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sabraeal · 4 years

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All That Remains, Chapter 5: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure [Part 2]

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Written for @claudeng80‘s birthday, and only....a few weeks late! Had this thing not become a BEAST it would have arrived on time but...who doesn’t want a 9K birthday gift?

Perhaps it is lies that make men human.

Ah, you shake your head-- surely not, for man is more than vice, more than our venal sins--

But it is stories that bind us, is it not? Tales that start as words between friends, that then are pulled as taffy in the teeth of those that tell them, that become exaggerated, distended in their telling.

If at the kernel of every story is a truth, then it is one that is surrounded by lies.

Or perhaps that is only what liars tell themselves when they must live with what they’ve done.

Why would you leave Wistal for Lilias?

It was the first question any of them asked-- unless her reputation had preceded her, and then the conversation would shift sharply to Garack and her apprenticeship, to whether all the rumors they had heard about Wistal’s Head Pharmacist were true.

(They had only been disappointed when she didn’t know; she’d hardly been there a year, and though she’d studied closely under her, Garack hadn’t seen fit set aside a lesson to rifle through the rumor mill’s latest)

It’s cold here, Suzu had reminded her that first trip, as if she could forget with how both her heaviest cloak and double stockings that still could not keep out the chill. At least then she’d had a mission she could speak of, an excuse she could throw up a shield against more unwanted questions. After all, all of them abhorred missing data.

It had been harder the second time, when the whole of this golden opportunity had seemed stained with Izana’s touch, had seemed tainted by his test. She’d been lucky those first few days; they’d been less interested in her answer, and more interested in issuing their dire warnings. It gets colder than this, Kazaha had told her, puffed up with his own importance, colder than you’ve ever known.

Then Obi had arrived, coming in with the snow, as he’d told everyone that would listen, and well-- as interesting as Garack Gazalt’s red head assistant was, her mysterious attendant was even more so. At least, for a while, and then they were just another part of Lilias, another pair of heads over a sea of furs.

Still, you must miss it, Yuzuri would say, wistful, it’s so warm there.

I miss the mornings, she had said once, tucked between her and Ryuu at the commissary. Birds would sing me awake.

Too early, Obi had scoffed, wrinkling his nose. They see the sun and go crazy.

Just early enough. The corner of her mouth curved as she met his grin. You just get to bed too late.

Talk to my mistress about that. It’s too much to look at him sometimes when he teases like that, when he pretends it isn’t her that he’s talking about. She’s the one who likes to burn candles at both ends.

Stories are apt to praise the little girls who walk them as kind, as obedient, perhaps even clever should they outwit a sufficiently evil witch or an especially corrupt king. But this little girl-- kind as she was, clever as she was-- was dogged, was stubborn.

Ah, how rare such a thing is, at least in stories. It is a detail to be left out in the telling, to be lost to the years, to be replaced with a kindly figure that gives her wisdom, but now--

Now the tale is fresh, heavy with the truth, and you may know: even with assurances from the adults around her, the little girl did not take the boy’s disappearance lying down, oh no.

She would not suffer losing her home.

Even though it is the birds that wake her, it does nothing for the bleak knot in her belly, only grown tighter as she’s slept. Or rather, as she didn’t; her mattress may be feathers and her sheets may be silk, but neither were any help as she lay there, finding faces in her canopy.

Still, the morning will not wait, not even for a princess. Her hours are full, from sunrise to moonrise, and on most nights, beyond. If she means to keep pace with her promises, she has to start early.

A woman of proper standing would have a maid to dress her-- no, a woman meant to be Zen’s wife would have a team of them to do her entire toilette, but Shirayuki has only herself. A pharmacist’s purse was nothing to sneeze at, but it didn’t pay the way an estate would, and even if she could afford the expense--

Well, Kiki dressed herself. There was no reason she couldn’t either, not when she was already in the practice of it.

“I’m not wearing court dress,” Kiki reminds her, mouth canted kindly, when she sees the state of her morning gown, hook and eyes flapping open like a wound down her back. “They aren’t meant to be put on alone.”

“That’s what Haruka said, too,” Shirayuki murmurs, hands braced on her vanity.

In the mirror, Kiki’s brows raise. “You had Marquis Haruka talk to you about your toilette?”

“Against his will,” she assures her, breathless, before she realizes what that sounds like. “I mean, not that I-- he was berating me--”

Kiki holds up a hand, lips quivering. “I can picture the scene.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks heat, glowing pink in the glass. “Of course.”

“I’m nearly done.” Her fingers are nearly as deft as Obi’s, making quick work of the horde of hooks. “Since I’m back here, is there something I could put in your hair?”

“Oh! If you don’t mind.” Shirayuki reaches out to where she keeps her clips, flipping open the chest, and--

And they lay next to each other, stark against the pale velvet: her hairpins. The ones Obi had given her. Her hand shakes as she brushes against the carved flowers of one, against the smooth tassel of the other. She has a box of combs as well, bought on her travels under Obi’s urging, and--

“Is there any news?” She wishes she could sound brighter, less worried, but--

You don’t know anything about me, Miss.

--but despite all Zen’s assurances, this knot in her gut only sinks further, heavier with each passing hour.

Kiki hisses, fingers slipping on a clasp. “No,” she says finally, hooking it with a violent jerk. “Not yet.”

