Amakura Tomoe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
worthathousand) wrote2018-10-30 09:21 pm
worthathousand) wrote2018-10-30 09:21 pm
Entry tags:
( imeeji ) memory registry
| 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 | --- | --- |
cw: death, limited gore
Out beneath the high hill of your family’s home, the village is burning. Flames lap at the thatched roofs of the minka. They are flickering up the trunks of the cherry trees; a sea of pink blossoms withering, black petals drifting along the breeze with the grey ash. Even from here, you can see the faint outline of bodies moving through the smoke—and the way the flames and the early morning light glint off the helmets of the soldiers. You narrow your eyes, but the numbers are impossible to discern—though surely it would take at least a talon for the town to be overrun like this, and—
“—Mother!” You’re screaming for her before the thought fully forms in your mind.
Her workshop is in the village, mingled with the shops; she was so close to finishing that she’d been spending the every night there. (“It is not with skill alone that one forges an artifact, little lily. It takes devotion.” The voice echoes through the memory as you recall it.) And you are running now, too, before you can even finish the thought, kicking off your sandals behind you, sleeves of your youth’s furisode fluttering behind you in ripples of embroidered red and white silk.
The streets of the village are worse. (Worse than what? What do you even have to compare this to, except studies in books, military history; the province has been peaceful for so long…) The screams are louder here; you keep running. A sudden pain in your foot, and you look down to see a shattered ceramic vessel—and look up in time to see a soldier take her glaive and run through an older woman wearing the uniform of a local defender. The defender falls; in the street beyond you can see a small group of mixed youths, young men and women in furisodes, and the soldiers beginning to herd them away.
A moment too late, you realize the soft sound of shock came from your own lips, and that the glaive-bearing soldier is looking at you now. Approaching you now. You’re swearing with words your father told you never to use in the home; why did you stop running? You had better fix that—but now there is a hand grabbing your forearm from behind.
Without thinking, you slam your elbow up and backwards, and are rewarded with a satisfying wet crack of bone and the soldier’s scream of fury. There isn’t time to turn around to appreciate your success, though—you’re already running past her, around the corner. You’re so close, so close.
Your lungs are burning now—with the smoke, with the effort of running. But there: the little street, the clay-tiled roof of her smithy, the ash-streaked red banner with its camellia heraldry, the… bodies slumped at the doorway.
“Gods, no…” It is probably for the best that your voice is too hoarse now for the sound to travel far.
The first two dead are soldiers—women in silver and royal blue, faces frozen in shock and indignation, and your breath tightens in your chest, because it isn’t her, but it is so quiet here, and somehow you know without knowing—
Another dead soldier. His wounds are messier, less precise. It had been more of a struggle, this time.
The final paneled doorway—the one that leads to the forge itself; you find it broken, and the blood that streaks it is still vivid. Just past it—
The woman slumped against the black jade forge is beautiful, in a hard sort of way. Her clothing is simple and soot-stained, and her black hair with its single streak of white is pulled back into a practical bun, yet held in place with a fine comb of bronze and jade. Gripped in her hands is a longsword that gleams where it isn’t red with blood. And her belly is a mess of meat, spilling out over her legs.
—You were so close. How close you must have been, to being here before she died. Your hand goes to your mouth, biting the soft skin between your thumb and forefinger to stop yourself from screaming. Then your teeth draw blood, and you drop your hand and howl anyway. Not sadness, but rage.
Behind your mother, lying against the cold forge: there is the life’s work she must have fought and died to protect. So few could make artifacts, after all. It is a massive naginata, oversized blade shaped from white jade and carved with lilies, heavy wooden handle wrapped in red silk.
“Ako,” you say—second daughter. It was what your mother had called it.
You know it will be too heavy to lift. That is the nature of artifacts, and Ako is two hand spans taller than you besides.
You step up to the forge. You lift it anyway.
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Notes
no subject
Sliding the frame aside, you to look out into the courtyard. Not many of them this year—barely a full scale—but perhaps that's a good thing. Perhaps, at long last, Tsubaki Province can move away from war. More men than you'd expected, too—far less than half, but you count at least eight of them among the assembled.
