Author's Note: Just a little bit of Kanji. Everyone loves Kanji, right? ;D I own nothing, yadda yadda...

Believe

The local kids loved Kanji Tatsumi.

Amongst the waist-high society of Inaba's little inhabitants, his was a name spoken with reverence. He was a prominent figure in schoolyard circles, and kids stopped to wave or gawp or pay respects when they met him on the street, or else dragged their parents into the shop to ogle the shelf that was devoted to stuffed animals and plush dolls, each one its own unique creation. Any excuse to strike up a conversation with Old Tatsumi-san, though usually in those instances there wasn't much conversation to be had.

They always called him Old Tatsumi-san among themselves, even though he was just heading into his thirties – seasoned enough to be deeply respected and young enough to still be relatable. Perhaps it had something to do with the way he looked – pierced, tattooed, scarred and surly (though he smiled genuinely and often when they sat rapt before him). He usually wore a hakama when the shop was open, and he still bleached his hair (not many in Inaba could vividly recall a time when he hadn't). It was grown out some now, though his hairline was receding noticeably. He wore it tied back, multiple earrings flashing silver.

To the older inhabitants this hero-worship was something of a curiosity. Tatsumi was, well, eccentric. It made them uneasy from time to time, but the name had been respected in Inaba as long as anybody could remember, and his wares were beautiful and skillfully made. In the end they never really thought much of it. Kids were kids and as far as they were concerned their fascinations were beyond comprehension.

If you were to wander through the shopping district during the summer months, and if the weather wasn't too muggy, you might occasionally see two or three kids plonked down outside the old textile shop beneath the awning, and sitting before them in a battered wicker chair you'd find the man himself, smoking or knitting (but never both, because once the smell set in there was no getting it out) as he regaled the little ones with the old stories in his gruff way - Yamato Takeru and Amaterasu and Susano-O and all the rest. They must have heard them a dozen times from a dozen people, but they liked best to hear them from Old Tatsumi-san, especially because he always left in the gory parts and he wasn't afraid to cuss in front the older kids now and again.

The adorable and sometimes truly beautiful things that came to be by his sure hands as he spoke were so novel to the children, sometimes only in the sheer perplexation of it all. They loved watching him work as they listened and they delighted in the contrast; knitting needles clicking out rows of stitches that were slowly forming something pink and cutesy as he recounted bloody battles and viscous horrors and the affairs of gods. They were fascinated by the fact that things so lovely could be brought about by a man so scary in countenance, and they were as much attracted to this strange gentleness as they were to the sense of raw power he emanated.

When it was Tatsumi-san telling the stories, looking like he was practically born in his traditional garb, it was just too easy for them to feel like he was somehow part of those ancient legends – some leftover samurai walking timelessly, noble and battle-scarred – and there was something in the way he spoke, like the stories actually meant something to him. In Old Tatsumi-san's voice they became more than distant fancies gathering dust with the steady passage of time; so much more than curiosities of history and culture. He made them seem real, as if he had been there, living and witnessing them his own self.

They were eager to believe.