( imeeji ) memory registry

[worthathousand]

	DATE	LINK
亜子 Ako	day 75	you lift it anyway
Hero Worshipped	day 111	it has been my dream to live by your example
Alone in the Fields	day 111	the rice stalks sway
The Wyld Hunt pt. 1	day 127	your heretic chosen
The Wyld Hunt, pt. 2	day 127	the fate of those who lose their will to demons
Joined with Shiho	day 199	kimono in Serenity blue
A Fight for Father	day 201	once there was a maiden
The War Yeddim	day 201	the battle is a song
General Ascendant	day 201	white lily of war
Calibration Stories	day 201	born an exception
Shrine Maiden	day 260	you are my child of peace
First Battle	day 260	cries of the injured and dying
Shiho's Illness	day 260	a season of cold and fever
Meet-Cute	day 451	Tits, indeed.
Imagining a Future	day 456	"What do you want to do, after?"
TBD	---	---
TBD	---	---

full registry on trello

Comments

[worthathousand]

"Well I heard that your mother's so common she wasn't even 'sposed to be allowed to marry your father." Your classmate is already a head taller than you, and she leans on her practice staff casually, like this is nothing—like she doesn't even need to try to insult you.

You are seven years old. Even the child-sized practice staff is nearly too big for your small hands, but your grip tightens on it as you glare at her.

"Thas' why your father didn't even change his family name. My father says it's why no one likes the Amakuras, because your father wasted—"

You drop the staff and punch her.

She screams like a boy and clutches her nose.
You're pretty sure you've proved your point.
...And also you are in so much trouble.

The masters at the school send you home early, making a great show of disappointment. When you overhear one whisper that it's the inevitable result of disregarding noble breeding, your victory doesn't taste so sweet anymore. You make yourself wait until they're all gone before you go inside (it's maybe a little smaller than other noble homes, but that's fine) and let yourself cry. It's how your father finds you: curled up in a corner of the tea room that's supposed to be just for honored guests. (It isn't as though it sees much use, anyway, you think sullenly.)

"Little lily."

His voice is as soft as the silk sleeve of his robe, which brushes against your cheek as he leans over to gently pet your hair.

"Snnffar. I aytmm 'll so mmch." Your own voice is muffled by the fact that you haven't uncurled, face still pressed into your arms.

"You got into another fight, didn't you? It's alright—I'm not angry."

You let him pull you into his arms, and he holds your hand while you walk together to the courtyard. It's hard not to be a little bit in awe of him, really: the easy grace with which he almost glides down the halls, despite the many layers of his embroidered robes; his delicate, still-youthful features. (In fact, he has a strong, though not complete, resemblance to the dark-haired versions of two familiar people. However, unlike Persephone, Lucifel, and Amaranth, rather than being petite and delicate, his build is tall and willowy.)

"I was thinking I might work out here today." He sits down on the stone bench beneath a blooming cherry tree in a single fluid motion, then pats the seat beside him.

Skeptical that you're being condescended to (you're seven years old, not a baby!), but not wanting to pass on this opportunity to spend time with him, you pull yourself up onto the bench, and watch wide-eyed as he removes a roll of silk from the folds of his robes, and prepares to continue with his embroidery. The design is beautiful already: lush branches blooming with the province's signature red camellias, interspersed with songbirds so alive with color that they seem to flit between the leaves.

As he works, he sings an old poem set to music. It is easy, even at your young age, to understand why your father's soft tenor is almost as famous throughout the province as his beautiful face.

"Once, there was a maiden...
...whom many men wanted for their own.
She stepped as softly as starlight.
She shone with glory.
And one by one, they came to claim her.
She fled by the quickest route she found.
'Why do you run?' the storm clouds said.
She said, 'I cannot help who drives me.'"

He repeats the words in clever variations until your tears dry, and at last you fall asleep with your head in his lap. As you're fading off, he sets the embroidery aside to stroke your hair once more. You're not sure if what he says, then, is something you dreamed or not, but you think you hear him faintly:

"Brave little lily, you don't need to defend your father. He knows exactly what he is choosing."

-------------

Notes:

• As in earlier memories, the architecture most closely resembles that of Sengoku-period Japan. However, there are occasional fanciful or anachronistic differences that suggest it isn't exactly that place or time.
• It's pretty apparent that people in this area (1) are quite tall on average, and (2) have approximately swapped gender roles from what people on Earth would expect.