One young man (he may look familiar to some here, though he looks much younger than in those memories) in particular stands out: taller by several inches than his comrades and, by the lanky look of him, still growing. His white gold hair seems ill-inclined to stay within its topknot; he slams his bō down with the completion of the drill, and a lock of hair slides loose to drape across his face. For a moment the young man next to him has to stifle a laugh, and he winks at him.
You smile to yourself, but you had better get out there before they entirely lose track of their discipline. Pushing aside the sliding door, you step out into the sunlight—and the recruits before you are instantly at alert. "It's really her," you can hear some of them whisper to each other. "She's so short?" one of them says, then gets elbowed for her trouble, and you hide your mouth with one hand so they don't see your amusement. The tall blond youth is simply silent with awe, his eyes widened with a combination of reverence and something like desire: not sexual, but rather ambition.
For the several hours, you drill them as hard as you are able: wind sprints and push-ups that lead to group combat drills—both supporting one another and practicing fighting outnumbered. You are pleasantly surprised to see that a fair few of them have potential, but the blond youth stands out as particularly excelling. He already knows how to use his reach to his advantage, has the strength and stamina to match, and the prospect of taking on an unfair number of foes seems to invigorate rather than cow him. But when it is his turn to lead a fang of fellow students in an exercise, you quickly note him getting frustrated, impatient. The young woman who should have been his second talks over him, coming up with a strategy when he had clearly been prepared to simply rush in and let the others follow his lead.
For their last challenge, you invite the whole scale of them to take you on, advising them to employ everything they've learned about coordination and supporting one another's strengths. (Their murmuring goes nervous and excited once more.) Then they come at you as a single force. There is just a flicker of a smile on your lips as you weave among them, bō whirling as you alternately vault around your weapon and whip it at the feet of your "enemies." Whenever a student misses, she is sent tumbling into her comrades. Eventually, all but three have been toppled into the paving stones: two women and the tall blond, assembling together into a well-ordered formation. You could easily take them on too, if you needed to, but instead you step back, and bow.
"Well done, all of you." You beam at them, genuinely pleased, though you have not even broken a sweat.
The afternoon's training concludes as the sun starts to purple on the horizon. By then, the recruits' faces are sweat-streaked but resolute, and they rub at their bruised limbs with pride: they know the chance to train with you comes but once a season.
You are preparing to leave as the recruits begin to clean up, change, and pack their training equipment, when you hear the sound of a young man clearing his throat behind you.
"Excuse me? Lady ▒▒▒▒▒?"
You turn around and are not entirely surprised to see the tall blond behind you. For all his bluster among his fellows, though, he looks nervous now, and can't quite keep his hands from fidgeting with the fabric of his haori.
"Yes?" You smile, trying to put him at ease.
He gives you a deep bow. "My name is Miura Hiroto. It- it has been my dream to live by your example, my lady."
"To retire, you mean?" It's a jest, though you keep your voice kind.
Hiroto's jaw only sets, though. "No, my lady. Though, I- I mean no disrespect! I mean, though... I would fight as you did, defending the province against all its enemies! Standing before soldiers who share that passion, and leading them with faith in ourselves and the gods." There is a blaze of passion in his dark eyes, now, and you cannot help but recognize it.
So you give him a respectful nod. "It is a noble dream, young lord, and you may well have the potential." His chest near-swells with pride. "But. For all the fame to my name, the honor I have earned in war is not truly my own. It comes from the soldiers who served around me. You are strong, but in war, you are only as strong as the weakest among your scale; only as valorous as the most frightened."
Hiroto's brows furrow with thought, but he stays respectfully silent. "The meaning of this is not that you must cull the weak from the fold like a shepherd, but rather that you must see that all among you have rich soil in which to grow. You know—like a rice farmer."
With a wink, you give him a parting bow. You can feel Hiroto's eyes still on you as you turn to leave once more.
