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sabraeal · 6 months

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The Sword Between, Chapter 5

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Blue silk settles over her like an estranged acquaintance; two years ago it had fit like a second skin, but now it squeezes at the bust and requires far fewer petticoats to pad out her hips. The hem, however, settles perfectly— a finger’s breadth above the the floor, just as it always had. A terrible way to learn she hasn’t grown a single, vertical inch since seventeen. Makiri will be practically unlivable.

“Such a pretty color, my lady.” Ami’s hands smooth over the skirt, coaxing out the creases that linger at her waist. Haki is half-tempted to tell her not to bother; it’s a fabric that begs to be rumpled, the furrowing above her hips only serving as a reminder of how hands might sit there, silk wrinkled in their grip. Of how easily it might crumple beneath the slightest pressure, like petals plucked from a flower's stem.

The last time she had worn this dress, she'd been more concerned about whether her prince might find her singing voice pretty, or hear rumors of her fair face and be tempted to sneak north simply for a glimpse of it than what an enterprising young man and a willing young lady might get up to in Wilant's dark corners. But Lowen had been her age now-- older, if she does not mistake her figures, though not by much-- and more than ready to contemplate such arrangements. Had he thought of it even as he knelt before her, head bowed in deference, swearing to protect her body with his own? Had he gazed up at her with that that placid mask of his, still as a lake's surface, and felt the first ripples of--?

“His Highness will surely think it suits.”

Haki's secretive smile sours to a pout. “I look young.”

Feels young is more like it, fingering the fall of lace at her décolletage. She’d been little more than a child the last time she donned this particular frock, and it’d been a season out style even then, the seamstresses of the city unable to keep up with the rush to raise bust lines and drop hemlines and overhaul sleeves altogether. But she had been proud of this one, so unlike the other gowns father had gotten for her— practically modern and made with silk bought off Tanbarunian traders instead of salvaged from one of Mother’s old gowns. A fairy tale of a dress, a dream, and...

And she’d put it away with all the others when the first prince had made clear he was in no rush to settle down with a lady wife. Yet here she was now, trotting it out to spin another story for a child even younger than she. There was poetry in that, perhaps, even if it was only the sad kind.

“Boys like His Highness do prefer a youthful lady,” Ami muses, gaze meeting hers in the mirror. “At least, if he’s naught but sixteen, as your father’s man says.”

Haki hardly misses the stress on that— your father’s man. As if she could not lay the same word's at Ami's feet-- her father's maid, paid to make sure all of her most embarrassing escapades ended up in the duke's ear.

“A pity there’s no time to have me done up in ringlets.” Fine hairs flyaway from the loose braids behind her ears; she smooths them down. “It would have made for a much more convincing ingénue.”

Ami is not the sort to smirk or sneer, but there is a twitch at the corner of her lips, a wryness that not even her scrupulous good manners can smother. “You are hardly old enough to need tricks for that, my lady. Sir Lowen is right” —as much as she is loath to admit it now, her sigh says— “it would be little hardship to fall in love with you in this dress.”

She doubts that this prince will be moved to devotion by a frock near three years out of date or by the older woman wearing it, but she must admit-- there is some charm left to it. The blue brings out the palest shades of her eyes and complements the most honeyed tones in her hair; a far cry from the humble damsel awaiting her rescue, but a fairy tale princess nonetheless.

“One can hope,” she breathes, hand splayed over the fabric at her belly. “Or at least fair enough to inspire some foolishness.”

Ami hums; a melody that swings between agreement and agitation with every note. “Certainly more reasonable men have made themselves fools for you.”

It’s a pointed remark, for all that she can’t think of a single one. The men who frequent Wilant are friends of her father, old enough to have children her own age. Few of them spare her a glance, save if they have a son her age, though those have been few and far between since her betrothal. There are soldiers of course— guardsmen who care more about Makiri’s skill than her conversation— and servants, but none that—

“Is there anything else I’ll be needing to take care of, my lady?” Ami asks, solicitously smoothing out the lace at her shoulder. And yet her gaze fixes elsewhere in the mirror, somewhere over Haki’s shoulder. The door to the sitting room, as if she’s waiting for someone to walk through. A ridiculous worry with Lowen guarding the door. “Anything that needs an extra cleaning?”