Her heart clenches, ribs squeezing as tight as any corset. “Ah.”

Kiki lifts her gaze, meeting hers in the mirror. “Don’t worry, it’s only been a night.”

“Oh, right.” Still, the tightness in her chest doesn’t ease, doesn’t let her breathe easier. “They probably need-- time. To search.”

“Yes.” Kiki’s gaze drops, fixing to the last clasp. “Exactly. Did you find what you wanted?”

Shirayuki stares at the hairpins, the best she has--

Shouldn’t Master be helping you with this, Miss?

And closes the box.

She turns to Kiki, smile bright, tight. “Why don’t you just pick out one of my combs? Any will do, I think.”

It is not that the girl was not trusting-- for all girls in these stories must be trusting to a fault, must first fall for the lies meant to keep them safe-- but it was only that unlike other before her, she trusted herself as well.

The boy was her home, a part of her. Just as she might step through the door and know that there was still an ember smoldering in the hearth, she knew that something was wrong with the waiting, with the way those around her would say, he will come back on his own, he only needs time.

One does not need to see smoke to know a fire burns. And the girl did not need to prod wounds to know her boy was hurting.

Kiki cannot come to her every morning, she knows-- if Shirayuki were a princess in more than aspiration, she might be able to merit a countess as a guard, but as little more than a pharmacist living off the goodwill of the crown, she knows the assignment has caused tongues to wag, and not just below stairs.

Good, Obi would say, about time all those fancy nobles started guessing what you’re worth, Miss.

That would bring a smile, usually; as uncomfortable as this sort of attention was, Obi always made it sound exciting, as if each drawn eye was an accomplishment. As if every turned head was a coup.

But he’s not here now. And who lays beyond her door--

“Mitsuhide!” she gasps, glad she chose a gown she could close herself. “Are you with me today?”

“For a while, at least.” He smiles, stepping closer to loom pleasantly over her. “You’re looking well today.”

--Often sees only what he wants to see. Or, maybe, speaks only what she wants to hear.

“Do you think so?” she ventures, searching his face. Sleep has not come easy these past few nights, and though she knows she must, at some point, lose consciousness in order to wake, she remembers none of it. No moment where she dozes off, no burst of restfulness when she opens her eyes, no dreams.

Though perhaps that last is a mercy.

“Of course!” His smile is earnest, crinkling the corner of his eyes. “You’re practically glowing.”

Her smile is tremulous, but she manages to hold it, even if just for a moment. It’s enough to please Mitsuhide, which is what matters. “Thank you.”

He turns, offering his arm, and she nearly takes it, hand hovering over the dark cloth--

Dark cloth that isn’t wool, oh no, but lighter stuff. Cotton, perhaps, or a stiff linen. Summer fabrics. Obi had been wearing them weeks ago, and Haruka chided him for being too early, that the palace guard wouldn’t change over until the equinox--

“Is there any word?” The words stumble off her tongue on wobbling legs.

Mitsuhide blinks, eyes wide and brown and guileless. “Come again?”

“About Obi,” she presses. “Have they found anything yet?”

“They?” he murmurs, brow furrowing, but a moment later-- “Ah, you mean-- ah--?”

“The men Zen sent out to look for him.” She lays her hand on his arm, fingers clenching in the cloth-- cotton, she was right. “They must have news.”

“Oh, ah...” He clears his throat. “No. I haven’t heard anything.”

His hand engulfs hers, and oh, she hadn’t realized she had been gripping him so hard. Her fingers ease, smoothing the wrinkles they left.

“Shirayuki,” he rumbles, “I know you’re worried.”

Her throat is too tight to manage anything more than a squeak.

“Zen will take care of it,” he tells her, no doubt dogging his voice. “And I’m sure that-- that--” his gaze slips off her, fixing across the hall-- “I’m sure Obi will be back any day now.”

Ribs squeeze tight, her breath trapped in her lungs, and oh, how she wishes she could believe that, how she wishes he would just drop down onto her balcony like he never left, but--

You don’t know anything about me, Miss.

She can’t.

“After all, it’s hardly been a week,” he continues, confidence limping.

A week. Shirayuki’s mind whirls, starts counting the days, but she stops herself. She knows well enough how long it’s been; there’s no need to do the unkindest arithmetic and find the difference between that and when they’d told her.

“Right,” she says instead, plastering on a smile she does not feel. “Any day now.”

The girl is dogged, is determined, but in the end-- she is just a little girl.

Have you seen him, she would ask, did you see him when he left?

The townsfolk would only look at her with pitying eyes, would only shake their heads. He is gone, girl.

Then I will find him, she would say, and the townsfolk would sigh, would grimace, would tell her, it is time to accept it.

It is not any man that she knows the next morning.

He’s young, dark haired with an oval face, the same as so many guards at Wistal. She knew nearly every man on Lilias’s walls from walk alone, from veteran Jirou-- always a sergeant and never a commander, just the way he likes it-- to fresh-faced Hiro, only recently given his pike and hat. But here-- well, Obi had not been so involved with the guard in Wistal, save to avoid them.

No name comes to her. With the spray of freckles over his nose and the roundness still in his cheeks, he could not have been more than a recruit when she headed north, probably assigned to one of the lesser-used gates or sent to guard doors.

“My lady!” he gasps, bowing his head. “I’m to be your escort.”