-------------------------
Notes:
Dragon 1250 (2 Wings)
Wing 625 (5 Talons)
Talon 125 (5 Scales)
Scale 25 (5 Fangs)
Fang 5
no subject
Such tranquility. She used to love standing out here with you, feeling that old fierce pride in what you'd achieved; in how different it was from everything you had been and been asked to be.
You turn; there is your home behind you, just far enough to see the whole of it—large and tile-roofed, and though it is humble compared to your childhood home, its richness or lack of it has never been the point. The door is opening, now, with your children at the door, the edges of their bodies gently silhouetted by lamplight.
A sense of a kind of echo, to this memory, as the scene before you shifts: you see the children again and again through the years—your eldest as she grows tall and strong-armed and learns to tie back her sleek black hair in the same style you once wore; your second daughter's hair darkening to rich auburn; the scene with and without your third and fourth children—daughter and youngest son—rubbing sleep from their eyes.
"Mother—! Don't make us wait for you for breakfast!" Hanae calls; she's just old enough to start to tease you. She has a wooden spoon in one hand; the other rests on Fujiko's head while she clings to her older sister's yukata. Tall Miwa is beside them, and there, riding on her shoulders, dark hair already long and silky, with those wide gold eyes so like your own, is—
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Notes
no subject
You had thought she would never forget the humiliation; certainly it had seemed that your lands’ harvest had been valued at noticeably less since then. Whatever it is that has earned you this new invitation, it must be significant indeed.
The estate is as beautiful as you recalled with its pristine garden and red camellia banners fluttering gently in the breeze, but you can’t linger out of doors. And, now that the guards have recognized you—despite the fact that you’ve quite deliberately dressed in an understated kimono, rather than your armor, with your hair in widow's braids—they’re hurriedly bowing deeply before standing at attention and ushering you inside.
When you reach the reception hall, the more senior of the guards heralds your arrival:
“Presenting Lady ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▒▒▒▒▒, the Warrior Worth a Thousand.”
Five unfamiliar faces turn your direction, and it is instantly clear why High Lady Kaoru has lifted her unspoken ban: The visitors are arrayed in jade and steel-silk, armed with jade paired daiklaves or bows or chakrams; the marks of their breeding—hair in vivid shades of blue or white or green; eyes that burn like embers; skin that shimmers as if studded with mica—each more apparent than Kaoru’s unlikely exaltation by Pasiap would ever be. These are Dragon-Blooded Princes of the Earth—a full circle of Daana’d’s water, Mela’s air, Sextes Jylis’s wood, Hesiesh’s fire, Pasiap’s earth. Even more to the point, the House crests on their armor make clear that they are all Dynasts. Even a still-independent province like Tsubaki could hardly afford not to cooperate with the Realm when its scions came to call so directly.
You bow respectfully, but their expressions are skeptical; the fire aspect looks at you with barely-contained hostility. However, before they can give voice to their (assuredly many) doubts, Lady Kaoru’s clear voice rings through the hall, speaking slightly accented High Realm.
“The Warrior Worth a Thousand is a legend in this kingdom. Perhaps you have heard songs of her deeds in your travels here. If you are looking for one both knowledgeable of the land and fit to attend you in your hunt, she is the very best I can offer.”
Your shoulders stiffen slightly at the presumption. “My High Lady Kaoru knows that I have retired from the battlefield,” you say smoothly, switching to High Realm as well so the guests can understand your correction. You wouldn’t want to be impolite.
“Can your heretic chosen assist the Wyld Hunt or no?” the fire aspect says, his voice clipped. From his shaved head and simple steel-silk robes, you suspect him as a member of the Immaculate Order; little wonder he’d rather have nothing to do with you.
“Lady ▒▒▒▒▒.” Kaoru turns to face you, her youthful face the picture of serenity—except for the tension in her subtly narrowed eyes. “Perhaps you might reconsider, for the sake of your duty to the domain. After all, the Hunt has thus far tracked a Lunar Anathema to wilderness not far from the borders of Sange.”
You feel yourself blanch at bloody potential of that statement, but you keep your voice even—though you drop the performative formality. “You might have said as much far sooner. I will be prepared to assist by the coming dawn.”
