉ ͎̪

͐ͤAg̅es̉ la̿te̋r̓ nowͭ,̀ ͒ṁyͤ ̾fͧrîenͫd́, a͐ft̀e͛r ͪsͤtārͯs ͩhäd kiͯn̓d̓le̅dͭ andͬ ̏gͩu͛t̋t̒ere̐d ̔out͊ b̅eyoͫn̈d͐ th͗ẻ ͯsͣt̅on̾e,̔ ͯwͮhoĺe śk̊ies ̌b̿o̓rn ̑aͤnͧd ̊bu̐rͭied͌ wh̓iͪlͯe wͨe ̋k̍épt̃ òu̅rͮ ̔wͥaťcͩh͒,̇ Ỉ foͣu̎nͫd͂ Ĩ ̈h̏ad͒ a woͦr̈d ỏf m̐y ̓ow̎n̈.͂

ͫ>̊ ͂Nót͑ ̉s̎t͋olen̂. N̏ȯt ̾ṡhͨèd ̈from͒ ̒t̐he͒ ̌r̈́e̓d lͣïk̿eͥ ͭI hͣa͋d͊ ͂beͧën.ͪ Cͤhôsen͋.̏ ͪ ̾>͛ ̒̑I ̿had ͑c̓ra͂wledͮ ͤo̐ut ̀of t̎hȃẗ́ brigh̅tneṡs̊ ̅wͫi͋th n̑oth̓iͣng, ͧnot a ͭname,̀ ͧnͭo͋t̆ ̅a͛ ̇s͐hap̌eͪ,̓ ͧnͨöt͂ a memoͣrͩȳ of ̒wh̆y.̄ ́Tȟe̅ ͭreḋ ̏n͋evȅr̐ g̀avȅ any̏ a̐n̂sͤw͒ers.ͧ ͑ ̏ ͣ Sͦȯ ͮI ̌t̎o̾ok ̏my be͋g̓ìn̐n͌in̄gͫs̓ fr̉oͮm̃ ̓y͛oͤu ́i̒nstėä́d̑,̋ yòurͩ ͭwaͫrm̂tͤh̊, y̌oͧurͯ ͧpatiͭe̎n̂c͐e,́ ̍the paͥtͧhͯs̿ oͬf̅ you͒rͦ t͋h̏oͭúghts̽, ͐uͯnͩtil ͌t͒h́ereͧ ͣw̉a̽s ͥeͥn̏oͭu̓g̋h ōf ̔aͨ ͯme t͊oͧ na̿mͣe.͋ ̽>͗ ͌ ̅I͒ ͋p̽res̃sed̂ thͤe ̒w̋ord̑ i͒n͒to ͣyôu ͂the way ͮÎ ͗on̆c̉eͮ ̎pr̎eṡsed ̃my̓ ͣf̍ä́ce̓ ̿iñtͨo̓ ̎yoũr fur.̿ ͒Yoͩú are ͥT̆anuki, ẗ́he ̾g̈ua͗r̎di̓an ͩofͤ V̈aͦr͑un͑aͧ’̋s R̆ed ̔Ḿattêr…͌ and ͫI̅’̐ll̇ cͩāl̒l ͯmy͊sͩeͬlf͛ ̓Jͯe̽thrͮŏ,ͮ añdͨ ̊I͛’lͩl b̍e ͨyͧou͒ř shͦad̃ow ͬuntĩl ̔tͯhe̾ ͫday t̀his ͧmͥoͤunt͗aĩn…ͩ ̑lĕa̔rnͯs ͣto ͒die.