Her smile stiffens, pulling tight like pressed paper. Perhaps she had been too generous with his age-- he was more likely one of the lanky boys hanging off the gate, rather than one of the young men guarding it.

“Oh,” she manages, poorly burying her disappointment. “T-thank you.”

Who does he work for? Her hand tightens on the door, the faint lilt of of Obi’s voice drawing her short. He had always been so much better at this game that her, plucking out which overtures were insult or ingratiation. Without him in her ear, she’s playing this game half-blind, never calculating the angles soon enough for safety.

Still, he is a young guard, surely too new to be in anyone’s pocket, and Izana was always so careful with the men that surrounded the royal family--

“Just for the morning!” he assures her. “As a favor to Lady Kiki. She’s busy this morning, my lady.”

That answers that question handily. “Oh. Well. I suppose...that’s fine.” She pulls the door closed behind her. “Do you know Kiki personally?”

“Hardly,” he tells her with a humble flush, falling into step just behind her. “My father is a tenant of Seiran. I didn’t even know she knew my name.”

Shirayuki’s smile settles easier on her face. “But you knew hers.”

“Everyone knows Lady Kiki,” he says, hushed and reverent, and oh, does Shirayuki recognize that breathlessness, that wonder. Even now it would catch in her chest when the light captured Kiki in just the right moment, like one of those paintings where ancient goddesses emerged from the sea or decapitated faithless kings. “She’s magnificent.”

She hums, smothering a smile. “Have you been in Wistal long?”

“The last three seasons,” he says, as if Wistal has anything other than this eternal summer and a slightly more mild winter. “They say I’m almost ready for the Poet’s Gate, if I want a little more bustle in my day.”

The Poet’s Gate. There’s a pleasant ache as she remembers those early days, as she remembers the two guards who would open it for her if she only asked-- Kai and Shiira, a bare recruit and a man hardly a handful of years his senior, both always greeting her with a smile. She hadn’t seen them since she’d returned; Obi had laughed when she’d mentioned it, worried, that first week.

They’re both veterans now, he’d told her, smile fondly curving a corner of his mouth. They won’t waste them on gate duty. Probably have plum assignments in the court, by now.

She means to ask about them, about whether he has heard where life and duty have taken the men who were kind to her before she earned her place, but instead--

“Have you heard anything about Obi?”

Heat floods her cheeks, but that is a familiar betrayal. That her mouth and mind no longer obey her, that she’s so liable to spit out her first thought with no warning--

That is new. That is worse.

Still, the boy only blinks. “Obi, my lady?”

“Sir Obi.” The title is odd on her tongue, like a shoe slipped on the wrong foot. “Zen-- His Highness sent men out to look for him a few days ago. I thought you might have heard something, seeing as how you live in the barracks.”

And guards are more loose with gossip than fishwives, Obi would say with a wink.

His brows draw down, mouth bowed in confusion. “Is Sir Obi some kind of nobleman? An exile, or something?” His eyes light as he adds, “An outlaw?”

Shirayuki can only stare, a terrible foreboding crawling in her gut. “N-no! Sir Obi is a guardsman-- or at least, he was, before. Now he’s a knight of the Royal Circle.”

The boy’s interest wanes. “Oh, no, haven’t heard anything about that. Not too strange though-- the knight’s circle tends to take care of their own.” His mouth rumples thoughtfully. “Though I haven’t heard of any of them missing, of late. Or anyone being sent out after them.”

“But the search,” she presses, the foreboding’s claws sinking deep into her belly, “you’ve heard of that, haven’t you? At least from the men who have gone out?”

Still he looks at her, uncomprehending. “My lady, I don’t know any that have.”

The girl has known kindness before.

Kindness was a hand in the market, leading her home when she was separated from her grandparents. It was the basket of food on her doorstep when they died, still warm from the oven. It was a dexterous hand deep in a rose bush, untangling branches so they might grow straight, might bloom in their season.

It had never before been the man who said, He will not come back, for it was the the river that took him, and he has drowned.

But honesty is its own kindness, in its way. Even when its message is cruel.

“You are distracted.”

Shirayuki blinks, and it’s only then that she feels the liquid at her wrist, thickly winding down her palm. Her toast sits outstretched in her fingers, forgotten, egg yolk dripping on her hands, her cuffs, the table--

“Oh!” She drops it, alarmed, onto her plate. “I’m-- I’m sorry, I just--”

“You weren’t paying attention,” Haruka admonishes gruffly, handing her a serviette. It’s a lost cause; the yolk may come off but it leaves a runny yellow blotch on the cotton. Unsalvageable, according to the court; ripe for the garbage.

She frowns. Maybe she can convince them to just replace the cuff; she’d heard just the other day that lace was soon to be out of fashion anyway.

The marquis grips her elbow, guiding it away from her tea. “You’re still not paying attention.”

She blinks. “Did you just reach across the table?”

He settles back into his seat, dabbing absently at his mouth. “Only to save the wash-maids their scrubbing. They’ll have a hard enough time with what you’ve already spilled, let alone adding to it.”

Her cheeks flare with heat, but she keeps her hands in her lap, worrying at the cloth there.

The marquis grunts, setting down his fork. “I see you have no intention of putting your concerns aside and dedicating your attention to the lesson.”

“No! I mean, yes! No, wait, I mean--” she shakes her head-- “I’m trying.”