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Notes
cw: violent death, reference to eye trauma
----
None of you should have truly been surprised that the Anathema had swapped to hunting you. The light of the full moon illuminates your camp when the air aspect shouts a warning—and then there is a bestial roar, and her voice cuts short with a choked cry.
You’re on your feet, Ako in hand, before your conscious mind fully registers the threat. Essence channels through you as you sing out a battlecry that fills your heart with vibrant purpose like a drumbeat—and you can feel it echoing through your companions in turn, each of you instantly fully alert and in tune with one another. Tepet Qīngjiàn will not have lost her life in vain.
Then the Anathema rips aside a tent, and there is no more time for preparation at all.
Perhaps he is already lost to the bloodthirsty madness that possesses him—standing some ten feet tall, wide jaws bloodied from where he has ripped out Qīngjiàn’s throat, an unnatural melding of plains cat and man with a solid circle of silver glowing on his brow: the emblem of the Frenzied. The Hunt is truly on.
----
[ What follows is a scene of brutal battle as Amaranth and the remaining Dragon-Blooded coordinate to take down their massive foe.
The feats of the battle strain—and then break—the margins of possibility: A massive clawed strike from the Anathema is parried with a delicate fan inlaid with black jade; arrows are fired in sequence faster than the eye can follow, then twist around branches to strike with unerring precision; the monk lands a blow with his paired daiklaves that does not cut but instead sends searing burns through the Anathema’s chakras, leaving it howling in pain and fury. As the Dragon-Blooded fight, the air around them begins to glow in the vibrant colors of their spent essence; the Lunar Anathema is haloed in silver.
Amaranth weaves among them all, naginata twirling in impossibly rapid flurries of attacks—at least when she isn’t vaulting around it to launch herself into strikes that land from above. Whenever she whirls past one of her allies, their next blow is sure to strike true. Her own essence begins to glow around her too: a vibrant red aura that becomes red camellia petals that spark from her footsteps.
At first, the wounds they strike on the Anathema close as quickly as they can inflict them, and every bestial blow threatens to crack the ground; it knocks aside the earth aspect’s tetsubo and opens up a row of massive gashes in his shoulder—deep enough to threaten the loss of his arm. But Amaranth’s essence shimmers in the air, and the Hunt moves together as one. Gradually, they are wearing the monster down.
By this point, all of them have pushed themselves to the limits of their abilities: the Dynasts are wreathed in swirling tempests of the elements themselves; the Anathema’s demon spirit rears above it in the silver shape of a dappled wildcat that holds the full moon in its teeth. And now, when Amaranth moves, she is followed by the icon of a massive serpentine dragon shedding petals of red which might be blood or camellias.
Weakened by his wounds, the earth aspect is sent flying by the Anathema’s next blow, leaving the fan-wielding water aspect dangerously open. Amaranth lets out a shout that seems to echo with the cries of an army, though, and the beast hesitates, seemingly held in place by sudden awe or fear. The pause is just long enough: the next moment, three leafy arrows sprout from the Anathema’s left eye, each piercing deeper than the last. ]
----
As the monster is defeated, its form recedes back to that of a man—barely more than a youth—with claws like a cat's, arrows still lodged in his eye. You sigh heavily, wipe the blood and sweat from your brow, and remind yourself that this was the better outcome by far than seeing innocent mortals devoured. The dead man’s crimson hair suggests that he hails from somewhere in the southern deserts: he has died so very far from home.
“I will see to it that the body is buried properly,” you say to the Dynasts still standing.
The monk eyes the corpse derisively. “Do as you wish.” Then he meets your eyes, expression a mix of steely pride and something that might be begrudging respect. “But do not forget, heretic prince of the earth: such is the fate of those who lose their will to demons.”
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Notes
no subject
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.
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:
no subject
[ It's her marriage to Nakajima Shiho. HER WIFE. ♡♡♡
Shiho is, like most people in Tsubaki Province, notably taller than her (5'10"), but she's clearly the femme in this relationship. Her hair is a deep mahogany brown, and her eyes are grey.