Her gaze cuts towards where the dressing screen sits, toile covered in scenes of young ladies picnicking and small dogs running over picturesque stone ruins. There’s not a stain on it, as cream-and-teal as it was the day she’d had it brought it, hoping that it might help keep the heat in around her—

Her bed. A pertinent question for a maid to ask after she had been sent away for the night, assured that there would be another set of hands to help her charge undress. Who had only seen a rumpled mess of sheets when she arrived in the morning, fire lit by an expert’s hands. And now with whatever she had seen in the hall…

Well, if she had thought her reflection young before, her flush makes it positively childish now. “N-no. There’s no need to—”

It’s mortifying to try to put the night into words. How close she had trod to impropriety, only to be rebuffed. How sure she was of his interest even so, only for yet another prince to put himself between them. Oh, if that Bergatt boy put himself before her right now and asked if she would like to see the end of the Wisteria reign, she could hardly be responsible for the answer she might give.

A practiced breath draws her upright, shoulders square as her father had taught her— you are my daughter, he would grunt, holding them straight in his hands, there are few to whom you must bow, and none to whom you must bend. It is not a sweet young princess that looks back at her in the mirror, but a lady of the North, ready to defend her walls.

“There is nothing with which you must concern yourself with,” she says with all the ice her blood can summon. “I think you will find your hands full already, trying to find more dresses that will please His Highness during his stay.”

“As you say, my lady.” Ami bows her head, as a servant ought, but it does little to conceal her smile— or her relief. “Though I’m sure there will be quite a few, if I look among some of your older wardrobe.”

It takes a concerted effort not to grimace. She too had been a more whimsical girl once, as taken with fairy stories as she was with the old lays, dreaming of knights and their ladies. Of princes disguised and true love’s kiss. “They will need to be retrimmed.”

“Of course.” There’s a fondness as Ami lays her hand on a trunk, a wistfulness Haki cannot quite understand. “I’ll see to it.”

“Good.” She steps down from the mirror with a sigh, her dress rustling after her like leaves in the underbrush. “I’ll need all the help I can get.”

Lowen is on his feet when she sweeps into the parlor. Odd; for all his much vaunted skill in the ring— a beast with a blade in his hand, Makiri had always told her, like he’s fighting for his life— her guardsman always seemed more apt to lounge than lunge outside it. And yet as he stands there, attention drawn to the angle of her entrance, his weight shifts in a way that implies movement rather than repose.

“Come.” It would be simple to brush too close as she passes him, to let their eyes meet in a gaze so heavy it might well be a caress, but she bustles past instead, careful to keep even the barest hint of ruffle from slipping over his boots. “My father calls.”

It is not until her toes cross the carpet’s edge that she realizes their are no footfalls behind her, that Lowen has not fallen into step, using that rangy stride of his to eat up the distance between them. No, when she glances over her shoulder, he is still where she last left him, hands curled to fists at his side.

“Sir.” There is a layer of reproach as she speaks, covering the concern beneath it. “He is waiting.”

His fingers twitch, the barest flinch. “Are you certain?”

Haki does not turn to him— that would be a concession too far, a confession with a dearer cost than she can afford— but her shoulder does lower. “That Father waits?”

“No.” Lowen hardly allows a thought to stray across his face, let alone wears his heart on his sleeve, but there is something that lurk beneath the gaze he fixes on her, a castigation and a plea all in one. “That it is wise to bring me.”

A princess does not allow her mouth to thin, does not let her eyebrows angle to imply impatience; a good thing, then, that Haki is not one yet.

“Sir, if there is anything that I am certain of, it is that.” She shifts— not a ceding of ground, but a firming of resolve. A planting of her feet, gaining better leverage to yank on his leash. “Come. You would not have your lady go to battle without her knight.”

Still, he remains unmoved. Not even the barest sway to show he’s heard her.

“Is that what this is?” he says after a long moment. “A battle?”

Her mouth works for a moment, uncertain. “What else can it be? If my father were to bend any more…”

Then the North would be broken. On one side would be the ones who still clung to Father’s prudence, who would see profit in playing Wistal’s games, and on the other—

Well, it had been said once that the stones between Wilant and Oriold would never wash clean. That even now, when the snows melt, the side of the roads run red. The lords of the North may play at civility now, nodding at the southern court’s fashion of love and courtly graces, but that only hides the histories written with bloodied hands.