With a sigh, he places his napkin on the table, shifting his plate away so that he may fold his hands above it. “What could weigh so heavily upon you that you cannot make it through a single egg?”

“Nothing,” she promises. “It’s just...”

Haruka raises his brows, as encouraging a gesture as she’s ever seen from him, but--

But to say she’s worried about Obi, that he’s run away and he won’t come back, that perhaps she’s chased him away--

Well, to a man like Haruka, she might as well be complaining about the dishwasher in the kitchens, or a hound in the kennels. A bodyguard should be beneath a princess’s notice.

Her mouth thins. Besides, that’s only half of the concerns she’s been wrangling with these last few hours.

“Zen told me that he would-- he would handle something.” Every word wobbles under its own weigh as it stumbles from between her teeth. “But it seems that he might not have...that he didn’t...”

The marquis clears his throat with a sharp nod, approving. “It is the prerogative of princes to keep their promises. Or not.” He fixes her with a stern look. “He must do what’s best for the kingdom.”

What’s best for the kingdom. The words rankle, rattling her right down to her bones. Obi was his aide, his staunchest ally, his friend--

“It is what’s best.” Shirayuki can do no arithmetic where Obi does not benefit Clarines, and that Zen might-- that Zen could-- “He knows that.”

Haruka lifts a shoulder, a careless shrug so like the Izana’s she nearly shivers from the chill. “Then perhaps he has been kept from keeping it. He is, after all, not the highest power in the kingdom.”

It’s tempting to believe; Izana often relished his role as a caltrop to their happiness, adding bizarre twists to his expectations that left Zen scrambling to meet them. But still, still--

“No.” If there is anyone that can do the complex calculations of loyalty and risk, it’s Izana. “I don’t think he would have stopped him. Not for this.”

“Then perhaps it is a lack of time,” Haruka offers, begrudgingly helpful, “or the resources. Or perhaps--” he hesitates, sending her a long look-- “the will.”

Her breath gasps from her, a palpable hit, and she doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to think Zen wouldn’t believe finding Obi is as much of a priority as her, but--

There’s no reason to get so upset. It’s not odd for Obi to disappear with no explanation.

“Then why would he tell me he would?” She wishes she could keep the raw edge from her words, the accusation. “He must have done something. Kiki and Mitsuhide both said that he...”

Her words dry up at the pitying look on the marquis’ face, gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual stony expression.

“Not that I care to insert myself into your petty concerns,” he says, his tone thick with disinterest, “but it would behoove you, as a princess, to have a keen eye for who is most loyal to you, and who is most loyal to your husband.“

She blinks. “But--”

“It would be a mistake of the highest order to believe they are the same thing.” He gives her a long, meaningful look. “Kingdoms have fallen from such folly.”

Trust is a strange thing, is it not? It is a badge of honor, freely given. It is a privilege, hard to earn.

Doubt is easier; it lives with us, a tenant that never leaves, feeding our darkest thoughts and deepest fears. It is so easy to glut oneself on uncertainty, on indecision, and yet--

And yet we will fight hardest when trust is on the line. Even with the bleakest evidence, we will beg for one slight more, for another single shred of proof until it buries us. Anything to keep from believing it has been broken.

For once trust is lost, it can never be regained.

Her stomach still churns when the marquis releases her from her lesson, his words sitting as poorly as her egg and toast.

He must do what’s best for the kingdom. The words ring loud in her ears, inescapable. Perhaps it is a lack of time-- or of will.

It is only the tweak in her jaw that warns her how tight she is clenching it. This is-- she can’t-- she shouldn’t--

Her hand drops from the door, and she takes a deep, collecting breath, drawn right up from her toes. No matter how much Haruka may pretend he knows about Zen, about his motives, he’s still not him. A man like the marquis may make false promises, but Zen--

She squares her shoulders, glaring down the door. Zen has never not kept his word, not to her. He doesn’t deserve this doubt.

The knot in her stomach squirms. If only her surety could kill it.

It’s Kiki who waits for her in the hall; her lean is casual, one boot placed on the wall behind her as if this were some simple tavern and not the royal palace. For a moment, Shirayuki nearly laughs; few dare to treat the heart of Clarines with such irreverence-- Obi, for one, though she suspects he constitutionally incapable of awe; Izana, for another, though she supposes he has the most right out of anyone to treat the palace like any other home; and--

Zen.

It would behoove you to have a keen eye for who is most loyal to you, and who is most loyal to your husband.

The world tilts, and suddenly the casual lean seems studied, affected. Every line of Kiki’s body is tense, coiled for confrontation, her head hanging heavy and shoulders bowed, as if the weight of her thoughts were a burden. It’s only when she turns to her, smile tilting her lips, that it eases, but--

But even that is a conscious effort, an act that she is performing for Shirayuki’s benefit. Something is wrong, and Kiki doesn’t want her to know.

“Shirayuki.” Kiki peels off the wall, faint, friendly smile in place. “Did you enjoy--?”

“Have you heard anything?” Shirayuki nearly winces at the edge in her voice, at how terse she sounds. “Anything at all?”

There’s a moment, so quick it would be missed were she not waiting for it, where Kiki’s face quivers, where her carefully constructed smile pulls tight like tanning hides. It’s gone the next, replaced by a concern so genuine Shirayuki aches to believe it. “No, not yet. I’m sure that--”

“It’s been nearly a week,” she pushes, “and no one’s heard anything.”