For the ceremony, Shiho wears a full-skirted wedding kimono in shades of Serenity blue and white; Amaranth wears a rich blue formal hakama adorned with ceremonial shoulder plates in place of a jacket. As part of the celebration, Shiho plays several pieces on the koto—it seems she is a gifted musician.
While this is clearly a wedding featuring at least one noble family, it is also clear that it is a slightly smaller, sparser affair than might be expected. Part of this is personal preference of the brides—but it is also a side-effect of the couple's finances: while Amaranth is nobility, Shiho is not.
Though Shiho's parents are present, Amaranth's are conspicuously absent: by this point, neither is still living.
The memory includes their wedding night; incidentally, Shiho is a trans woman. ]
cw: animal death
The beast towers higher than the tallest trees, trunklike legs shaking the ground, a full complement of archers upon its back, soldiers ready to descend on ropes to join the fray. A whole talon or more—more than enough to turn the tide in the enemy’s favor.
Around you, soldiers are starting to scatter in panic. From the high back of the yeddim, the archers from Viridian Province have an ideal vantage point, and a hail of green-fletched arrows arcs over the battlefield; the screams that follow tell you that too many have found their mark.
There’s a tightness in your chest—an ember of fury. Did the god give his life for this? So that it took two battles for his people to be slaughtered, instead of merely one?
No. No, it won’t end like this. You won’t allow it. You tighten your grip around Ako’s hilt, and let out a cry of defiance. As soon as it leaves your lips, it takes on a kind of resonance, and for a single moment, you feel the armies around you go still at the sound.
Then dozens of green-clad soldiers swarm you, and you feel yourself smile with the sharp certainty of a blade being drawn. You flare the Essence within you—on purpose, this time—and then you and Ako are moving as one. The soldier nearest you unsheathes his blade but your naginata is already at his shins, sending his feet out from under him—right before your next strike goes clean through the mail armor on his chest.
Where the god’s power guides your steps, it tangles those of your enemies. Every strike you weave around goes foul, connecting instead with one of the Viridian soldiers’ own allies. It doesn’t matter how many of these foot soldiers they send at you; the higher the odds that mount against you, the more the Essence sings within you—and the more swiftly your blade moves, cutting them down like so much jade green grass.
A strange joyous sensation in you: as if the battle is a song, and you its melody—the whole of it shaping around you, rather than the other way 'round. And you are part of it, down to your very Essence.
The ground shudders again as the yeddim nears, and the warsong within you feels so natural that it doesn’t even occur to you to hesitate. You cut down the last pair of soldiers in your way, then let momentum carry you as you leap towards one of the gilded ropes swinging from its sides; as you whirl Ako and jab the naginata’s blade like a spear into the beast’s flank. The staff becomes your next handhold as you heave yourself upward to the next rope, and to war platform on its back.
Your smile is serene as you duck smoothly under the archers’ bolts, which they loose at you in a panic. And then you are behind them, sweeping their legs out from beneath them and sending them tumbling to the earth below. Their commander provides more of a fight, but only barely. You block the strike from his curved shamshir before shoving him back with a force he clearly wasn’t expecting; he does not have time to react before you strike in a flurry of attacks—one blow for each of his archers you defeated. When he falls, only the yeddim itself remains.
—It is only an animal, but on the battlefield, even undirected, it is deadlier than a talon of soldiers, and there is little time before it runs rampant. Fortunately, you can make this quick: you back up enough on the platform to give yourself a running start—and then slam down the butt of Ako’s staff to vault yourself into an arcing leap. Ako is still so light in your hands, but its blade drives through the beast’s skull with the force of an army. All that is left is to jump neatly to the ground as the yeddim staggers and falls.
At last, you can stop to take a breath. And that is when you realize: the brilliant essence around you, the image of the dragon god a red glow around your shoulders that can surely be seen for a league—and the triumphant cheers of the soldiers of Tsubaki Province. For the first time since that devastating initial attack, you can see it in their eyes: genuine hope.