Lowen breathes, eyes fluttering shut as he takes it in, but when they open—

There is steel there. A resolve that does not waver. “Then let us go to battle, my lady.”

She is too aware of Lowen as they make their way through Wilant’s halls; aware of how his gaze lingers on her, tracing the fall of lace along her collar and dragging down the silken curve of her waist. Aware of the space between them, just enough for an arm to reach across and grab, for the inches to disappear between them and to finally finish the conversation Ami had so unfortunately interrupted.

It’s tempting to turn, to catch his eyes and invite the sort of resolution it would bring. But even though his stare burns hot enough to catch her alight, he does not speak. Not a single word to draw her attention, not a single brush of skin against skin to call her to him. Although her legs tremble effort with the effort to keep putting one slipper in front of the other and her neck aches from keeping it angled straight ahead, he does not stop her, not once.

It is too important, she realizes. For all that she wants to clutch at Lowen’s shoulders and ask just what thought churn behind that stare of his, it is a distraction she can ill afford. Her father’s plans are balanced on a blade’s edge, and it is her who decides which way their fortunes tip.

She will not disappoint him.

It is still Arleon guards on the door to the great hall, and they move aside before she even utters, “My father is expecting me.”

A single step inside is enough to know why: the prince’s party has already arrived. Still covered in the dust from the road by the looks of it, harried and eager to be shown to the privacy of their chambers. By the wary angle of the royal guards’ shoulders, Father and Makiri have resorted to thin excuses to keep them here. Waiting for her.

With a steeling breath, she nods to the footman at the door. “Lady Haki,” he announces, the slightest tremble in his voice. He’s not used to such esteemed visitors, it seems. “First daughter of his lordship, the Duke Arleon.”

If she thought she might have trouble picking out the prince from among all this white and blue and broad shoulders, she is saved the trouble; his party drops to show the deference due to a duke’s daughter, leaving only a single one of them on his feet.

The queen consort had sent her a gift once, during the months in which her father and the king dickered over the finer points of her betrothal of the first prince— a miniature, done fully in oils, of Izana himself. Long engagements may be prudent, she had written in her elegant hand, letters looping across the page, but they often are lonely. Let this satisfy both your company and your curiosity.

He could not have been more than fifteen, maybe sixteen when he had sat for the portrait, but even so, there was a gravity to that narrow face, a piercing quality to the deepness in his eyes. A regal tilt to his pointed chin, a knowing that lingered in this corners of his mouth; strangely serious for a prince who would become more known for parties than policy. Not yet a man, but she could see the one he would make once the last of childhood was stripped from his cheeks.

What they have sent her now is hardly more than a child.

His brother’s portrait might have hinted at manhood, but this boy— his face is still round, baby fat still clinging stubbornly to his bones. Perhaps there is a threat of a heavy jaw lingering there, a promise of something masculine and square opposed to Izana’s more feminine angles, but it is impossible to tell beneath those full cheeks, flushed and flawless as a doll’s. His hair is cut the same way of his brother’s, but instead of falling with a stately sort of grace across his forehead, it is a dandelion’s tuft, baby-fine and untamed.

“Ah, Your Highness.” Father’s gaze holds hers for a long moment before it drops to the would-be heir, meeting his wide eyes with no hint of his displeasure. “You have yet to meet the reason for all our celebration, I assume. Haki” — his hand sweeps out, beckoning— “come. Greet our honored guest.”

She doesn’t not so much walk as float down the runner of the Great Hall, skirts swaying as if it is only clouds that ruffle their hem, not carpet. It takes hours of practice to turn that which is earthly to the ethereal, but Haki had long shouldered every ache and tumble in the name of causing her prodigal husband to swallow his tongue at the altar.

There is something far less satisfying about inspiring the same reaction in his brother. “It is an honor that you have come for so humble an occasion, Your Highness.”

“Of course.” His voice is reedy, not quite finished changing even if she can hear the man in it. It breaks at her flawless curtsy, flustered. “I mean, the honor is mine. It is hardly every day that we can celebrate such a fine young lady becoming a woman.”

It’s the sort of thing a fond uncle might say, not a boy four years her junior, but Haki smiles nonetheless, hoping it does not sit as stiff as it feels. “You are too kind, sir.”