Kiki shrugs a shoulder, too casual. “It’s Obi. He goes off all the time.”

“Not for this long.” She shakes her head. “Not without telling me. What if something’s happened, and he--?”

“You don’t need to worry, Shirayuki.” Kiki lays a hand on her arm, giving her a comforting squeeze. “Obi can take care of himself. If he talks himself into trouble, he’s fully capable of talking himself right back out.”

Her nails bite painfully into the flesh of her palms. “But he shouldn’t have to,” she says, so softly, meeting Kiki’s hard gaze. “We’re his friends.”

Kiki’s grip tightens, but her only answer is a harsh breath, echoing in the hall.

“He was already by himself for so long,” Shirayuki pushes, “we shouldn’t let him be alone again. Not like this.”

“Shirayuki--”

“Did Zen send anyone out to look for him?” she asks so baldly, Kiki rocks back on her heels. “Or was that...”

She can’t bring herself to finish the thought. Not without knowing for certain.

“Zen,” Kiki grits out between her teeth, “is doing what he think is best.”

It’s not the answer Shirayuki is hoping far, and it’s far and away from the one she wants.

“I think,” she says, drawing herself up to her full height, “that I need to see Zen. Now.”

It is said that the depth of a wound has little to do with how it heals, but rather depends on the way that it is left, on the shape of the weapon that made it. Trauma, they say, is the difference between a clean cut and a poor death.

There is no way to prepare for betrayal. Perhaps that is what makes it so hard to swallow, so hard to forgive. It is a ragged knife, pressed to the most sensitive parts.

And no matter how shallow the wound, the rent it leaves is ragged, slow to heal, if it ever does. Traumatic, to be left with a gash that will not close, that can open and bleed again, if it chooses to.

A killer, some might say. Just another type of poison.

In her first days at Wistal, she had heard the complaints: Prince Zen is never in his office. The second prince keeps lords waiting in his antechamber for hours. The prince has no respect for the time of the members of the small council.

It had made her laugh then, small giggles smothered by the collar of her lab coat while Ryuu watched her with wary eyes. Even before the kiss in the tower, before she’d known about his feelings for her-- and discovered her feelings for him-- she’d felt a thrill knowing that she was often the reason he crept off his balcony after tea, or slipped out a window after brunch. He kept important men waiting, but her-- never.

Or at least, not until now.

Shirayuki’s hands are rarely idle.

At Lilias, she had rarely been without a book to hand or notes to make; all too often Lata had remarked on the stack of tomes that seemed to follow her wherever she went, or Shidan complained about the number of notes he found littered outside his office door.

What is it they say, Miss? Obi would tease, his mouth rucked in one corner, brow cocked. Idle hands are wickedness’s tools?

She’d given up on smothering her smiles by then; he’d always known anyway. Then I guess that makes me all goodness.

Ah, he’d sigh, looking over the yard, breath misting on the air. I suppose it does.

Even as a child, she’d been under the bar, playing shell games with the glasses, or in the kitchen, learning how not to cook away from her grandmother’s watchful eye. A busy thing, the townsfolk would laugh.

But a princess is not busy. Or rather-- she only plans to be busy. She doesn’t carry a stack of books under an arm, or have ink spilled on the web between her thumb and forefinger, nor does she feel the need to fidget when she’s left to wait on what amounts to little more than a cushioned stool.

Ten minutes after she sits, she tears the lace on her sleeve. Another five, and she’s lost a button, hidden somewhere underneath her voluminous skirts. Not three minutes later, one of the guards takes pity on her and gives her his handkerchief.

“Hard to ruin a simple thing like this, my lady,” he says with a wan smile, casting a nervous look toward the door.

Shirayuki takes one look at the lovingly embroidered initials in the corner and swallows down, I wouldn’t be so sure.

All told, she waits an hour, the sun sinking under the horizon before Zen leaves his office, half-dressed for dinner.

“Shirayuki!” His eyes pulse wide as he sees her, swinging towards Mitsuhide in question. “I didn’t know that we-- did we have plans tonight...?”

“No.” It’s an effort to keep her voice even, calm. “I needed to see you.”

His mouth flares wide, the weariness gone from his face, as if it had never been. “Oh?”

She takes a breath, bracing herself for the conversation to come, but she chokes on it as he takes her hands so softly between his own.

“I don’t have time tonight,” he says, gentle and pleased, “but tomorrow-- dinner, just the two of us. I promise.”

“That isn’t--”

He squeezes her hands before he leaves, smile wry and tired, and she--

She stands alone, hands still warm from where he held them, the unsaid words caught in her teeth.

Have you seen him? the little girl asks, day in and day out. Have you seen my boy?

He is gone, the townsfolk tell her, as they always do. If it were another girl, this tale might end here; determined and dogged she might be, but everyone has a breaking point. It would be too easy to accept it, to forget, to let her boy become a faded memory from childhood.

But this little girl-- she learns.

Where did he go, then? she asks instead, and the townspeople shrug their shoulders. The city, some guess, or the wood. Perhaps he followed a traveling band, or a woman.

What does it matter? one finally says, cross. What would a little girl like you even do?

Ah, for that is the trouble with stories; they make us think of virtuous, obedient girls, girls who remember to offer old grandmothers lunch from their basket, and remember all the words to the magic rhyme. We forget the most important thing:

Little girls can do anything, so long as they haven’t learned they can’t.