-------------
Notes:
no subject
As the sky turns from coral and lavender to gold, the enemy army appears around the bend of the river. Though their numbers are vast—and they have far more than just one war yeddim this time—they’ve been hemmed in by the water, forced to bring their troops across where the river splits into swift shallow streams.
Amaranth raises a hand, and her archers ready their aim—but do not fire. Then a song rings out in a high tenor (the voice is different, but melody may seem familiar). The notes seem to hang in the air… and then it happens: the water erupts in a shimmer of silvery blue scales, and then the dragon-like river god roars his challenge as the air around him glows with Essence.
The enemy soldiers scatter, and Amaranth lets loose a war cry of her own. It sounds almost musical, and her own Essence glows around her as the sound fills her troops with purpose. And they charge.
* * *
From this point, the memory becomes more of a montage, the battles blurring together. Always, Amaranth is at the front lines, anima banner flaring around her. It never seems to matter that the Tsubaki Province troops are perpetually outnumbered. Under their general’s leadership, their coordination is without compare; when her battlecry rings out, nothing can undermine their valor.
When they cheer for her, they call out “warrior worth a thousand!” and “white lily of war!” and “General Amakura ▒▒▒▒▒!” ]
no subject
If Shiho were here, she would set it to song, and the tale would be new and exciting every time—
Even so, you do your best: making silly claw-shapes with your hands to imitate a fearsome demon, or dropping your voice to a spooky whisper to imitate a hungry ghost. Of course, these aren’t just stories: the dangers of Calibration are all too real.
(Something about this scene may seem familiar.)
After the second story, though, Miwa rolls her eyes: at thirteen years old, she already wants to know “the real things,” as she solemnly puts it. So you swap to theology, and tell your daughters of the thin borders between realms during these five days of the year, and the world left vulnerable while all gods but Five Days Darkness have their yearly carnival. It’s all rather over your littlest one’s head, and his eyelids begin to flutter with oncoming sleep.
Fujiko, your second-youngest, tugs on Miwa’s sleeve, pointing out her sleepy little brother’s drooping head with a muffled giggle. Miwa grins, then, and hurries to the bedroom, returning with a doll that you recognize as a hand-me-down from Fujiko (and Hanae before her); the girls must have worked to freshen up the hair and miniature shrine maiden dress themselves. She presses the doll into her brother’s hands.
“Keep her close, okay? She’ll use her good luck charms to keep your safe from your bad luck birthday.” Miwa moves the doll to tickle him a bit—but you can tell that it’s not entirely meant as a joke.
You feel your brows furrow. “Don’t be so quick to judge his birthday, Miwa. It just means he was born an exception.” Your hands gently smooth your son’s dark hair. “—Born with no one to tell him what to be. Luckier, in that, than the rest of us.”
At least your son seems at peace with himself, even if his sisters tease. You send them to tidy up the remains of your too-scant meal (another thin year, but you’ll make it work, you’re sure), letting yourself cherish the feeling of him drifting to sleep in your arms.
-------------------------
Notes:
no subject
[ This memory, of her son's first ritual as the new sacred maiden, but experienced from her own perspective.
There is deep pride in letting him do this, but fear too, because of what it means to let him leave her home so young. So much rests on this. ]
no subject
[ The scene of an early battle—very shortly after she took the second breath as a Prince of the Earth: She arrives late, just one of many reinforcements, with the battle well underway.
They are badly outnumbered, already halfway to being routed. Now that she is here, though, they...
...still do not have enough power.
Her fellow soldiers see her only as an untested new recruit—but they do rally to her side when they feel her warcry ring through them. A scale of them gather around her, but one scale is not to stand against an enemy army, and there are too many injured.
In the end, the most she can do is lead a few hundred soldiers in a retreat. Many more survived than by all rights should have, but all she can think of that night is the cries of the injured and dying. There is a fierce determination in her, burning with the war god's protective fury. ]
no subject
[ A few weeks after Amaranth has given birth to ░░░░░ (Persephone), Shiho takes ill with fever—and within a few days is already bedridden. Her face, as she lies in bed, is gaunt, and there are subtle but unmistakable hints of age that are entirely absent from Amaranth's own still-youthful features.
