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When worn long enough, shackles become anchors.
A human girl gives Haku something no one else could: she sets him free. The ties that bound him in their iron grip are shattered, pulverized to nothing. He's without master, for he is master-- writer of his destiny, sailor of his ship, forger of his fate.
But what's freedom without a place to return to?
After Chihiro's gone, it's a welcome change of pace to wander without aim, to walk without stopping, to rest without waking. Yet it doesn't take long for the high to wear off. It reminds Haku of those potent cigarettes he stole from Yubaaba sometimes. The relief they brought was only temporary, soon replaced with dread that'd burn through him for days. This freedom itself-- without destination or purpose-- isn't too different. It becomes a weight on his shoulders, heavier every day, until he can bear it no longer.
Prison and home are the same. And a home remains a home, however unwanted it may be. When the door flies open and the world waits with eager arms, home is home, still.
Almost as if the ghost of his binds still lingers, Haku's feet carry him toward the imposing, unmoving red-brick building he's been tied to for centuries. He doesn't delude himself, he doesn't recall fond memories that were never born, or joyous smiles that were never formed. Still, he came back of his own volition. He isn't sure what to call this place, what it is to him now, but it's not a prison anymore.
"You're back, eh?" Kamajii doesn't sound particularly surprised. His face is not an open book. His mustache quivers, and Haku can only assume it's with amusement. "And so soon, too."
"It's not for Yubaaba," Haku declares, perhaps with more defiance than called for. That's how it is, when you're free but have been the opposite. You become fierce without need, defensive without threat. At least, he has a choice now-- "I'll work for you."
"I don't have money to offer."
"Food and shelter will be enough."
"Oh?" Kamajii's six arms are casually splayed across the edges of his seat. He's silent for a long time, and behind those dark glasses are eyes Haku has never seen, studying him intently. Haku studies him right back. "Fine."
Maybe it should scare Haku, how quickly, easily he's once again tied to this place. Maybe he should run far, far away. He shouldn't trust the boilerman, and he doesn't, because freedom is too priceless a thing to leave unguarded.
But he doesn't run, either.
Kamajii works him to the bone, like Yubaaba did. But when he yells, it isn't venom that laces his words, but fleeting traces of annoyance which hold no real weight. And when his clawed fingers reach out, it isn't to punish Haku for a job not done, to mar him with scratches and welts-- but to pat him on the head.
From moonrise to moonset, Haku's covered in black. Coal stains his hands, his feet, his clothes. Coal casts dark shadows on his face when he rubs the sweat off his skin. But he's no longer a puppet, a blank slate to be filled. He has memories now, and things that bind him to not one world but two. There's no space for thoughts that aren't his own or acts he never wanted to be part of. The coal washes off with herbs and water, not having touched his soul at all.
When he was in Yubaaba's thrall, he longed to be free. Now that he has freedom, he stays.
If Kamajii's work isn't enough to consume Haku's time, there's plenty more to do. He operates the ferry from the bridge to the bath-house; he delivers food, freshly made and wrapped in leaves, from the shops lining the market road to spirits across the realm; he dives into the depths of the oldest of rivers to find the finest of pearls, which he trades for things he does need. Combs, sandals, cloth to sew himself new robes when his own are too marred with coal and grime to remain white, thread and needle to sew those, food when Kamajii doesn't have enough to feed even himself.
He was once a River God, yet he never considered himself to be divine. He was there to serve, to guard his river's residents. Fish, crabs, frogs, eel. He kept note of each one, of their whereabouts and conditions, while they swam and ate and died, always, always oblivious to him. They were more God and he was more devotee. It never mattered to him, for that was the way things were supposed to be.
When you lose your river, you don't cease to be dutiful. There's always something to devote yourself to, something to fill the empty spaces left behind. His work at the boiler room may not be sacred, and lives may not be at stake. Still, work is work. Kamajii often comments on how diligent Haku is.
But come morning, with the rising sun, he abandons everything else. This is his time to practice spells.
No longer are they the kind to aid questionable actions, the ones which helped him steal, deceive, harm. These are something entirely different. Spells to become stronger, more capable. Spells to shift across time and dimensions, without turning to fragments. To withstand the corrosive winds that flow through the treacherous paths between the two worlds.