She nearly loses herself in the city.

The streets of Lilias had been as familiar to her as the lines on her palm, their winding paths worn into the very fabric of her heart so that even on the darkest nights, she could make her way back to her chambers with little more than her legs alone. She’d thought she’d known Wistal the same way; she’d lived for months in that little apartment outside the palace, the one with the pot-bellied stove, and even when she’d moved into the dormitories, she’d spent hours perusing the markets for pharmacy stock. But now that she’s here, standing in its night-darkened roads--

Ah, she feels every day of those years away.

Still, she remembers when Obi would stumble onto her balcony, pockets a fair bit heavier than when he’d left her, crowing about the pub just outside the gates where the guard would go to drink away their days. And gamble away their paychecks, it seemed, if Obi’s suddenly flushed fortunes were any indication.

He’d never told her its precise location-- she’d gone to drink with the guard in Lilias, more times than she could count, but in Wistal she’d been reserved, wary about mixing company outside of Zen’s influence, and either Obi had sense her hesitation, or--

Well, or he’d just not wanted to go out drinking with the bookworm who kept him cooped up in the library all day. Still, she knew it wasn’t far from the Poet’s Gate, and not far from the market district, somewhere close to the river that ran through the city, and from there--

From there, she just followed the guards.

The water hungers.

You laugh; how can waters hunger when they have no mouths to eat, no bellies to sate. But that is the thing of it-- waters run deep, and they long to be filled. That is why we talk of pond reflections that reach up to pull children in, or monstrous horses that lure men deeper, or great, terrible beasts that live at the bottom.

The girl knows it, as all clever children do. But she knows just as well-- a beast that hungers can be bargained with, as long as you pay the price.

Hood drawn low, Shirayuki slips in to the steady stream of patrons that saunter into the bar.

The pub is dim, much more than she expects. Wistal has ever been the bright spot in her memory, the city of eternal summer; that it has places where the lamps burn low too gives her pause.

Not for long; she’s the daughter of a bar-- or at least a granddaughter-- and she’s used to these dark places. As a child, she’d sit under the tables, listening to the custom talk, hearing about plans she only half understood and people she would never known. She’d learned words to never say, too, or at least that was what her grandmother had told her, sending her to bed without dessert.

She knows what to look for-- a shadowed table, not too far from where the guards are losing their coin, just close enough to eavesdrop without--

“Ah, sorry,” a man says, shouldering her hard enough to make her gasp. “I wasn’t looking...ma’am?”

He wraps the last word in a question, and with a cursory glance around the room, Shirayuki realizes her mistake. She’s the only one in the room wearing skirts that isn’t also serving drink.

Of course, of course. Her grandparents might have seen both husband and wife for their evening drink, but a place like this, meant for guards who were done with the day but yet didn’t want to face their duties at home--

“Ma’am?” Another man, dressed in the uniform and nearly as young as Ryuu steps up to her. “I think you might be turned around.”

“N-no.” She digs her heels into the floorboards, and the soldier trying to steer her stumbles, jostling her. “I’m right where I--”

“Lady Shirayuki?” The other man stares at her owlishly, and it takes her a full minute to realize that if she made the cheeks rounder, the skin more freckled--

“Kai?” She grips his wrists, relief nearly choking. “Kai. I’m so glad to see you.”

He blinks, staring down at where she grasps him. “Ah, of course, my lady. I’m glad to see you too. Been a long time.”

“I hope you’ve been well,” she says, breathless, “but also, I need your help.”

There are rules this sort of bargaining, to gaining favors from the wild.

They are not like any you know. We live in a world of reason, where one can exchange paper and the promise of precious metals and receive goods in return. But to do so with a wild thing, with a tree or a deer or a mountain or even a river--

Impossible. Their price is fixed, a single thing.

And oh, it is high.

Every little girl has her precious treasure, an item of unfathomable worth. They are secret things, sometimes kept hidden under floorboard or pressed between pages of a beloved book, and sometimes kept in plain sight, for clever girls know that no one will look for what they can already see. And secret these things much remain, for once someone knows of it--

Well, there is a kind of power in knowing what someone loves most, is there not?

This one keeps hers under the bed, peeking out just under the skirt. It is special thing for special occasions, hardly worn save to impress. The red shines when she puts them on, the patent leather hugging to the small curves of her feet, and although some others may have better, may have silk slippers or heeled boots soft as a glove--

Here, her boy had said, hands scarred from thorns, blood smearing into the leather. I found them.

--hers are far more precious all the same.

The table is well lit, and Kai sees to it that the barmaids keep it laden with food and drink aplenty, but--

“This is kind of you,” Shirayuki says, hesitant, “but I need your help.”

“Anything,” he promises, and the men pressed in beside her nod, eyes wide and innocent.

She stifles a sigh. A part of her-- a non-small part of her-- wishes it had been Shiira instead. “It’s Obi. He’s missing.”

Kai goes pale beneath the lights. “Missing?”

She nods, hands gripping the edge of her cloak. “I need to know if you know-- know anything. If anyone has seen anything.”

The men exchange concerned glances, the kind adults do over the heads of little children. Her nails bite hard into her palms. This is what all her years of learning, all her hard work has come to: for everyone to treat her as if she is as unable to hear simple truths as a child.