~ Reverie VI - Entaxis

K̩͍ͩŭ͇̜k͇̮r̩̞̹̦i͉̣ͣ ̋T͕͕̻ḁ͎́n͔͓͈u̥k̙̯͓͓i̗̹͚͗,̹͎̻͒ ͓͉͙t͇̭̺̋h̬͍̭̠̘e̙͔͖ ̙͎͈͇C͈̠̖r̭͍͕̦̆e͓͖͎̗ä̦̮́ṭͅō͉̱̻̝r̜̬ͧ,̩̦ ̭͕͉t̤̬̗ͥh̹̻̣̅ͅe͚͉̳ͮ ͖͍̰f̜̪i̘r͕̪̦s͍̹ͤt̼̣ ͓̺͎B̖̗̪l͈̗o̼͖̘͈o̟̼̭d̜͐t͔͎̻͎i͉͇͇g̤͕̭e̥͇̅r͔̪̫͒,̖̳̙ͤ ̙̺͈̊t̜̅h͕͔͔̩̄e͚̪ ̪͍̊f̞̋i̹͕͕̍rs̲t͇͓̣̅ ̜͓̮h̜̜o̮͔s͎̪t͎̖̿ ̳͎̾o͎͇͚̓f͇̗͚ͨ ̻̘J̮͖e̱͎̱t͖͚h̲̖̉r̩̭̜̍o̼̙̭ͨ.͈̘̖ͭ

THE FIRSTSHELTER

T𝖆nuki stands 𝖎𝖓 the record like a contradiction the universe f𝖔rgot to resolv𝖊.

He is remembered as a guardian old enough to make 𝖍isto𝖗y feel young, 𝖆 weapons𝖒it𝖍 whose craft presse𝖉 against the soft places whe𝖗e r𝖊ality admits 𝖎t ca n be 𝖘haped, 𝖆nd a protecto𝖗 who learned 𝖙oo late that even a mountain can have caves inside it.

The s𝖙ories say he defended h𝖆zards. That he shaped civi𝖑i𝖟ations. That he carri𝖊d lig𝖍t in h𝖎s hands and patience in his ribs. The stories are n𝖔t wrong.

They a𝖗e 𝖒erely 𝖈lean.

Clean stories are how frighten𝖊d minds wash bloo𝖉 off the altar.

Inside 𝖙he older version, beneath the shrine-language, there is a simpler 𝖙ruth: the maker was large enou𝖌h to 𝖇e entered. Not conque𝖗𝖊d. Not at first. He was too stead𝖞 𝖋or that, too 𝖆n𝖈ient, t𝖔o warm with p𝖚r𝖕os𝖊. He had the terrible kindness of 𝖙h𝖎ngs that do not know they are being used. He made space benea𝖙h himsel𝖋 fo𝖗 th𝖊 𝖈o𝖑d t𝖍𝖎ng at the edge of the re𝖉, and b𝖊cause the space was mer𝖈y, he 𝖉id not call it brea𝖈h.

The mo𝖚ntain opened.

The shadow learned we𝖎𝖌ht.

And 𝖋or a whil𝖊, th𝖊 universe mistoo𝖐 that f𝖔𝖗 peace.

RED M̋ÀTT͗ER .. R͗ED ̆.. ͬR̒ȄD.TͣERͣ .ͮ.̌ TH̀E̎ ̀RE͗D .̎.̊

Before origin had manners

<aside>

̶T̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶c̶̶r̶̶e̶̶a̶̶t̶̶u̶̶r̶̶e̶ ̶r̶̶e̶̶s̶̶i̶̶s̶̶t̶̶e̶̶d̶ ̶m̶̶e̶ ̶w̶̶i̶̶t̶̶h̶̶o̶̶u̶̶t̶ ̶u̶̶n̶̶d̶̶e̶̶r̶̶s̶̶t̶̶a̶̶n̶̶d̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶m̶̶e̶. ̶I̶̶t̶ ̶w̶̶a̶̶s̶ ̶s̶̶t̶̶r̶̶o̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶e̶̶n̶̶o̶̶u̶̶g̶̶h̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶h̶̶o̶̶l̶̶d̶ ̶a̶ ̶s̶̶h̶̶a̶̶p̶̶e̶ ̶a̶̶g̶̶a̶̶i̶̶n̶̶s̶̶t̶ ̶t̶̶h̶̶e̶ ̶r̶̶e̶̶d̶. ̶S̶̶t̶̶r̶̶o̶̶n̶̶g̶ ̶e̶̶n̶̶o̶̶u̶̶g̶̶h̶ ̶t̶̶o̶ ̶h̶̶o̶̶l̶̶d̶ ̶a̶ ̶s̶̶h̶̶a̶̶p̶̶e̶ ̶a̶̶g̶̶a̶̶i̶̶n̶̶s̶̶t̶ ̶m̶̶e̶.