“Not at all,” he insists with a graciousness that would seem more natural on a man three times his age. “It is its own sort of accomplishment. To be, er…”

“Twenty.” When Makiri smiles it is all teeth, a wolf scenting blood on the snow. “That’s how old my sister is. Old enough to get married now, according to your southerners, isn’t it?”

The prince is too earnest— and his skin far too pale— to cover the flush that blooms up his neck, painting him pink from collar to brow. “T-that is true. But, erm…” His gaze casts about, trying to find a safe place to perch. “Ah, b-but I haven’t yet introduced my party. Sirs…?”

One of the men rises— dark hair shorn short enough that she can see a neck as brown as a laborer’s, far from the lily white of the noble son knelt beside him. He unfurls to a startling height with the same lassitude as the castle’s cats, as if he was only ever on his knees because it pleased him to do so. There’s a cant to his mouth that only supports the implication, but when she raises her eyes to meet his eyes—

She flinches. There’s a scar there— a gouge, badly healed, that stretches from cheek to cheek.

“Sir Zakura Shidnote, my lords— and lady.” He nods at her, mouth tilting toward a smirk. “Lately of the Royal Knight’s Circle. And this is Sir Michel” — his hand cuts toward the noble son getting to his feet, a boy just about Makiri’s age, though he carries it better— “one of the more promising squires from our last bout of new blood.”

“I’m a knight, really,” the young man insists, pushing back the hair that’s flopped over his eyes. “Though I am, ah…new, my lord.”

“Just earned your accolades, is it?” Father may not be a man of smiles, but his eyes crinkle at the corners, warm. “My son—”

“Earned them two year ago,” Makiri interjects acidly, brows bent in his most surly scowl. As if that would help him look any older than his scant years.

Practically a veteran, she almost says, but there is not enough wide-eyed sincerity in her to cover the bite. As much as she might like to tease, she hardly needs to be reminded: they are not among friends.

“Just so.” Father squints the way he does at their accounts, tallying up the men before him. “Did you not have another man in your party?”

“Ah, yes, Sir Mitsuhide.” The prince's mouth pulls thin before he recollects himself, grimace turning to boyish grin. “My apologies, I had hoped for all of us to be here to greet you, but time was short, and there was an issue with our…baggage. We left him to sort it out with your staff.”

Father’s mouth turns stern. “Then should it not be I who apologies to you, Your Highness? If there was some issue, then surely—”

“Ah, no no! This was, er…our fault,” His Highness insists, oddly guilty. “I’m afraid my mother insisted on one last gift, even after all the carriages had been packed tight! It changed…quite a lot of our travel plans.”

“I see,” Father murmurs, though it’s quite clear he does not. He is not a man of last-minute anythings, let alone travel plans.

“But he will be here for the formal reception, of course!” The prince smiles, bright. “He wouldn’t miss it— he’s a northerner, trained at your very own Sereg.”

“Sereg.” Now her brother straightens in his seat, an excited sheen in his eyes. “So he’s skilled, then?”

“Some,” Sir Zakura drawls, a corner of his mouth creeping up his cheek. “Enough that the king requested him by name.”

“By name…?” Now it is her father who leans in, brow furrowed. “You cannot mean— Mitsuhide Lowen?”

The prince nods, pleased. “The very same.”

“I’ll be damned.” Father settles back in his seat. “I nearly asked him here, before His Majesty snapped him up. He was one of Sereg’s finest swords. ”

Sir Zakura smirks. “And now he is one of Wistal’s.”

“Lowen?” Haki keeps her voice low, pitched for only her and her shadow to hear. It's a curious coincidence, considering how closely her knight has always played his card to the chest. “Is there any relation to…?”

Her chin tilts, hoping to catch his eye-- or at least the angle of his mouth, but--

But when she slants her eyes to his usual place at her shoulder, there is nothing behind her but empty air.

#hakizana #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #1000 followers #my fic #canon divergence #lionheart au #mad king kain #ans #i wish we got to have more zen in this chapter #he's got some interesting scenes coming up that i can't wait for #but he's got to be on his best behavior right now #debating if i should have an izana interlude next chapter #or keep forging ahead solely in haki's POV #i think i will have to eventually dip into his POV #since there's clearly....STUFF that's happening for him #the question is WHEN

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