“Please.” She hates how her voice cracks under the weight of her worry, of her anger. “If anyone knows anything-- anything, I don’t have much, but...”

She places a long, wooden box on the table, and with a practiced motion, pulls the lid open.

“What I do have,” she says, watching the glass bead wink in the light, its orange gloss as alive as fire, “is yours.”

The river is a force of nature, relentless, ruthless, and uncaring, but--

So are little girls, when they have been crossed.

Is it true you took my boy from me? the little girl asks the river, her words lost in its rapids. I don’t have much, but what I have is yours.

It does not answer; water may be ever-changing, ever-flowing, but it waits on tradition.

If I give you my shoes, she asks, brushing their shiny leather for the last time, will you give him back to me?

The men are silent, eyes fixed to the hairpin glistening on the tabletop. Lady Mihoko may say it is the least among her ornaments, lacking the precious stones and fine filigree that most nobles favor, but-- it has worth. The bead may be glass, but the pin is gold, and what it lacks in precious jewels it makes up for in rarity; in all her travels across Clarines and Tanbarun, Shirayuki has never seen another like it.

It only strikes her now that maybe, just maybe, it was too fine a prize for a bare-knuckled fight under a bridge. That maybe--

Maybe it might be more precious than she could have ever known.

Her chest tightens as one of the men reaches out. Here she is, with Obi’s greatest treasure, and she is giving it away.

Maybe it’s no wonder why he left.

The little girl watches as her red shoes float back to shore, watches as they are left so delicately on the bank, and forgets how to breathe.

Did I not throw them far enough? she asks, using all her strength to hurl then into its current. Give me back my boy!

Still they drift back to her, cutting through the river’s relentless flow, now even a drop of water left on them.

Where is he? she asks the river. If he is not with you, then where has he gone?

But that is not the bargain, now is it?

He slides the lid shut. “We couldn’t possibly take this, my lady.”

Another of the guard nods, eager. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Not when you’re looking for Sir Obi,” Kai tells her. “I didn’t see anything, but one of the recruits mentioned something the other night.”

Her heart flutters painfully in her chest. “What did he say?”

“I don’t...” Kai’s cheeks flush, and his eyes won’t meet hers. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes!” She’s breathless, so close to her answers.

“The recruit doesn’t know Sir Obi, not by anything but reputation, so we can’t be sure--”

Her hands dart out, grabbing the close weave of his sleeve. “Kai, please, anything.”

He glances up at the other guards, uncertain, and says, “He saw a man leaping over the walls the night Sir Obi went missing. He thought it was odd at the time, but since they were leaving from inside and going outside--”

“They?”

Kai grimaces. “Yes, they.”

She stares, uncomprehending. “He wasn’t alone?”

“No.” Kai hesitates, looking sick, before he adds, “He was seen leaving with a woman, my lady.”

It is funny how we want answers, how we need them, how we are desperate for them-- but only when they are the one we are looking for.

A woman. The air in this pub is too thin, she can hardly breathe. “I need to stand,” she says, hardly thinking, “please.”

The guards all scramble to move, offering hands to help her forward, but--

He wasn’t alone. He had left with a woman. He had planned to leave--

“I think,” says an all-too-familiar voice, “that this is quite enough.”

Shirayuki raises her gaze, fixing on the cloaked figure before her, on the pale of her hair in the gaslight, on the nigh-black indigo her eyes have become in the shadow, on the pale outstretched hand that hovers, expectant before her.

“Come on,” Kiki says, gentle yet firm. “It’s time to go back.”

It is magnificent, is it not, how we survive?

It is said it is our strongest instinct, the call we cannot refuse. When there is nothing else left to us, when not even thought can be counted upon, it is still in us to live.

A body may have a thousand cuts, a back may be pricked with a dozen arrows, but oh, how we will still stand, how we still take the next step, and then another. How we will walk a mile as we still bleed, if only to to take another breath.

And yet still, it is possible to die of a broken heart. And old man may lose his lover, and when he lays down that night, he never wakes.

A poison, a blade, our longing: it is up to the heart to decide what we can take.

Isn’t it magnificent how it is impossible to know which will be the killing blow?

It is lucky that her arm is tucked so nearly into Kiki’s side as they walk back; Shirayuki’s mind cannot hold a thought for more than a moment, let alone try to trace her steps back through the market.

“He wasn’t alone,” she manages. “Someone left with him.”

Kiki hums.

“A woman.” Her brow furrows. “She must have gone over the gate with him. Do you think that it could be Torou?”

“I couldn’t say,” Kiki replies, tight.

“Do you think that he...” She cannot seem to make the words settle on her tongue. “Do you think that he planned...?”

She cannot make herself say, do you think he meant to leave without saying goodbye?

Kiki is silent, the sort of silent that isn’t empty but heavy instead.

Shirayuki stops, and Kiki pauses beside her. “Did you know he didn’t leave alone?”

Kiki’s mouth pulls thin, and she looks away. “It’s late. We should get inside.”

Shirayuki lets out a long breath, finally glancing at the door before them, and--

“This isn’t my room.” She blinks. “This isn’t even my wing.”

“No,” Kiki says with a long sigh. “It isn’t.”

Not every lie is meant to wound. Oh no, some are meant to be shields, a cushion between our softer parts and the sharp edges of reality.

After all, not all of us are ready for the harsh light of truth. Some of us would prefer to remain blinded all our lives, if only we could keep from hurting.