A village physician stops by to offer help, free of charge, but it is soon apparent that this is too severe a disease to soothe with standard herbal poultices and prayer. Perhaps a Prince of the Earth studied in medicine might help... but the Realm regularly adopts (that is, takes away to be raised in their own noble households) any dragon blooded who exalt in the province. Domain Lord Okudaira Kaoru is the only one remaining, but she is a warrior, not a scholar. (For this, Amaranth might have been willing to swear service, had it truly been within Lord Kaoru's power to call for aid for the sake of one heretic exalt.)
Instead, all she can do is reassure her daughters, care for her fragile son, and spend the evenings at Shiho's bedside. She falls asleep curled beside her, clutching Shiho's thin hand in her callused one. ]
Notes
- Shiho is gentle and artistic, but as strong-willed as Amaranth, and clever at teasing her wife.
- Miwa, the oldest, is bold and resolute, already keen to follow in Amaranth's footsteps as a warrior.
- Hanae is level-headed and responsible; even at age 5, she's already takes pride in being able to help around the house.
- Fujiko is already spirited at 3 years old, but will slow down when offered the chance to make something with her hands.
mild nsfw: nudity, references to sex
Well. Perhaps you had been due to release some of your own tension too.
Still, it wouldn’t do to miss the scouts’ morning reports, so you begin re-fastening the ties of your clothing, still half-smiling to yourself at the memory of the celebration…
Perhaps that’s why you don’t hear the polite cough from outside the tent. Or the slightly more insistent cough after that.
“Oh, this is ridiculous.” The voice is muffled.
All at once, daylight floods the tent as one of the flaps is brusquely shoved back, illuminating your two still-sleeping companions along with you, one breast still loose from its bindings. Silhouetted in the opening is a tall woman with some sort of case strapped over her shoulder. Her eyes have gone slightly wide.
You feel your cheeks flush as you yank the flap closed again with a curse that comes out a bit louder than you intended.
“Mela’s tits!” Tits, indeed.
It only takes a few minutes for you to finish getting dressed properly, and another two for you to strap on the fine armor that Lord Okudaira Noriko had commissioned for you (it’s a bit overkill, but you feel the need to compensate). Your cheeks stay hot the whole time.
Eventually, you find the woman sitting at the fire with your Scale Lords, her case—which you recognize as meant for carrying a koto—placed across her lap. She meets your eyes, and her lips curl at the edges in catlike amusement.
You have faced down hundreds of armored soldiers with nothing but your naginata, but no, this is absolutely how you die, isn’t it.
The moment passes (you lived, somehow), and the woman at last introduces herself. Her name is Nakajima Shiho, and she has been serving as a traveling messenger and bard ever since she lost her parents in the war; now, she has traveled to offer her services to the White Lily of Battle and her army—both as a chronicler, and as a potential diplomat. For, she says, a bard may travel freely where others may not. Apparently she had arrived in the pre-dawn hours, when it was said you preferred to wake. No wonder she had gotten so impatient.
“My lady—“ you begin, but she corrects you.
“I am no noblewoman.” She still has that faint, catlike smile, and you feel yourself blush again.
“Ah… Nakajima, then. I… ah… I cannot neglect my own duty so gravely as to allow a civilian to put herself at risk like a soldier. Indeed, it was with such purpose—ah, that is, the protection of civilians—that I first took up my blade.”
“Please, General Amakura, give me a chance to prove to you how invaluable my skills can be. You have long been the sharp edge of battle; if you but allow it, I will show you the disarming power of song.” A beat, and then she looks you straight in the eye. “Besides, haven’t I shown I’m skilled enough to surprise the great General herself?”
Oh, you are so doomed.
no subject
Amaranth and Shiho discuss plans for the future. At Shiho's gentle urging, Amaranth begins to admit that the war is wearing on her; even all her victories are not without their costs. And there is something else, too: a death she wasn't able to stop. But it doesn't have to be like that.
It's just the whispers of two women—both barely out of their teens—in love, and at the time it feels almost like a hopeful game of pretend. But what if a farm? Together? What if... a family? ]