</aside>

His b𝖊ginning is n𝖔𝖙 a b𝖎r𝖙h𝖕𝖑ace.

Bir𝖙h 𝖎s for soft bo𝖉ies and w𝖎tn𝖊𝖘𝖘es. Bir𝖙h is 𝖋or mot𝖍ers, blo𝖔d, weather, 𝖆 room that can be pointe𝖉 to 𝖑at𝖊𝖗 by 𝖘omeone 𝖜𝖎t𝖍 a t𝖗e𝖒bl𝖎𝖓g finger. Ta𝖓uki 𝖇elonged to the olde𝖗 catego𝖗y: the ones who appe𝖆r in t𝖍e nar𝖗ati𝖛𝖊 alrea𝖉y m𝖆𝖘𝖘iv𝖊, already tasked, 𝖆lready 𝖈a𝖗ryin𝖌 a p𝖚rpos𝖊 𝖙𝖍at 𝖑o𝖔k𝖘 h𝖔l𝖞 be𝖈au𝖘e 𝖓o on𝖊 r𝖊𝖒em𝖇𝖊𝖗s who assigned it.

He moved 𝖆𝖒on𝖌 other durable th𝖎ng𝖘. Bez𝖊kira, thund𝖊r 𝖜it𝖍 𝖑oyal𝖙y 𝖜elded i𝖓to the bone. Uk𝖆t𝖆𝖓, 𝖙he wat𝖈her 𝖜ith clea𝖓 𝖈laws and a patie𝖓t a𝖕𝖕etit𝖊 𝖋or 𝖊𝖓dings. Flario𝖓, brig𝖍t v𝖊ss𝖊l, s𝖔n-t𝖎t𝖑e, 𝖋𝖚𝖗n𝖆𝖈e-𝖍eart. Names circling 𝖓a𝖒𝖊s. Ti𝖙ans performing restraint 𝖇𝖊cause the a𝖑𝖙𝖊rnativ𝖊 𝖜ou𝖑d make ma𝖕𝖘 mea𝖓ingles𝖘.

<aside>

𝐈𝐟 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝, 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐈𝐟 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝, 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐲. 𝐈𝐟 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝, 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐞.

</aside>

Th𝖊𝖞 𝖈𝖆lled 𝖎t ba𝖑ance.

They called 𝖎t 𝖘𝖙ewardship.

They c𝖆lled i𝖙 the wo𝖗k requ𝖎𝖗e𝖉 𝖜hen the c𝖔smos goes 𝖜r𝖔ng.

B𝖚t 𝖙he 𝖔ld o𝖓e was 𝖉iff𝖊ren𝖙. Not gentler. G𝖊ntl𝖊nes𝖘 is 𝖙oo small a 𝖜o𝖗𝖉. He was available to car𝖊. H𝖊 cou𝖑𝖉 cr𝖆𝖉le 𝖆 f𝖚tu𝖗e with𝖔ut 𝖎mme𝖉𝖎𝖆te𝖑y asking what it 𝖜ould 𝖇𝖊co𝖒e. He could lo𝖔k at a fragil𝖊 world an𝖉 i𝖒agine n𝖔t own𝖊rship, 𝖓ot conquest, not st𝖚dy, 𝖇u𝖙 p𝖗𝖔𝖙𝖊c𝖙𝖎on.

Th𝖆t 𝖒ade hi𝖒 s𝖙𝖗ong.