“I must admit,” the consort says, as elegant on her ottoman as if she were keeping court. “I did think you would last longer than this.”

Shirayuki drops into a genuflect so low her head nearly brushes the carpet. She has dined with princes and traded quips with kings, but there is something about the consort of Clarines that intimidates her as not even Izana does. “Your Majesty.”

“Please, let us not stand on ceremony.” She gestures for her to sit, though there’s no chairs to take, only the floor before her. “Especially since we are so soon to call each other sisters, are we not? Unless--” she darted a pointed glance at Kiki-- “I am to take from this ill-conceived jaunt that you have changed your mind.”

“N-no!” she yelps, taking a step forward, only halted by the mild-mannered brow the consort lifts. She haltingly drops to her knees, tucking her ankles beneath her on the carpet. “I mean, yes. I mean-- I still want to marry Zen. I just...I can’t let my friend--”

“Shush.” She holds up a hand, mouth bent in a kindly curve. “I understand your worry. But I have always been told you are a clever girl, and you are going to have to be much cleverer than this if you wish to marry my brother.”

Shirayuki frowns, annoyance building. “I just went into the market--”

“And into a tavern frequented by commoners,” the consort interjects, cross. “I know that you have, to this point, been far more free to roam as you see fit, but my husband place this restriction upon you for a reason. Surely you must know that a woman of your standing must be entirely above reproach if she wishes to...elevate her station to the degree you do.”

“I’m not trying to--”

“You are,” she is informed. “Perhaps you do not want the title, but Clarines cannot be cloven from a Wisteria, no matter how much you wish it. It is best that you resign yourself to that reality now, if no one else has seen fit to impress it upon you.”

Shirayuki squirms, the carpet rubbing at her knees. “Haruka did tell me something like that.”

“I would expect so. He’s a realist, unlike some.” Haki shifts on her stool, leaning close. “If you are to maintain the reputation needed to make this scheme work, you cannot go haring off to find your friend. Not when Zen has everything well in hand.”

She sits back, gracing Shirayuki with a significant look. “Especially after another man.”

Heat creeps up her cheeks, and oh, that implication knots her dread tighter in her gut, makes it sit as heavy as lead. “It’s not like that. I just can’t sit by if something’s happened--”

“It’s not easy,” the consort allows, with all the weight of someone who knows from experience. “But a princess is not a hound. It is not our place to search.”

Her hands clench tight in her lap. “I can’t do nothing.”

“Nor did I say you should.” The consort’s lips tilt, sly. “When one cannot act themselves, they rely on their people to act for them.”

Frustration wells up in her. “I don’t have people. I only have myself.”

“Come now, you cannot believe that.” She tilts her head, laying a thoughtful finger to her chin. “You have Zen, who in turn has people. People who he is using to find your Obi as we speak.”

Shirayuki darts a glance at Kiki, but she’s inscrutable, as always. “Is he?”

The consort raises her brows. “You doubt him?”

“I...” She doesn’t want to. “The guard--”

“As if my brother would send our guards to find a man of his aide’s caliber.” The consort laughs, so easy. “Did he not promise you he would find him? Give you his word?”

“Y-yes.” She can still feel his hands around hers, the warm way he had looked at her. “He did.”

“Then how can you worry?” The consort smiles brightly. “My brother’s word is his bond.”

“I...” Something twists with her, dark, but she swallows it down. “Right. Of course. Zen is-- handling it.”

The consort nods, business concluded. “Good. Now come, I’ve been told you are struggling with your lessons.”

Oh. She hadn’t been aware that was...common knowledge. “I...”

“It’s only to be expected,” the consort concludes, “most ladies are trained their entire life for this, and you have only just started. But worry not,” she smiles, so warm, “I will help you.”

Shirayuki’s eyes pulse wide. “M-me? That’s...very generous of you.”

Haki’s mouth curls in amusement. “I won’t pretend my motives are not personal. I’ve seen the list of candidates for if this experiment fails, and you are fully the most interesting person out of all of them.” Teeth flash from behind her lips, gone in a moment. “I refuse to have to plan every gala with someone whose most nuanced opinion has been formed over the difference between carmine and crimson.”

Shirayuki frowns. “Aren’t they both red?”

“See, already you are more tolerable than half of them.” She sighs, waving a weary hand. “What you don’t know about this life can be learned. And unlike some, I believe in setting up people to succeed. It must be my soft northern heart.”

Now that her heart is calm, she remembers the enormity of what she’s done. “So you won’t-- I mean, Izana--?”

“Ah, your little jaunt. No, this will be our little secret.” Shirayuki isn’t sure who that shark’s smile is for, but she’s glad it’s not her. “Women must have some, after all.”

But that is the thing, is it not? That which is hidden never stays buried. Reality never halts its siege.

In the end, all we have done is allowed the truth to hone its blade. In the end, it is a betrayal we never meant to make.

It’s funny how we may hurt the ones we love so easily, without ever even trying.

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #All That Remains #snow queen au #this part has gotten a little out of control #i mean it makes sense it's like the longest part of the original story #but there's like one or two more parts to this 'chapter' still coming #we're juuuuuuust getting to the woman who can conjure #like 15K into this part ughhhh #WHATEVER IT'LL BE WORTH IT #ENJOY YOUR PAIN YOU MASOCHISTS

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