He knows Zeniiba hasn't entirely forgiven him for stealing from her. Witches don't let go so easily. But in this endeavour of his, she gives him more guidance than he could ever ask for. He suspects it's because Chihiro's involved. He doesn't tell her that he's grateful either way.
When he can, he goes near the tunnel, sits somewhere he can see it clearly from.
He often catches himself hoping Chihiro would emerge from the other side. At times, when his vision's all hazy and grey from exhaustion, he thinks he truly saw her rushing toward him, and she's such a clear, bright sight, waving her arms, ponytail swishing behind her, that he has a hard time accepting his eyes are lying.
Patience, Zeniiba always reminds him. There's a lot to learn before you can go.
Haku wanders the same paths every day. He eats the same food, wears the same clothes, goes to the same lake for his daily bath. Time passes and months turn to years. He grows taller, until he towers over even Rin, to her loud, clear annoyance. His hair grows long until, again, it's longer than Rin's. It gets in the way when he's working, and sheds everywhere. He starts securing it with the hair tie Chihiro left behind.
When he sees his reflection in a pond, he wonders if Chihiro would like him, like this. Whether she'd even recognize him.
And how she must've changed, too, like humans often do. Perhaps her hair's much longer now, like his own. Or did she cut it short?
Maybe she still wears brightly-coloured shoes.
He only hopes her eyes haven't lost that warm spark.
He perfects dishes of his era, and learns new ones from her time, with foreign ingredients and strange methods. He can't expect her to eat onigiri every day, after all.
The market hasn't changed since Chihiro left. Back then, there was no peace or pause as they'd rushed through it. Now, he has the chance to look around and take everything in. He walks by the shops and lets himself imagine-- If Chihiro were here, he'd point out the best eateries to her. He'd sit by and watch as she hungrily, happily stuffed her face with food.
If she wanted, he'd take her to places selling things of beauty she could adorn herself with. Finely-woven kimonos. Jewellery. Objects for her hair.
He doesn't know what kind she'd like, for they never talked about things like that. Something tells him sunflowers would suit her. He could buy her a hairclip with sunflowers painted on. Or would she prefer a hairpin, have her tastes changed with time?
That doesn't matter. When he finds her, they'll have an eternity to talk. There'll be no rush to cross worlds or part ways. Time will stretch on and on ahead of them, like the street he's walking on, and he'll learn her deeply.
And he will look at her: Really look at her, and memorize every inch of her face, every freckle, every transient pimple, the parts of her skin which'll fold into lines when she smiles.
But that is still a faraway dream, and dreams fade into nothing the moment your eyes open.
He observes the ferry, secured to a pole by the bridge. An assortment of spirits has begun boarding it. Soon he'll start with another night of work. He'll get up and transport the ferry to the bath-house. He'll stand by the entrance and wait for the spirits to disembark, bowing politely, because that sometimes earns him extra money.
They'll be as tired as he is. Unlike them, he'll never set foot inside.
A vulture flies overhead. Haku stares, sitting straighter, realising it's heading for him, circling him until it's a touch away. It drops a piece of rough, yellowy paper from its beak, which gently flutters onto his lap. With a shrill, raspy hiss, it flies away.
Inside are words inked in deep burgundy, not yet dry, because they smear onto his fingers as he unfolds the paper. It's Zeniiba's handwriting:
Still need to be sure, but I may have found a hidden path to her world. It's shorter. Not as perilous as the rest.
With night approaching, the air has grown dry and cool. A gust of wind brushes past, as if trying to pry the note from Haku's hands. He gingerly folds it, clutching it tight, as if the words inside would cease to be true if he lost it. He looks toward the tunnel. Dark and endless, like always. However long he stares, no one appears.
Nevertheless, there's a warmth creeping onto his skin. He feels light, like he's a leaf in the sky, carried by the gentle breeze over mountains and across seas.
A name sits on the tip of his tongue. A human name, which he keeps closer to himself than his own. He wants to laugh and cry, but he does neither. He holds the note close to his swift-beating heart.
Soon.